interventions: ensemble, pg-13
Title: Interventions
Author: Kelsey / marliskelsey
Pairing,Character(s): Ensemble, with an appearance by Holly Holiday and canon couples.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,705
Spoilers: Through 2x07, The Substitute
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. I can only dream.
Summary: The very first time the Glee Club holds an intervention, it’s for Puck.
A/N: Written for this prompt on the glee_fluff_meme and inspired by an episode of How I Met Your Mother. This is AU after 2x07, so Furt never happened, and the canon timeline is fudged a little bit for the story's sake. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoy!
The very first time the Glee Club holds an intervention, it’s for Puck.
Will has noticed a change in Puck since he returned from Juvie, and not for the better. Between the earrings (a trend that Will has never and will never understand), the return of the mohawk and the resurgence of the old Puck who throws kids into dumpsters and never comes to Glee rehearsal without a fart joke on hand, he’s concerned for the boy.
And in his quest to be a better teacher, Will decides that he needs to call Puck out on it and remind him of what life is like when you try to be the best you can be.
First order of business is to get Puck to stop dipping.
Will first noticed it when a can rolled from Puck’s pocket one day. Soon after, he notices the yellow tinge on his teeth and gums. He decides that it needs to end.
Will tells Rachel to summon the rest of the Glee Club early and to make sure Puck doesn’t find out.
They gather in the choir room with varying looks of curiosity and confusion.
“Okay, guys, let’s get serious for a moment. I think we’ve all noticed Puck’s little habit of dipping, a habit on par with smoking cigarettes. So! I have decided that we…will hold a Glee Club Intervention!”
Rachel’s face is determined. The rest of the Glee Club looks less than impressed.
Quinn looks incredulous. “Mr. Schue, have you met Puck? This is the boy who still sports the same stupid mohawk, despite years and years of being told it looks ridiculous. He won’t stop unless he wants to stop.”
Will grins. “Ah, but that is the beauty of the intervention. We’re all going to write letters to Puck, telling him how his dip habit is hurting us. Then, it’s his choice if he wants to stop or not, and even better, it’ll feel like it was his idea.”
Quinn leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. She still looks unconvinced.
“C’mon, guys! This is a great opportunity to express your feelings in an open and safe way!"
When met with blank stares, Will amps it up a notch. "And, I - I'll give you extra credit in Spanish."
Several looks are exchanged, until Finn is nodding rapidly, Mike looks determined and Rachel’s brainstorming non-confrontational sentence starters in her pink notebook.
They get to work making a banner and writing their letters while Finn texts Puck and lets him know that Glee’s starting a little bit earlier, and that he should get his butt to the choir room. He saunters in with an indifferent expression before stopping dead in his tracks, staring at the crowd of people around the piano.
“Hi, Puck.” Mr. Schuester smiles at the boy, who stares at them with an eyebrow raised.
“What the hell is going on?”
Artie rolls forward, an understanding look on his face. “Why don’t you take a seat, Puck? We have some things we’d like to share with you.”
Slowly and looking as if he hates every single second of it, Puck takes a seat in a chair. He slouches so low that it appears he’ll fall off any second. Artie takes a look over his shoulder at the group.
“This is an intervention, Puck. Lately, we’ve noticed an…increase in your dipping habit, and we, as concerned members of the Glee Club and your friends, think that it’s time you get some help.”
Puck raises an eyebrow, mouth flattening into a line. He crosses his arms and looks at the ceiling. “Whatever. I can do what I want.”
Sam steps forward, a hand on Artie’s chair.
“We wrote letters, man. I think you should listen to some, maybe re-evaluate after you’ve heard everyone.” Puck rolls his eyes, but doesn’t leave. Will takes this as a good sign.
He searches through the basket, trying to find someone he knows Puck cares about.
Satisfied, he hands a letter to Santana.
She unfolds the letter and starts to read. “Dear Puck. I seriously think you should stop dipping, because it used to taste disgusting when we made out. Seriously, it’s gross, and it’s a wonder girls find you attractive when your mouth tastes like crap. So, stop. Thanks, Santana.”
Will thinks that maybe Santana reading first was a bad idea. Puck, despite himself, looks a little hurt.
They go through everyone’s letters, before Will turns to Puck with a hopeful expression on his face. From the indecisive look on Puck’s face, he wonders if he can afford to hope that they got through to him.
“So, Puck? You’ve heard everyone’s feelings. Will you stop dipping? Will you get help?”
Puck rolls his eyes and stands - Will is afraid for a moment that he’s going to walk out.
“Whatever. That was so pathetically sappy that I might throw up, but I was going to quit anyways. So, yeah, I’ll stop, since you seem to care so much.”
Everyone cheers - Rachel squeals and claps excitedly. Finn thumps him on the back and the force knocks Puck forward. He chuckles a little.
Will smiles, happy to have gotten through to another kid.
--
The next time the Glee Club holds an intervention, it is a considerably more sombre occasion.
Tina has been upset for the past few weeks, ever since the duets assignment and Mike isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do about it. He really cares about her, obviously, but he’s never exactly been skilled in the way of the ladies. Mike is always so focused on his dancing, and now that Puckerman is back from Juvie, he has to work twice as hard to maintain his spot on the football team.
But Tina Cohen-Chang is Mike’s girlfriend, and it’s killing him to see her so sad. After a few long talks and a lot of coercing, he finally pulls the reason for Tina’s funk out of her.
It’s the way Artie’s been acting.
Part of him wants to go to Artie directly and yell at him for his sexist, stupid behaviour. Part of him wants to hit him. But the rational part of Mike knows that Artie isn’t a bad person and he’s not really meaning what he says. He’s hurt - admittedly, Mike did kind of swipe his girl from right underneath him, even though Artie wasn’t exactly working to keep Tina around.
So, the next thing Mike can think of to do is go to Mr. Schue and ask that they hold an intervention for Artie, to which the teacher agrees, happy to help another student through peer support and motivation. Or something. Mike tends to tune Mr. Schue out when he starts talking.
This is how he finds himself face-to-face with Artie, every eye including his girlfriend’s on him.
“Artie, this is an intervention.”
Artie blinks, wary. “What for?”
Mike glances over his shoulder at Tina, who looks at him quizzically. He takes a deep breath and holds the paper up to read.
“Dear Artie. I know we haven’t really been on the best of terms lately, considering I’m dating your ex-girlfriend right now. But it’s really getting Tina - and the rest of us - down to see you acting so unlike yourself. Making sexist comments, informing Tina that she was ‘crawling back to you’ when she asked you to do the duets assignment together and then flaunting Brittany in her face. It’s not you, man, and it’s not the Artie we all like.”
Artie startles a little bit - he was clearly not expecting an ambush. His face flickers between confused, defensive and regretful. He settles on staring at his hands.
“It’s not too late to back-track, dude. We all know that this isn’t like you - everybody is willing to forgive, if you just admit that it’s getting out of control. I forgive you. Tina forgives you - she really wants to be your friend. So please, bring back the Artie that respects everybody. Thanks, man. Sincerely, Mike.”
Mike glances over his shoulder again - Tina smiles at him and he can’t help but smile back.
When he turns, Artie is looking at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mike.” He glances over Mike, at the girl who used to be his girlfriend and frowns. “And I’m really sorry, Tina, for everything. I wasn’t a very good boyfriend when we were together, and I’m not a very good friend now. I just - I thought if it was chiselled abs and manliness you wanted, then the best way to do that was to prove to you that I was strong without you. Clearly, this was flawed logic. Can you forgive me?”
Tina steps forward and smiles at him. “It’ll take some time, Artie. But I really just want to be your friend.”
Artie grins and Tina threads a hand through Mike’s and it’s like the elephant in the room disappears in front of his eyes. Mike’s just glad that Tina’s smiling again.
--
It’s Quinn who organizes the intervention for Sam, not two weeks later. When asked why, she would just look at the person who asked with an eyebrow raised and say, “You have not endured a dinner date devoted entirely to learning how to order food items in Na’vi.”
If Will thinks that the reasons for these interventions are getting silly, he doesn’t say anything because at least they’re not angrily singing about it in front of the club.
When Sam walks in the room, a nervous smile breaks over his face.
“Hey, guys. Um…why is everybody staring at me?”
Rachel, having volunteered to take her turn at mediating, steps forward, a perfect sympathetic look on her face. She also nods every once in a while, as if to assure Sam.
“Ahem. Sam, this is an intervention. Quinn, your current girlfriend, has nominated you to be talked to by the concerned members of the Glee Club about your habit of speaking to us in various languages that are not, as of yet, internationally recognized. Such languages include but are not limited to, Na’vi, Klingon, various spells from Harry Potter, Pig Latin, gibberish, etcetera, etcetera.” Rachel nods again.
Sam stares at the group, confused. “I - I thought you guys thought it was cool.”
Rachel shakes her head, but not without an understanding smile. “Perhaps you should listen to some of the letters that the Glee Club has written to you, expressing how they feel.” She sorts through the letters in the basket, before smiling and snatching an eggshell white envelope and handing it to Quinn. She opens it daintily and pulls out the paper.
“Dear Sam. As much as I enjoy being your girlfriend, the nerd languages are becoming a nuisance to our relationship. When my mother met you a few days ago, you told her that you liked her top in Na’vi, and she thought that you had insulted her decorating skills. It’s becoming a barrier of communication - so, please discontinue. Your girlfriend, Quinn.”
Sam looks hurt. “But, I thought that was what attracted you to me in the first place.”
Quinn shakes her head and Sam visibly deflates. “I guess if it’s really that much of a bother to you, I can stop. Kawng Quinn.” He holds his hands up in surrender at the look on Quinn’s face. “I’m sorry,” he bemoans, lips turning into a frown.
Quinn shakes her head slightly and smiles, ruffling his hair. “You’re forgiven.”
The banner is packed away once again in a box marked “Intervention Stuff” and the basket is thrown to the back of the closet, with the hopes that the Glee Club will never see it again.
--
Rachel bustles into the choir room on a brisk November afternoon to find the Glee Club huddled around the piano. She stops in the doorway - normally, she’d be delighted that they’re taking enough of an interest in practicing to begin early, but there’s something different today. Something in the quick, hushed voices they’re speaking in.
It’s then that Rachel notices the banner hanging from the ceiling, intervention spelled in bright red letters.
“Am I missing something?”
Everyone turns to face her, faces solemn. Except for Santana, who generally regards the world with a look of disdain. Finn breaks away from the group.
“Rach, this is an intervention. You need to stop baking cookies every time you mess up.”
Rachel reels backwards, a hand fluttering to her chest. She feels…betrayed almost. “Let me get this straight. My baking…offends you?” She takes one step back, then another, before the adrenaline kicks in and Rachel bolts for the door. She gets about two feet when two strong arms are hauling her up and through the air. Rachel kicks and swings her arms. “Put me down! I wasn’t trying to escape, I swear!”
Finn takes the beatings in stride, carrying her all the way across the room and plopping her in a plastic chair. He then takes a seat next to her - Rachel’s sure it’s so she won’t attempt run away again.
She crosses her arms. “I don’t need a prison guard, Finn.”
Finn smiles fondly, patting her knee. “Sure, Rach. Just listen to what we have to say.”
Mr. Schuester pulls a letter from the box and hands it to Tina, who looks apologetically at Rachel before beginning to speak.
“Dear Rachel. At first, when you started baking us cookies, I was really happy. You’re a really good baker! And it was nice to know that you were always really sorry when you yelled at us or got on our case about performances. But it’s getting to be too much. My blood sugar is through the roof and my mom says if I have any more, she’s going to restrict me to a diet of rice and salad. So, as much as we love your baking, maybe you could keep it to a minimum? Sincerely, Tina.”
“I happen to think salad is delicious,” Rachel mutters.
Mr. Schuester pats Tina on the shoulder. “Thank you, Tina.” He hands an envelope to Kurt.
Kurt’s letter is short and sweet. “Dear Rachel. If you make any more cookies, I will not be able to fit into my designer skinny jeans and will have to survive with stretch jeans and sweat pants. So, please, for the sake of my fashion sense, stop. Love, Kurt.”
Rachel’s face gets hotter and hotter as the rest of the club reads their letters.
When everyone’s finished, she stands up brusquely and nods at each one of them.
“Thank you for your concern. I will be sure to stop baking delicious food items for you. Good day.” And with that, she walks purposefully out of the choir room.
“Rachel, wait! We still have rehearsal!”
She stops and turns around, walking back inside and sitting primly in a chair. “Fine.”
The banner gets taken down and folded, placed back in the box and tucked away in the closet. As much as Rachel disapproves of any sort of criminal activity, she briefly considers recruiting Puck to drive the thing into the wilderness and bury it, never to be seen again.
--
It’s only a couple weeks later when the banner gets pulled from the box again, dusted off and hung from the rafters of the choir room. Puck rolls his eyes as Finn staples the white cloth up.
“Why do we even bother taking this down anymore?”
Rachel huffs, still bitter from her intervention. “Excellent point, Puck, this club has so many irritating habits that it should become a permanent fixture in the choir room. If my baking offends you so much, next week I suggest we intervene on Brad’s terrible habit of playing the piano well. It’s so horrendous - I don’t know how we put up with it.” She busies herself by angrily sorting the intervention letters in the basket by the door.
Mike flips open his cell phone, eyes moving quickly as he reads a text message and glances around in a panic. “That was Mercedes. Kurt will be here any second, so we’ve gotta get a move on.”
Everyone springs into action, Finn finishing the stapling, Tina arranging the chairs and everyone else taking their places under the Intervention banner.
When Kurt walks in, Mercedes close behind, he takes one look at the set-up before crossing his arms and staring haughtily at the group. “What now? Another intervention?”
Mr. Schuester, having been named the designated mediator for this particular intervention, steps forward.
“Kurt, this is an intervention. The group thinks that it’s time to stop wearing such crazy hats.”
Kurt gasps, one hand flying to the hat perched on top of his head, an adorable white sailor hat complete with anchors and a tiny, fake seagull.
“What on Earth is wrong with my hats?”
Mr. Schuester smiles, walking forward and leading Kurt further into the room, guiding him towards a chair. Mercedes takes his hand and squeezes it. “Just…listen to your friends, Kurt.”
Brittany holds her letter up to her face after smiling brightly at Kurt.
“Dear Kurt. Your hats are really distracting when I’m trying to sing. Love, Brittany S. Pierce.”
“Dear Kurt. You’re my best friend, and the most fabulous person I have ever met. But seriously, this hat obsession is getting out of control. There’s a line between hot and hot mess, and you’re dancing on it. Yesterday you wore a hat made entirely of the material they use for tennis balls. Even my little sister thinks you look a little silly - and she still wears her underwear over her pants. I love you, but it needs to stop. Love your girl, Mercedes.” Mercedes smiles earnestly at the end of her letter.
Kurt sighs and uncrosses his arms. “Hats are going out, anyway.” Mercedes grins and hugs him tightly, Kurt patting her back affectionately.
--
Santana almost starts a smack-down when she sees the Intervention banner above the choir room piano. “Seriously? Seriously? Y’all whack. I don’t need an intervention.”
She briefly considers the sanity of the club. Santana is awesome - she’s lost as to what the Glee Club could possibly be annoyed with her for, and to be honest, she really doesn’t care.
This about the time when Miss. Pillsbury emerges from the crowd.
“Hello, Santana. I’m actually the one who called this intervention. I - I’d appreciate it if you would stop hitting on Dr. Howell.”
It’s then that Santana notices the petulant expression on Mr. Schue’s face, and has to stifle a laugh.
This intervention was clearly not his original idea.
“Look, Miss. P. It’s not that I’m trying to steal your man; it’s just that he’s super sexy for an old guy. Seriously, anytime he wants to insert his tool…”
Miss. Pillsbury’s eyes fly open, her mouth pulling into a manic smile.
“Okay! Brittany, I think you’re up!”
Brittany sidles up beside her, pulling a folded piece of stationary from her pocket and grinning up at Santana, and she’d be lying if she said her heart didn’t speed up the slightest bit. Brittany hasn’t spoken to her since the Artie debacle. “Miss. P said that I could read my note first,” she giggles, unfolding the paper.
“Dear Santana. It used to make me super jealous when you hit on Dr. Carl, but I have a boyfriend now. It’s still bad though, because he’s Miss. Pillsbury’s boyfriend and that’s just not cool. I just wanted to tell you that because you’re my best friend ever in the world, and I don’t want you to get in trouble. Love, Brittany S. Pierce.”
She feels a familiar pinkie thread through her own, and fights to maintain the blank look on her face because Brittany’s just forgiven her in her own Brittany way and that’s more important than anything else right now. Santana glances up at the banner and shrugs.
“Whatever. I’m over it. And if I see that intervention banner one more time, I’m going to town on it with a blowtorch.”
--
Brittany’s intervention is impromptu and rushed - mostly due to the fact that the reason for it is Brittany’s strange habit of bringing the wild animals she encounters outside to rehearsal, and because that very event is occurring now. The group feels it’s an appropriate moment.
“Brittany, do you see why we can’t bring wild animals inside?” Will clenches his teeth and holds the writhing raccoon away from his body, desperately trying to avoid its flailing claws.
Brittany pouts in a corner. “No. And you’re hurting Mr. Jingles.”
Will signals for Finn to throw the window open and places the raccoon as gently as he can outside in the bush. He hisses in pain when the creature makes one last ditch effort and claws him across the forearm.
“They are wild animals because they belong in the wild. Somebody could have gotten hurt, Brittany,” he winces and glances towards the raw skin on his arm, “please stop, okay?”
Brittany nods begrudgingly, retreating to her seat next to Santana. The brunette leans over when she sits down. “How the hell did you get that inside, B?”
Brittany shrugs, her mood already lifting. “Inside my book bag, S. Duh.”
She holds open the bag for Santana to see the shredded papers and textbooks inside. When she closes it with a snap, Brittany sighs and leans on Santana’s shoulder. “I wanted people to read me letters,” she sighs.
--
It seems the sillier and sillier the reasons for the interventions get, the more varied and creative the locations for them are. In the case of Quinn’s intervention,
Mercedes suggests the library, the scene of the crime. They crowd in at lunch time, hiding in between the rows and rows of books.
When Quinn walks in, her eyes sweep the room before heading for the secluded carrel in the back.
They watch her for a few moments - she only appears to be opening a brown paper bag, a typical sight at lunch time. Will glances at Mercedes questioningly, but she just shakes her head. “Trust me. Mr. Schue. There’s a reason we’re here.”
The Glee kids creep up behind her quietly, listening closely to the sounds of delight coming from Quinn and the familiar crunching sounds coming from her area.
“Quinn?”
The blonde whips around, half a piece of bacon still hanging from her mouth, looking very much like a cat caught with a canary. Rachel makes a gagging noise, but says nothing.
Quinn visibly panics - her eyes fly through the group, taking in each member’s faces with a crazed glint in her eyes and her body frozen in place. A hand darts up to remove the bacon from her lips. “This isn’t what it looks like,” she insists. Mercedes places a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“It’s okay. Pregnancy cravings are serious business - my mom craved pickles and peanut butter until I was three years old.”
Quinn stands abruptly, swiping her books into her book bag feverishly, eyes on her work. “I can stop anytime I want!” She glances up at them pleadingly. “You don’t understand - Coach has us run suicides for half-an-hour straight every single day, I need the extra protein, and it’s not like I don’t burn off the calories.” Quinn places a hand on her hip, face changing from panicked to intimidating, daring someone to challenge her logic before pausing, uncertainty flashing across her face. “You won’t tell her will you?”
“I won’t tell if you stop stuffing your face with the stuff,” Santana remarks. “Seriously, I can smell it wafting from your gym bag after practice and it’s gross.”
Quinn rolls her eyes, pulling the backpack higher on her shoulder and grabbing her brown paper bag. She gazes intently at the package.
Puck holds out his hand. “Give it here, Fabray.”
Begrudgingly, she drops the brown bag in his outstretched palm, whimpering slightly when he dumps it in the trash.
Finn frowns. “That was perfectly good bacon,” he mutters. Rachel kisses his hand, entwined in hers.
“I’ll make you some tofu bacon when you come over after school.”
“It’s not the same!” At his words, Quinn tosses a scathing look at him from underneath Mercedes’ consoling arm. “Quit complaining, Finn,” she snaps.
--
Finn stares in confusion at the club, who are all, yet again, standing underneath the intervention banner.
He rubs his stomach idly - Finn hopes that they don’t spend too long on this, because he hasn’t eaten since lunchtime and his mother promised him that they’d have spaghetti and meatballs tonight. And not whole wheat pasta but the good, processed white stuff. As much as Finn likes living with Burt and Kurt and appreciates that they want to be healthy, eating whole wheat bread every day isn’t for him.
And he doesn’t think he’s done anything too annoying recently because Rachel would have told him.
He glances at Puck, who’s being shoved forward by the group. Puck rolls his eyes, holding the piece of paper in his hands up to his face and beginning to read.
“Finn. Remember that time in fifth grade when I came to school with a huge-ass bruise on my shin and you asked me how I got it and I said I was fighting ninjas on my way home from school? Yeah, that wasn’t true. What actually happened was that you got mad because Tim Johnson stole your ruler and wouldn’t give it back, so you kicked your chair and stormed away. Yeah, bro, the chair leg hit me in the shin. And that shit hurt. Considering the fact that you are now approximately the same size as Sasquatch, I know that kicking chairs for you is like flicking away a bug, but it could actually, like, kill somebody when you do it. So, seriously, for the safety of everyone around you, leave the chairs alone. Alright, man? Jeez. Signed, Puckasaurus Rex.”
Finn still looks confused but nods anyway, accepting Rachel in his arms as she darts out to hug him.
Will shakes his head. He wonders when interventions became an excuse for the kids to air out every single thing that’s ever annoyed them about another member of the club.
Then he tells himself it’s one less fight he has to break up in the hallway and Will feels a bit better.
--
Holly Holiday used to pride herself on relating with her kids - she’s a chameleon, an expert at blending in and finding a place amongst the youth. She’s cool, she’s hip, they accept her as one of them and Holly thinks that that’s all she can expect from them.
Stepping into the strict teacher role is scary and hard, and Holly doesn’t think she’s very good at it.
Mercedes’ tater tot habit is stretching to new proportions - filling a car’s exhaust pipe with potato goodness is an extreme Holly’s never encountered. The fun Holly, the one she tries to let out every day, tells her that it’s creative and it’s stickin’ it to the man and that she should approve of it. But the grown-up Holly, the one who walked into that class at Spalding High School with a hard-working attitude and left a different teacher, says that she needs to talk to the girl.
She finds the banner in the closet and it comes to her. An intervention.
Holly sets up the banner alone, sits down and waits for Mercedes in the choir room. As soon as Mercedes sees the banner, she rolls her eyes and turns to leave. Holly stands up quickly. “Mercedes, wait. I think we need to talk about your tater tot problem.”
She turns and stares at Holly. “Miss. Holiday, all due respect, but an intervention isn’t going to change anything. It’s not even about the tater tots anymore, really. It’s about showing Principal Sue that I’m not going to give up.”
Holly bites her lip - she takes a few steps forward, trying to close the distance.
“Mercedes, I’m totally for wanting your voice to be heard. I get it.”
Mercedes looks at her feet. “You may be the only one,” she murmurs before straightening her shoulders and taking a deep breath. “Thanks, Miss. Holiday. I’ll see you in Glee Club tomorrow.”
Holly sits down in the chair she had set up for the heart-to-heart that never happened, pulling the banner from the ceiling with her.
She’s just not cut out for this.
A few days later, she’s teaching History in a brunette wig and a corset, and Holly thinks that this is what she’ll always be good at - being the fun substitute, the one to give the kids a break and then step back to allow their teacher to teach them the important stuff. Like any good teacher, Holly knows she’ll try her hardest if a kid comes to her with a problem, but that’s not what she’s for.
Mr. Schuester arrives in her doorway with a smile on his face.
Upon learning that Mercedes is okay, Holly thinks that maybe she could teach them important stuff too.
--
The bus to Sectionals trundles along the road. It’s six in the morning, the sun just peaking over the horizon and everyone is tired and nervous. Puck grumbles, shifting to find a more comfortable position on his makeshift pillow. “Too early,” he mumbles, as he’s been repeating for the past hour since they boarded the bus. Artie, beside him, glances over and glares. “Shut up, Puck.”
For the most part, the bus ride is quiet. The kids are too skittish to say much, instead resorting to practicing their songs under their breath or attempting another hour of sleep. Will is too busy looking out the window, gloomy about Miss. Pillsbury and Dr. Carl, to say anything.
Except, of course, for Mike, whose headphones have been blasting music since they pulled out of the parking lot.
And not just any old type of music - its house music.
Nobody wants to say anything, figuring that there’s no point. Everyone knows how Mike feels about his music. Instead, they all look at Rachel, who bites her lip and continues to practice her solo. She is not going to be the bearer of bad news. Rachel Berry will not be the reason for hurt feelings that could potentially lose Sectionals for them. That is not her torch to bear.
Kurt, realizing that Rachel will do nothing about this situation, snaps.
And it’s not even an endearing sort of crazy. It’s just full-on crazy.
Kurt very carefully places his phone into his bag, a text from Blaine wishing him good luck still visible on the screen. He then vaults across Mercedes’ lap towards where Mike is seated with Tina and snatches the earphones, pulling them with the iPod away from Mike and towards him. Both Mike and Tina stare at him with matching expressions of shock. If he weren’t so incensed, Kurt would not that they really do look nice as a couple, but he’s too busy jamming a finger into the pause button.
“Dude, what the hell?”
Kurt waves the headphones in the air, while the still attached iPod falls to his lap. Mercedes looks on in silence, an expression between amusement and confusion on her face. “These, Mike, are headphones. They are designed so that you can listen to music whilst others enjoy the quiet. However, on this occasion, headphones are not being used as intended because we can hear every single beat of the music.”
Mike blinks, shocked at the outburst. Tina looks at her hands.
Kurt sighs, eyebrows knitting together in exasperation. “And its house music! You are not on the Jersey Shore, Mike. You do not have copious amounts of gel in your hair, you do not ‘GTL’ and you do not have a dumb nickname like The Situation. There is no reason.”
Finn, who had turned around to watch the confrontation over the back of the seat, pulls his backpack from the floor of the bus and unzips it. “Do you maybe wanna use this, Kurt?”
Kurt glances at him and then the backpack, where the Intervention banner is balled at the bottom underneath a couple of granola bars and a PSP.
“You brought that thing?”
Finn shrugs. “Why not? We have intervention, like, every other day; I brought it just in case.”
Several pairs of eyes stare at him, except for Rachel, who pats his arm.
Mike looks around. “Do all of you feel this way?” Tina picks at her nails before looking up and nodding. “Remember our date last week? And beforehand, when you were dancing to your iPod in your living room? I was sitting on the sofa for ten minutes before you realized I was there.”
Sam nods. “It’s kind of irritating, bro.”
Kurt doesn’t say anything, opting instead to stare at Finn, who looks sheepish and stuffs the bag back underneath the seat. Mike uses this opportunity to rescue the iPod and headphones from Kurt’s grasp. He shrugs. “If it really bothers you all that much, I can turn down the music. But don’t insult my choice of music, man - you can’t blame a guy for fist-pumping.”
Kurt waves a hand, calm again, and digs the phone back out of his bag. “Do what you must.”
Tina giggles slyly. “And you have to admit - Mike’s abs are The Situation.”
--
Tina’s intervention happens on a snowy day in mid-December. Christmas is around the corner, and everybody’s been focusing on solely that. However, they aren’t focused enough to miss the sound of CD cases in Tina’s backpack every day, or the corner of a disk with Justin Timberlake’s smiling face on it.
Tina is obsessed with 90s teen pop.
They corner her in the choir room one afternoon after practice - her jacket is lumpy and full of sharp angles that mysteriously resemble CDs. It’s clear that this is Tina’s attempt to hide her addiction.
“It’s not what it looks like! They were…Christmas gifts!”
Tina’s words are effectively ruined as a wave of CDs come cascading out from underneath her jacket, spilling onto the floor around her feet. She stares at the pile for a few seconds, before glancing up once at the Intervention banner Finn is holding up and making a run for it - Puck steps into the doorway just in time to block her exit.
“It’s perfectly acceptable to appreciate the music of the 90s, Tina. Frankly, I’m appalled that the music industry has changed so much from the wholesome values of the era. Backstreet Boys had real talent, though they fell victim to their enormous egos, drug addiction and a feud with their management, and I’m still inclined to listen to ‘It’s Tearing Up My Heart’ by NSYNC every once in a while.” Rachel grins reassuringly, but the blush that has crept up Tina’s cheeks does not dull.
Quinn wades through the CDs on the ground. “Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, the first Britney album, Spice Girls…it’s all here.”
Tina stubs the toe of her boot on the ground.
Santana glances at the clock. “So, are we going to stand around here or are we gonna read out the letters to Gothika here? Because I’ve got a holiday commitment I need to get to.”
Tina looks panicked, shaking her hands in front of her.
“Oh no, no no no. It’s okay, I’ll - I’ll stop. There’s no need for letters.”
Santana shrugs. “Whatever. I’m out.”
Tina watches all the members leave one by one. She turns to Mike, who gazes at her with a half-smile on his face. “What?” she asks and Mike chuckles. “Go ahead, Tina. I know you want to do it and we’ve got some time before my mom expects us.” She glances around, checking one last time for stragglers, before turning to her boyfriend with a glare. “You won’t tell anybody?”
He shakes his head. Tina nods before bending down and pushing her CDs back inside her bag.
Righting herself, Tina links her arm through Mike’s.
“Let’s get out of here.”
--
Will opens the door to his office and breathes in. It still smells the same as the day he left for the break - like window cleaner and leather. It’s a good smell, familiar.
The break was long and Will’s been itching to return to school, and feels much more comfortable now that the first school day is over.
He busies himself quickly, taking off his coat to throw onto the chair and opening his briefcase. There’s a stack of sheet music on the desk, potential numbers for Regionals that he wants to get started on right away. Will picks up the Run DMC sheet music and smiles; he’ll propose this one first. It’s Tricky has always been a favourite. Will begins to hum the music, before busting out in some funky lyrics.
When I wake up people take up mostly all of my time
I'm not singin', phone keep ringin' cause I make up a rhyme
I'm not braggin', people naggin' cause they think I'm a star
Always tearin' what I'm wearin', I think they're goin' too far.
“Mr. Schuester?”
Will stops where he is - hips jutted out, hands in the air - and stares at Rachel with wide eyes. She bites her lip, clearly uncomfortable, and Will straightens up. “Yes, Rachel?”
The girl shuffles on her feet. “The club and I would like to invite you to the auditorium for a presentation.”
Will nods, clearing his throat and follows Rachel into the hallway. They walk down the empty hallways together in an awkward silence. Will clears his throat again. “How was your holiday, Rachel?” he asks, and Rachel grins. “Thank you for asking, Mr. Schue. Over the holidays, I baked several batches of sugar cookies for the homeless, volunteered in an animal rescue shelter, went caroling - though I made sure to include songs from other holidays, specifically the dreidel song - and, of course, I kept busy with vocal and dance lessons. How was your holiday, Mr. Schuester?”
Will looks at his shoes. “I…watched some movies and decorated the tree.”
Rachel nods. “We’re here,” she notes, and they enter the auditorium together. Eleven members sit on the stage and Rachel turns to face him. “Please listen to what we have to say, Mr. Schuester.” She quickly takes her spot on stage, next to Finn.
Mr. Schuester then notices the banner hung on the stage.
Finn speaks up. “Mr. Schuester, this is an intervention.”
Will chuckles and gestures to the banner. “I - I kind of figured that out, guys.”
Rachel opens her letter. “Mr. Schuester. Over the course of your teachings, we have noticed that you seem very fond of impromptu hip-hop interludes. We, as your students, would like to remind you that you are not a rapper. Please do not take this as a personal affront, because we do not mean it in that way at all - we are simply concerned that you are deluding yourself into a world in which it is acceptable for a high-school Glee Club director to break into verse at the drop of a hat. Please cease and desist, so that we may return to focusing on the Glee Club. Thank you for your consideration. Sincerely, Rachel B. Berry, and your Glee Club.”
Will blinks at his students. “Are you guys serious?”
Rachel nods solemnly. “Very serious.”
Will sighs, dropping into a chair. “I will make you a deal. I’ll try not to rap if you all promise that this is the last intervention this Glee Club will ever hold.”
Santana throws her arms in the air. “Finally! For the love of God, let’s just stop already.”
“Santana seems to agree with me. Do you promise?”
Mercedes raises an eyebrow. “Do you promise to stop rapping?”
After a moment’s deliberation, Will nods. Rachel grins, standing from the stool and clapping. “It is decided. There will be no more interventions in this Glee Club.”
Everyone stands, filing out of the auditorium and heading for the choir room.
Will watches them go and smiles - nobody said he couldn’t rap on his own time, and he fully intends to do so. It’s been nice to air out all the issues floating around the Glee Club, and it’s a good time for a fresh start. Frankly, Will’s just glad that the monster he’s created has finally been put to rest.
Author: Kelsey / marliskelsey
Pairing,Character(s): Ensemble, with an appearance by Holly Holiday and canon couples.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,705
Spoilers: Through 2x07, The Substitute
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. I can only dream.
Summary: The very first time the Glee Club holds an intervention, it’s for Puck.
A/N: Written for this prompt on the glee_fluff_meme and inspired by an episode of How I Met Your Mother. This is AU after 2x07, so Furt never happened, and the canon timeline is fudged a little bit for the story's sake. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoy!
The very first time the Glee Club holds an intervention, it’s for Puck.
Will has noticed a change in Puck since he returned from Juvie, and not for the better. Between the earrings (a trend that Will has never and will never understand), the return of the mohawk and the resurgence of the old Puck who throws kids into dumpsters and never comes to Glee rehearsal without a fart joke on hand, he’s concerned for the boy.
And in his quest to be a better teacher, Will decides that he needs to call Puck out on it and remind him of what life is like when you try to be the best you can be.
First order of business is to get Puck to stop dipping.
Will first noticed it when a can rolled from Puck’s pocket one day. Soon after, he notices the yellow tinge on his teeth and gums. He decides that it needs to end.
Will tells Rachel to summon the rest of the Glee Club early and to make sure Puck doesn’t find out.
They gather in the choir room with varying looks of curiosity and confusion.
“Okay, guys, let’s get serious for a moment. I think we’ve all noticed Puck’s little habit of dipping, a habit on par with smoking cigarettes. So! I have decided that we…will hold a Glee Club Intervention!”
Rachel’s face is determined. The rest of the Glee Club looks less than impressed.
Quinn looks incredulous. “Mr. Schue, have you met Puck? This is the boy who still sports the same stupid mohawk, despite years and years of being told it looks ridiculous. He won’t stop unless he wants to stop.”
Will grins. “Ah, but that is the beauty of the intervention. We’re all going to write letters to Puck, telling him how his dip habit is hurting us. Then, it’s his choice if he wants to stop or not, and even better, it’ll feel like it was his idea.”
Quinn leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. She still looks unconvinced.
“C’mon, guys! This is a great opportunity to express your feelings in an open and safe way!"
When met with blank stares, Will amps it up a notch. "And, I - I'll give you extra credit in Spanish."
Several looks are exchanged, until Finn is nodding rapidly, Mike looks determined and Rachel’s brainstorming non-confrontational sentence starters in her pink notebook.
They get to work making a banner and writing their letters while Finn texts Puck and lets him know that Glee’s starting a little bit earlier, and that he should get his butt to the choir room. He saunters in with an indifferent expression before stopping dead in his tracks, staring at the crowd of people around the piano.
“Hi, Puck.” Mr. Schuester smiles at the boy, who stares at them with an eyebrow raised.
“What the hell is going on?”
Artie rolls forward, an understanding look on his face. “Why don’t you take a seat, Puck? We have some things we’d like to share with you.”
Slowly and looking as if he hates every single second of it, Puck takes a seat in a chair. He slouches so low that it appears he’ll fall off any second. Artie takes a look over his shoulder at the group.
“This is an intervention, Puck. Lately, we’ve noticed an…increase in your dipping habit, and we, as concerned members of the Glee Club and your friends, think that it’s time you get some help.”
Puck raises an eyebrow, mouth flattening into a line. He crosses his arms and looks at the ceiling. “Whatever. I can do what I want.”
Sam steps forward, a hand on Artie’s chair.
“We wrote letters, man. I think you should listen to some, maybe re-evaluate after you’ve heard everyone.” Puck rolls his eyes, but doesn’t leave. Will takes this as a good sign.
He searches through the basket, trying to find someone he knows Puck cares about.
Satisfied, he hands a letter to Santana.
She unfolds the letter and starts to read. “Dear Puck. I seriously think you should stop dipping, because it used to taste disgusting when we made out. Seriously, it’s gross, and it’s a wonder girls find you attractive when your mouth tastes like crap. So, stop. Thanks, Santana.”
Will thinks that maybe Santana reading first was a bad idea. Puck, despite himself, looks a little hurt.
They go through everyone’s letters, before Will turns to Puck with a hopeful expression on his face. From the indecisive look on Puck’s face, he wonders if he can afford to hope that they got through to him.
“So, Puck? You’ve heard everyone’s feelings. Will you stop dipping? Will you get help?”
Puck rolls his eyes and stands - Will is afraid for a moment that he’s going to walk out.
“Whatever. That was so pathetically sappy that I might throw up, but I was going to quit anyways. So, yeah, I’ll stop, since you seem to care so much.”
Everyone cheers - Rachel squeals and claps excitedly. Finn thumps him on the back and the force knocks Puck forward. He chuckles a little.
Will smiles, happy to have gotten through to another kid.
--
The next time the Glee Club holds an intervention, it is a considerably more sombre occasion.
Tina has been upset for the past few weeks, ever since the duets assignment and Mike isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do about it. He really cares about her, obviously, but he’s never exactly been skilled in the way of the ladies. Mike is always so focused on his dancing, and now that Puckerman is back from Juvie, he has to work twice as hard to maintain his spot on the football team.
But Tina Cohen-Chang is Mike’s girlfriend, and it’s killing him to see her so sad. After a few long talks and a lot of coercing, he finally pulls the reason for Tina’s funk out of her.
It’s the way Artie’s been acting.
Part of him wants to go to Artie directly and yell at him for his sexist, stupid behaviour. Part of him wants to hit him. But the rational part of Mike knows that Artie isn’t a bad person and he’s not really meaning what he says. He’s hurt - admittedly, Mike did kind of swipe his girl from right underneath him, even though Artie wasn’t exactly working to keep Tina around.
So, the next thing Mike can think of to do is go to Mr. Schue and ask that they hold an intervention for Artie, to which the teacher agrees, happy to help another student through peer support and motivation. Or something. Mike tends to tune Mr. Schue out when he starts talking.
This is how he finds himself face-to-face with Artie, every eye including his girlfriend’s on him.
“Artie, this is an intervention.”
Artie blinks, wary. “What for?”
Mike glances over his shoulder at Tina, who looks at him quizzically. He takes a deep breath and holds the paper up to read.
“Dear Artie. I know we haven’t really been on the best of terms lately, considering I’m dating your ex-girlfriend right now. But it’s really getting Tina - and the rest of us - down to see you acting so unlike yourself. Making sexist comments, informing Tina that she was ‘crawling back to you’ when she asked you to do the duets assignment together and then flaunting Brittany in her face. It’s not you, man, and it’s not the Artie we all like.”
Artie startles a little bit - he was clearly not expecting an ambush. His face flickers between confused, defensive and regretful. He settles on staring at his hands.
“It’s not too late to back-track, dude. We all know that this isn’t like you - everybody is willing to forgive, if you just admit that it’s getting out of control. I forgive you. Tina forgives you - she really wants to be your friend. So please, bring back the Artie that respects everybody. Thanks, man. Sincerely, Mike.”
Mike glances over his shoulder again - Tina smiles at him and he can’t help but smile back.
When he turns, Artie is looking at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mike.” He glances over Mike, at the girl who used to be his girlfriend and frowns. “And I’m really sorry, Tina, for everything. I wasn’t a very good boyfriend when we were together, and I’m not a very good friend now. I just - I thought if it was chiselled abs and manliness you wanted, then the best way to do that was to prove to you that I was strong without you. Clearly, this was flawed logic. Can you forgive me?”
Tina steps forward and smiles at him. “It’ll take some time, Artie. But I really just want to be your friend.”
Artie grins and Tina threads a hand through Mike’s and it’s like the elephant in the room disappears in front of his eyes. Mike’s just glad that Tina’s smiling again.
--
It’s Quinn who organizes the intervention for Sam, not two weeks later. When asked why, she would just look at the person who asked with an eyebrow raised and say, “You have not endured a dinner date devoted entirely to learning how to order food items in Na’vi.”
If Will thinks that the reasons for these interventions are getting silly, he doesn’t say anything because at least they’re not angrily singing about it in front of the club.
When Sam walks in the room, a nervous smile breaks over his face.
“Hey, guys. Um…why is everybody staring at me?”
Rachel, having volunteered to take her turn at mediating, steps forward, a perfect sympathetic look on her face. She also nods every once in a while, as if to assure Sam.
“Ahem. Sam, this is an intervention. Quinn, your current girlfriend, has nominated you to be talked to by the concerned members of the Glee Club about your habit of speaking to us in various languages that are not, as of yet, internationally recognized. Such languages include but are not limited to, Na’vi, Klingon, various spells from Harry Potter, Pig Latin, gibberish, etcetera, etcetera.” Rachel nods again.
Sam stares at the group, confused. “I - I thought you guys thought it was cool.”
Rachel shakes her head, but not without an understanding smile. “Perhaps you should listen to some of the letters that the Glee Club has written to you, expressing how they feel.” She sorts through the letters in the basket, before smiling and snatching an eggshell white envelope and handing it to Quinn. She opens it daintily and pulls out the paper.
“Dear Sam. As much as I enjoy being your girlfriend, the nerd languages are becoming a nuisance to our relationship. When my mother met you a few days ago, you told her that you liked her top in Na’vi, and she thought that you had insulted her decorating skills. It’s becoming a barrier of communication - so, please discontinue. Your girlfriend, Quinn.”
Sam looks hurt. “But, I thought that was what attracted you to me in the first place.”
Quinn shakes her head and Sam visibly deflates. “I guess if it’s really that much of a bother to you, I can stop. Kawng Quinn.” He holds his hands up in surrender at the look on Quinn’s face. “I’m sorry,” he bemoans, lips turning into a frown.
Quinn shakes her head slightly and smiles, ruffling his hair. “You’re forgiven.”
The banner is packed away once again in a box marked “Intervention Stuff” and the basket is thrown to the back of the closet, with the hopes that the Glee Club will never see it again.
--
Rachel bustles into the choir room on a brisk November afternoon to find the Glee Club huddled around the piano. She stops in the doorway - normally, she’d be delighted that they’re taking enough of an interest in practicing to begin early, but there’s something different today. Something in the quick, hushed voices they’re speaking in.
It’s then that Rachel notices the banner hanging from the ceiling, intervention spelled in bright red letters.
“Am I missing something?”
Everyone turns to face her, faces solemn. Except for Santana, who generally regards the world with a look of disdain. Finn breaks away from the group.
“Rach, this is an intervention. You need to stop baking cookies every time you mess up.”
Rachel reels backwards, a hand fluttering to her chest. She feels…betrayed almost. “Let me get this straight. My baking…offends you?” She takes one step back, then another, before the adrenaline kicks in and Rachel bolts for the door. She gets about two feet when two strong arms are hauling her up and through the air. Rachel kicks and swings her arms. “Put me down! I wasn’t trying to escape, I swear!”
Finn takes the beatings in stride, carrying her all the way across the room and plopping her in a plastic chair. He then takes a seat next to her - Rachel’s sure it’s so she won’t attempt run away again.
She crosses her arms. “I don’t need a prison guard, Finn.”
Finn smiles fondly, patting her knee. “Sure, Rach. Just listen to what we have to say.”
Mr. Schuester pulls a letter from the box and hands it to Tina, who looks apologetically at Rachel before beginning to speak.
“Dear Rachel. At first, when you started baking us cookies, I was really happy. You’re a really good baker! And it was nice to know that you were always really sorry when you yelled at us or got on our case about performances. But it’s getting to be too much. My blood sugar is through the roof and my mom says if I have any more, she’s going to restrict me to a diet of rice and salad. So, as much as we love your baking, maybe you could keep it to a minimum? Sincerely, Tina.”
“I happen to think salad is delicious,” Rachel mutters.
Mr. Schuester pats Tina on the shoulder. “Thank you, Tina.” He hands an envelope to Kurt.
Kurt’s letter is short and sweet. “Dear Rachel. If you make any more cookies, I will not be able to fit into my designer skinny jeans and will have to survive with stretch jeans and sweat pants. So, please, for the sake of my fashion sense, stop. Love, Kurt.”
Rachel’s face gets hotter and hotter as the rest of the club reads their letters.
When everyone’s finished, she stands up brusquely and nods at each one of them.
“Thank you for your concern. I will be sure to stop baking delicious food items for you. Good day.” And with that, she walks purposefully out of the choir room.
“Rachel, wait! We still have rehearsal!”
She stops and turns around, walking back inside and sitting primly in a chair. “Fine.”
The banner gets taken down and folded, placed back in the box and tucked away in the closet. As much as Rachel disapproves of any sort of criminal activity, she briefly considers recruiting Puck to drive the thing into the wilderness and bury it, never to be seen again.
--
It’s only a couple weeks later when the banner gets pulled from the box again, dusted off and hung from the rafters of the choir room. Puck rolls his eyes as Finn staples the white cloth up.
“Why do we even bother taking this down anymore?”
Rachel huffs, still bitter from her intervention. “Excellent point, Puck, this club has so many irritating habits that it should become a permanent fixture in the choir room. If my baking offends you so much, next week I suggest we intervene on Brad’s terrible habit of playing the piano well. It’s so horrendous - I don’t know how we put up with it.” She busies herself by angrily sorting the intervention letters in the basket by the door.
Mike flips open his cell phone, eyes moving quickly as he reads a text message and glances around in a panic. “That was Mercedes. Kurt will be here any second, so we’ve gotta get a move on.”
Everyone springs into action, Finn finishing the stapling, Tina arranging the chairs and everyone else taking their places under the Intervention banner.
When Kurt walks in, Mercedes close behind, he takes one look at the set-up before crossing his arms and staring haughtily at the group. “What now? Another intervention?”
Mr. Schuester, having been named the designated mediator for this particular intervention, steps forward.
“Kurt, this is an intervention. The group thinks that it’s time to stop wearing such crazy hats.”
Kurt gasps, one hand flying to the hat perched on top of his head, an adorable white sailor hat complete with anchors and a tiny, fake seagull.
“What on Earth is wrong with my hats?”
Mr. Schuester smiles, walking forward and leading Kurt further into the room, guiding him towards a chair. Mercedes takes his hand and squeezes it. “Just…listen to your friends, Kurt.”
Brittany holds her letter up to her face after smiling brightly at Kurt.
“Dear Kurt. Your hats are really distracting when I’m trying to sing. Love, Brittany S. Pierce.”
“Dear Kurt. You’re my best friend, and the most fabulous person I have ever met. But seriously, this hat obsession is getting out of control. There’s a line between hot and hot mess, and you’re dancing on it. Yesterday you wore a hat made entirely of the material they use for tennis balls. Even my little sister thinks you look a little silly - and she still wears her underwear over her pants. I love you, but it needs to stop. Love your girl, Mercedes.” Mercedes smiles earnestly at the end of her letter.
Kurt sighs and uncrosses his arms. “Hats are going out, anyway.” Mercedes grins and hugs him tightly, Kurt patting her back affectionately.
--
Santana almost starts a smack-down when she sees the Intervention banner above the choir room piano. “Seriously? Seriously? Y’all whack. I don’t need an intervention.”
She briefly considers the sanity of the club. Santana is awesome - she’s lost as to what the Glee Club could possibly be annoyed with her for, and to be honest, she really doesn’t care.
This about the time when Miss. Pillsbury emerges from the crowd.
“Hello, Santana. I’m actually the one who called this intervention. I - I’d appreciate it if you would stop hitting on Dr. Howell.”
It’s then that Santana notices the petulant expression on Mr. Schue’s face, and has to stifle a laugh.
This intervention was clearly not his original idea.
“Look, Miss. P. It’s not that I’m trying to steal your man; it’s just that he’s super sexy for an old guy. Seriously, anytime he wants to insert his tool…”
Miss. Pillsbury’s eyes fly open, her mouth pulling into a manic smile.
“Okay! Brittany, I think you’re up!”
Brittany sidles up beside her, pulling a folded piece of stationary from her pocket and grinning up at Santana, and she’d be lying if she said her heart didn’t speed up the slightest bit. Brittany hasn’t spoken to her since the Artie debacle. “Miss. P said that I could read my note first,” she giggles, unfolding the paper.
“Dear Santana. It used to make me super jealous when you hit on Dr. Carl, but I have a boyfriend now. It’s still bad though, because he’s Miss. Pillsbury’s boyfriend and that’s just not cool. I just wanted to tell you that because you’re my best friend ever in the world, and I don’t want you to get in trouble. Love, Brittany S. Pierce.”
She feels a familiar pinkie thread through her own, and fights to maintain the blank look on her face because Brittany’s just forgiven her in her own Brittany way and that’s more important than anything else right now. Santana glances up at the banner and shrugs.
“Whatever. I’m over it. And if I see that intervention banner one more time, I’m going to town on it with a blowtorch.”
--
Brittany’s intervention is impromptu and rushed - mostly due to the fact that the reason for it is Brittany’s strange habit of bringing the wild animals she encounters outside to rehearsal, and because that very event is occurring now. The group feels it’s an appropriate moment.
“Brittany, do you see why we can’t bring wild animals inside?” Will clenches his teeth and holds the writhing raccoon away from his body, desperately trying to avoid its flailing claws.
Brittany pouts in a corner. “No. And you’re hurting Mr. Jingles.”
Will signals for Finn to throw the window open and places the raccoon as gently as he can outside in the bush. He hisses in pain when the creature makes one last ditch effort and claws him across the forearm.
“They are wild animals because they belong in the wild. Somebody could have gotten hurt, Brittany,” he winces and glances towards the raw skin on his arm, “please stop, okay?”
Brittany nods begrudgingly, retreating to her seat next to Santana. The brunette leans over when she sits down. “How the hell did you get that inside, B?”
Brittany shrugs, her mood already lifting. “Inside my book bag, S. Duh.”
She holds open the bag for Santana to see the shredded papers and textbooks inside. When she closes it with a snap, Brittany sighs and leans on Santana’s shoulder. “I wanted people to read me letters,” she sighs.
--
It seems the sillier and sillier the reasons for the interventions get, the more varied and creative the locations for them are. In the case of Quinn’s intervention,
Mercedes suggests the library, the scene of the crime. They crowd in at lunch time, hiding in between the rows and rows of books.
When Quinn walks in, her eyes sweep the room before heading for the secluded carrel in the back.
They watch her for a few moments - she only appears to be opening a brown paper bag, a typical sight at lunch time. Will glances at Mercedes questioningly, but she just shakes her head. “Trust me. Mr. Schue. There’s a reason we’re here.”
The Glee kids creep up behind her quietly, listening closely to the sounds of delight coming from Quinn and the familiar crunching sounds coming from her area.
“Quinn?”
The blonde whips around, half a piece of bacon still hanging from her mouth, looking very much like a cat caught with a canary. Rachel makes a gagging noise, but says nothing.
Quinn visibly panics - her eyes fly through the group, taking in each member’s faces with a crazed glint in her eyes and her body frozen in place. A hand darts up to remove the bacon from her lips. “This isn’t what it looks like,” she insists. Mercedes places a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“It’s okay. Pregnancy cravings are serious business - my mom craved pickles and peanut butter until I was three years old.”
Quinn stands abruptly, swiping her books into her book bag feverishly, eyes on her work. “I can stop anytime I want!” She glances up at them pleadingly. “You don’t understand - Coach has us run suicides for half-an-hour straight every single day, I need the extra protein, and it’s not like I don’t burn off the calories.” Quinn places a hand on her hip, face changing from panicked to intimidating, daring someone to challenge her logic before pausing, uncertainty flashing across her face. “You won’t tell her will you?”
“I won’t tell if you stop stuffing your face with the stuff,” Santana remarks. “Seriously, I can smell it wafting from your gym bag after practice and it’s gross.”
Quinn rolls her eyes, pulling the backpack higher on her shoulder and grabbing her brown paper bag. She gazes intently at the package.
Puck holds out his hand. “Give it here, Fabray.”
Begrudgingly, she drops the brown bag in his outstretched palm, whimpering slightly when he dumps it in the trash.
Finn frowns. “That was perfectly good bacon,” he mutters. Rachel kisses his hand, entwined in hers.
“I’ll make you some tofu bacon when you come over after school.”
“It’s not the same!” At his words, Quinn tosses a scathing look at him from underneath Mercedes’ consoling arm. “Quit complaining, Finn,” she snaps.
--
Finn stares in confusion at the club, who are all, yet again, standing underneath the intervention banner.
He rubs his stomach idly - Finn hopes that they don’t spend too long on this, because he hasn’t eaten since lunchtime and his mother promised him that they’d have spaghetti and meatballs tonight. And not whole wheat pasta but the good, processed white stuff. As much as Finn likes living with Burt and Kurt and appreciates that they want to be healthy, eating whole wheat bread every day isn’t for him.
And he doesn’t think he’s done anything too annoying recently because Rachel would have told him.
He glances at Puck, who’s being shoved forward by the group. Puck rolls his eyes, holding the piece of paper in his hands up to his face and beginning to read.
“Finn. Remember that time in fifth grade when I came to school with a huge-ass bruise on my shin and you asked me how I got it and I said I was fighting ninjas on my way home from school? Yeah, that wasn’t true. What actually happened was that you got mad because Tim Johnson stole your ruler and wouldn’t give it back, so you kicked your chair and stormed away. Yeah, bro, the chair leg hit me in the shin. And that shit hurt. Considering the fact that you are now approximately the same size as Sasquatch, I know that kicking chairs for you is like flicking away a bug, but it could actually, like, kill somebody when you do it. So, seriously, for the safety of everyone around you, leave the chairs alone. Alright, man? Jeez. Signed, Puckasaurus Rex.”
Finn still looks confused but nods anyway, accepting Rachel in his arms as she darts out to hug him.
Will shakes his head. He wonders when interventions became an excuse for the kids to air out every single thing that’s ever annoyed them about another member of the club.
Then he tells himself it’s one less fight he has to break up in the hallway and Will feels a bit better.
--
Holly Holiday used to pride herself on relating with her kids - she’s a chameleon, an expert at blending in and finding a place amongst the youth. She’s cool, she’s hip, they accept her as one of them and Holly thinks that that’s all she can expect from them.
Stepping into the strict teacher role is scary and hard, and Holly doesn’t think she’s very good at it.
Mercedes’ tater tot habit is stretching to new proportions - filling a car’s exhaust pipe with potato goodness is an extreme Holly’s never encountered. The fun Holly, the one she tries to let out every day, tells her that it’s creative and it’s stickin’ it to the man and that she should approve of it. But the grown-up Holly, the one who walked into that class at Spalding High School with a hard-working attitude and left a different teacher, says that she needs to talk to the girl.
She finds the banner in the closet and it comes to her. An intervention.
Holly sets up the banner alone, sits down and waits for Mercedes in the choir room. As soon as Mercedes sees the banner, she rolls her eyes and turns to leave. Holly stands up quickly. “Mercedes, wait. I think we need to talk about your tater tot problem.”
She turns and stares at Holly. “Miss. Holiday, all due respect, but an intervention isn’t going to change anything. It’s not even about the tater tots anymore, really. It’s about showing Principal Sue that I’m not going to give up.”
Holly bites her lip - she takes a few steps forward, trying to close the distance.
“Mercedes, I’m totally for wanting your voice to be heard. I get it.”
Mercedes looks at her feet. “You may be the only one,” she murmurs before straightening her shoulders and taking a deep breath. “Thanks, Miss. Holiday. I’ll see you in Glee Club tomorrow.”
Holly sits down in the chair she had set up for the heart-to-heart that never happened, pulling the banner from the ceiling with her.
She’s just not cut out for this.
A few days later, she’s teaching History in a brunette wig and a corset, and Holly thinks that this is what she’ll always be good at - being the fun substitute, the one to give the kids a break and then step back to allow their teacher to teach them the important stuff. Like any good teacher, Holly knows she’ll try her hardest if a kid comes to her with a problem, but that’s not what she’s for.
Mr. Schuester arrives in her doorway with a smile on his face.
Upon learning that Mercedes is okay, Holly thinks that maybe she could teach them important stuff too.
--
The bus to Sectionals trundles along the road. It’s six in the morning, the sun just peaking over the horizon and everyone is tired and nervous. Puck grumbles, shifting to find a more comfortable position on his makeshift pillow. “Too early,” he mumbles, as he’s been repeating for the past hour since they boarded the bus. Artie, beside him, glances over and glares. “Shut up, Puck.”
For the most part, the bus ride is quiet. The kids are too skittish to say much, instead resorting to practicing their songs under their breath or attempting another hour of sleep. Will is too busy looking out the window, gloomy about Miss. Pillsbury and Dr. Carl, to say anything.
Except, of course, for Mike, whose headphones have been blasting music since they pulled out of the parking lot.
And not just any old type of music - its house music.
Nobody wants to say anything, figuring that there’s no point. Everyone knows how Mike feels about his music. Instead, they all look at Rachel, who bites her lip and continues to practice her solo. She is not going to be the bearer of bad news. Rachel Berry will not be the reason for hurt feelings that could potentially lose Sectionals for them. That is not her torch to bear.
Kurt, realizing that Rachel will do nothing about this situation, snaps.
And it’s not even an endearing sort of crazy. It’s just full-on crazy.
Kurt very carefully places his phone into his bag, a text from Blaine wishing him good luck still visible on the screen. He then vaults across Mercedes’ lap towards where Mike is seated with Tina and snatches the earphones, pulling them with the iPod away from Mike and towards him. Both Mike and Tina stare at him with matching expressions of shock. If he weren’t so incensed, Kurt would not that they really do look nice as a couple, but he’s too busy jamming a finger into the pause button.
“Dude, what the hell?”
Kurt waves the headphones in the air, while the still attached iPod falls to his lap. Mercedes looks on in silence, an expression between amusement and confusion on her face. “These, Mike, are headphones. They are designed so that you can listen to music whilst others enjoy the quiet. However, on this occasion, headphones are not being used as intended because we can hear every single beat of the music.”
Mike blinks, shocked at the outburst. Tina looks at her hands.
Kurt sighs, eyebrows knitting together in exasperation. “And its house music! You are not on the Jersey Shore, Mike. You do not have copious amounts of gel in your hair, you do not ‘GTL’ and you do not have a dumb nickname like The Situation. There is no reason.”
Finn, who had turned around to watch the confrontation over the back of the seat, pulls his backpack from the floor of the bus and unzips it. “Do you maybe wanna use this, Kurt?”
Kurt glances at him and then the backpack, where the Intervention banner is balled at the bottom underneath a couple of granola bars and a PSP.
“You brought that thing?”
Finn shrugs. “Why not? We have intervention, like, every other day; I brought it just in case.”
Several pairs of eyes stare at him, except for Rachel, who pats his arm.
Mike looks around. “Do all of you feel this way?” Tina picks at her nails before looking up and nodding. “Remember our date last week? And beforehand, when you were dancing to your iPod in your living room? I was sitting on the sofa for ten minutes before you realized I was there.”
Sam nods. “It’s kind of irritating, bro.”
Kurt doesn’t say anything, opting instead to stare at Finn, who looks sheepish and stuffs the bag back underneath the seat. Mike uses this opportunity to rescue the iPod and headphones from Kurt’s grasp. He shrugs. “If it really bothers you all that much, I can turn down the music. But don’t insult my choice of music, man - you can’t blame a guy for fist-pumping.”
Kurt waves a hand, calm again, and digs the phone back out of his bag. “Do what you must.”
Tina giggles slyly. “And you have to admit - Mike’s abs are The Situation.”
--
Tina’s intervention happens on a snowy day in mid-December. Christmas is around the corner, and everybody’s been focusing on solely that. However, they aren’t focused enough to miss the sound of CD cases in Tina’s backpack every day, or the corner of a disk with Justin Timberlake’s smiling face on it.
Tina is obsessed with 90s teen pop.
They corner her in the choir room one afternoon after practice - her jacket is lumpy and full of sharp angles that mysteriously resemble CDs. It’s clear that this is Tina’s attempt to hide her addiction.
“It’s not what it looks like! They were…Christmas gifts!”
Tina’s words are effectively ruined as a wave of CDs come cascading out from underneath her jacket, spilling onto the floor around her feet. She stares at the pile for a few seconds, before glancing up once at the Intervention banner Finn is holding up and making a run for it - Puck steps into the doorway just in time to block her exit.
“It’s perfectly acceptable to appreciate the music of the 90s, Tina. Frankly, I’m appalled that the music industry has changed so much from the wholesome values of the era. Backstreet Boys had real talent, though they fell victim to their enormous egos, drug addiction and a feud with their management, and I’m still inclined to listen to ‘It’s Tearing Up My Heart’ by NSYNC every once in a while.” Rachel grins reassuringly, but the blush that has crept up Tina’s cheeks does not dull.
Quinn wades through the CDs on the ground. “Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, the first Britney album, Spice Girls…it’s all here.”
Tina stubs the toe of her boot on the ground.
Santana glances at the clock. “So, are we going to stand around here or are we gonna read out the letters to Gothika here? Because I’ve got a holiday commitment I need to get to.”
Tina looks panicked, shaking her hands in front of her.
“Oh no, no no no. It’s okay, I’ll - I’ll stop. There’s no need for letters.”
Santana shrugs. “Whatever. I’m out.”
Tina watches all the members leave one by one. She turns to Mike, who gazes at her with a half-smile on his face. “What?” she asks and Mike chuckles. “Go ahead, Tina. I know you want to do it and we’ve got some time before my mom expects us.” She glances around, checking one last time for stragglers, before turning to her boyfriend with a glare. “You won’t tell anybody?”
He shakes his head. Tina nods before bending down and pushing her CDs back inside her bag.
Righting herself, Tina links her arm through Mike’s.
“Let’s get out of here.”
--
Will opens the door to his office and breathes in. It still smells the same as the day he left for the break - like window cleaner and leather. It’s a good smell, familiar.
The break was long and Will’s been itching to return to school, and feels much more comfortable now that the first school day is over.
He busies himself quickly, taking off his coat to throw onto the chair and opening his briefcase. There’s a stack of sheet music on the desk, potential numbers for Regionals that he wants to get started on right away. Will picks up the Run DMC sheet music and smiles; he’ll propose this one first. It’s Tricky has always been a favourite. Will begins to hum the music, before busting out in some funky lyrics.
When I wake up people take up mostly all of my time
I'm not singin', phone keep ringin' cause I make up a rhyme
I'm not braggin', people naggin' cause they think I'm a star
Always tearin' what I'm wearin', I think they're goin' too far.
“Mr. Schuester?”
Will stops where he is - hips jutted out, hands in the air - and stares at Rachel with wide eyes. She bites her lip, clearly uncomfortable, and Will straightens up. “Yes, Rachel?”
The girl shuffles on her feet. “The club and I would like to invite you to the auditorium for a presentation.”
Will nods, clearing his throat and follows Rachel into the hallway. They walk down the empty hallways together in an awkward silence. Will clears his throat again. “How was your holiday, Rachel?” he asks, and Rachel grins. “Thank you for asking, Mr. Schue. Over the holidays, I baked several batches of sugar cookies for the homeless, volunteered in an animal rescue shelter, went caroling - though I made sure to include songs from other holidays, specifically the dreidel song - and, of course, I kept busy with vocal and dance lessons. How was your holiday, Mr. Schuester?”
Will looks at his shoes. “I…watched some movies and decorated the tree.”
Rachel nods. “We’re here,” she notes, and they enter the auditorium together. Eleven members sit on the stage and Rachel turns to face him. “Please listen to what we have to say, Mr. Schuester.” She quickly takes her spot on stage, next to Finn.
Mr. Schuester then notices the banner hung on the stage.
Finn speaks up. “Mr. Schuester, this is an intervention.”
Will chuckles and gestures to the banner. “I - I kind of figured that out, guys.”
Rachel opens her letter. “Mr. Schuester. Over the course of your teachings, we have noticed that you seem very fond of impromptu hip-hop interludes. We, as your students, would like to remind you that you are not a rapper. Please do not take this as a personal affront, because we do not mean it in that way at all - we are simply concerned that you are deluding yourself into a world in which it is acceptable for a high-school Glee Club director to break into verse at the drop of a hat. Please cease and desist, so that we may return to focusing on the Glee Club. Thank you for your consideration. Sincerely, Rachel B. Berry, and your Glee Club.”
Will blinks at his students. “Are you guys serious?”
Rachel nods solemnly. “Very serious.”
Will sighs, dropping into a chair. “I will make you a deal. I’ll try not to rap if you all promise that this is the last intervention this Glee Club will ever hold.”
Santana throws her arms in the air. “Finally! For the love of God, let’s just stop already.”
“Santana seems to agree with me. Do you promise?”
Mercedes raises an eyebrow. “Do you promise to stop rapping?”
After a moment’s deliberation, Will nods. Rachel grins, standing from the stool and clapping. “It is decided. There will be no more interventions in this Glee Club.”
Everyone stands, filing out of the auditorium and heading for the choir room.
Will watches them go and smiles - nobody said he couldn’t rap on his own time, and he fully intends to do so. It’s been nice to air out all the issues floating around the Glee Club, and it’s a good time for a fresh start. Frankly, Will’s just glad that the monster he’s created has finally been put to rest.