Fic: 'A Little Role Reversal' Prologue
Title: ‘A Little Role Reversal’ Prologue
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves. Challenge/Prompt: The original ‘A Little Role Reversal’ fic was written b mundaneone nbsp;in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme . Rating: PG, for the odd unexpected f-bomb. Word Count: (This part) 1099 Genre: AU Copyright: I don’t own Glee r anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs t mundaneone I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :). Summary: A short prologue that takes place before 'A Little Role Reversal'. It was Puck's mohawk that started it all. Author’s Notes: A tribute and addition t mundaneone’s fabtastic #39;A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal' before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in. Fics in this verse will be tagged 'reverseverse', 'cos it's an awesome word, alright?
"Oh dear.” Puck turns around sharply, and finds Mercedes Jones and Kurt Hummel standing against the bank of lockers opposite, matching expressions of knowing concern on their faces. "I've seen this before..." Kurt murmurs, eyes sliding worriedly over Puck's frame. "Uh-huh." Mercedes nods, crossing her arms: "PTHD." Puck can't stop himself scrunching up his eyebrows, slamming his locker shut. "What?" "Post Traumatic Hair Disorder." Kurt supplies. He pushes himself away from the locker and saunters into Puck's personal space, frowning up at Puck's mohawk. Puck wants to melt into the floor. "It's irony, right?" Kurt questions, looking pained. "Although I admit, I'd be surprised to learn you actually grasp a concept as subtle as 'irony', I can't believe this--" he waves his fingers at Puck's hair "--was a genuine decision." Puck shrugs his rucksack further up his shoulder, forcing himself not to run his hand over his head. "I kinda... I thought it was kinda cool." he says, holding Kurt's gaze. "It's not." Kurt corrects him sharply, shaking his head. "It's evidence of your dramatically sub-standard mental state." “Not that we needed it.” Mercedes points out. She’s looking thoughtful, tapping one finger against her lips with that agonisingly cunning smirk on her face: “Hey; wasn’t it about this time last year you decided to randomly beat on half of the hockey team?” It was. Puck couldn’t help himself. The hockey team are all brainless thugs, so the things they said to him shouldn’t have mattered-he should’ve just ignored them and walked away. But it had been the worst weekend he’d had in a long time-maybe even worse than this weekend just passed-- and he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He doesn’t say any of this, however. He stays quiet, as befits his non-existent social status, and watches with a sinking stomach as one corner of Kurt Hummel’s pretty mouth twists into a grin. “Oh really Noah.“ he chastises mockingly “You’d think by now you’d have come up with some less destructive ways of working out your abandonment issues.” He presses one finger lightly against Puck’s chest. “Maybe that’s why your mom’s been crying so much lately, huh? It must be heart-breaking to watch your son turning into the spitting image of his reprobate father…” The breath feels tight in Puck’s chest; like the finger Kurt’s pressing against his skin is drawing the oxygen straight out of his body. “My father didn’t have a mohawk.” Puck manages to stammer out, and Kurt laughs, pushing his finger harder into Puck’s chest so his back connects with the locker. “No;” he agrees airily: “he just had some fairly damaging personality dysfunction, right? The kind of personality dysfunction that makes you think flooring some Neanderthal on the football field is the pinnacle of life’s successes; or that cleaning out yuppie swimming pools is a job for grownups; or that it’s ok to have a haircut that makes my eyes burn to look at it. Jesus.” He gives a theatrical little shudder, and behind his shoulder Mercedes snickers, even as she hugs Tina Cohen-Chang, who’s just arrived and looks as fierce as ever. Tina’s boyfriend Artie Abrams rolls to a stop behind her in his wheelchair and pulls Tina, giggling, onto his knees. Puck can feel his face growing redder and redder. Because Kurt loves an audience, but Puck really doesn’t, especially an audience of the glee kids, who don’t own an ounce of compassion between them. “I’m, uh--” Puck was going to say he was sorry: put an end to this exhibition as soon as possible and escape all these mocking pairs of eyes. But Kurt’s still looking at him; Kurt Hummel’s body is just three inches away from his and Puck’s heart is pounding stupidly hard in his chest beside where the other boy’s finger rests and it makes him want to do stupid things. “W-well, maybe you should spend less time looking at me.” He says, and every muscle in his body tenses as if he expects someone to land a blow on him. But Kurt doesn’t even blink. He just continues staring at him and, eventually, offers up a pitying smile. “Oh dear.” He mocks quietly. “Talking back are we? That must be strain on the synapses.” Puck’s too horrified at himself to reply. “Good morning friends.” Thankfully, just then, Rachel Berry makes her entrance, granting a dazzling Broadway smile to the rest of the glee kids and handing them each a bundle of papers. She completely blanks Puck as she holds out a pile in Kurt’s direction, and Kurt is instantly distracted from his sadism, flicking through the first few pages and looking vaguely disappointed at whatever’s on them. He’s careful to not let any of the others see though. “Rehearsal fourth period today, and into lunch.” Rachel is saying, in that bright, dismissive way she has, shuffling the last set of papers and sliding them neatly into her satchel. “Only eighty-nine days till sectionals!” Puck shuts his mouth (which had been hanging stupidly open) and shifts his weight to his other foot, and realises that every one of the glee kids has forgotten he’s even standing there. He’s not sure why that makes him feel even more shit than when they were spitting insults at him. Finally, the bell for first goes and Rachel turns on her heel and marches down the corridor-she prides herself on perfect attendance. The rest of the gleeks follow her at a slower pace, chatting happily together. Kurt hooks his arm with Mercedes, leaning in and whispering something in her ear that makes her guffaw loudly and wave gaily at Rachel when she turns back to look. Just when Puck thinks it’s safe to skulk away however, Kurt holds a finger up in the air like he’s forgotten something and spins around, back to face Puck again, dragging Mercedes round with him: “Oh, before I go; just to reiterate, because this is important: this-” he gestures once more at Puck’s mohawk. “-is not the haircut of a well-adjusted child. If you don’t want to be taken into care, I suggest you fix it. Really. Fix it.” He gives Puck a very, very serious look, and Puck actually finds himself nodding, pathetically, like a dog. Kurt smirks: “Good boy.” And with that, he and Mercedes are swallowed up by the bustling crush of students, and Puck leans back, breathless, against his locker, and hates how the only thing he can feel is that tiny spot of warmth on his chest where Kurt Hummel’s finger was.
xxx
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves. Challenge/Prompt: The original ‘A Little Role Reversal’ fic was written b mundaneone nbsp;in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme . Rating: PG, for the odd unexpected f-bomb. Word Count: (This part) 1099 Genre: AU Copyright: I don’t own Glee r anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs t mundaneone I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :). Summary: A short prologue that takes place before 'A Little Role Reversal'. It was Puck's mohawk that started it all. Author’s Notes: A tribute and addition t mundaneone’s fabtastic #39;A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal' before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in. Fics in this verse will be tagged 'reverseverse', 'cos it's an awesome word, alright?
"Oh dear.” Puck turns around sharply, and finds Mercedes Jones and Kurt Hummel standing against the bank of lockers opposite, matching expressions of knowing concern on their faces. "I've seen this before..." Kurt murmurs, eyes sliding worriedly over Puck's frame. "Uh-huh." Mercedes nods, crossing her arms: "PTHD." Puck can't stop himself scrunching up his eyebrows, slamming his locker shut. "What?" "Post Traumatic Hair Disorder." Kurt supplies. He pushes himself away from the locker and saunters into Puck's personal space, frowning up at Puck's mohawk. Puck wants to melt into the floor. "It's irony, right?" Kurt questions, looking pained. "Although I admit, I'd be surprised to learn you actually grasp a concept as subtle as 'irony', I can't believe this--" he waves his fingers at Puck's hair "--was a genuine decision." Puck shrugs his rucksack further up his shoulder, forcing himself not to run his hand over his head. "I kinda... I thought it was kinda cool." he says, holding Kurt's gaze. "It's not." Kurt corrects him sharply, shaking his head. "It's evidence of your dramatically sub-standard mental state." “Not that we needed it.” Mercedes points out. She’s looking thoughtful, tapping one finger against her lips with that agonisingly cunning smirk on her face: “Hey; wasn’t it about this time last year you decided to randomly beat on half of the hockey team?” It was. Puck couldn’t help himself. The hockey team are all brainless thugs, so the things they said to him shouldn’t have mattered-he should’ve just ignored them and walked away. But it had been the worst weekend he’d had in a long time-maybe even worse than this weekend just passed-- and he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He doesn’t say any of this, however. He stays quiet, as befits his non-existent social status, and watches with a sinking stomach as one corner of Kurt Hummel’s pretty mouth twists into a grin. “Oh really Noah.“ he chastises mockingly “You’d think by now you’d have come up with some less destructive ways of working out your abandonment issues.” He presses one finger lightly against Puck’s chest. “Maybe that’s why your mom’s been crying so much lately, huh? It must be heart-breaking to watch your son turning into the spitting image of his reprobate father…” The breath feels tight in Puck’s chest; like the finger Kurt’s pressing against his skin is drawing the oxygen straight out of his body. “My father didn’t have a mohawk.” Puck manages to stammer out, and Kurt laughs, pushing his finger harder into Puck’s chest so his back connects with the locker. “No;” he agrees airily: “he just had some fairly damaging personality dysfunction, right? The kind of personality dysfunction that makes you think flooring some Neanderthal on the football field is the pinnacle of life’s successes; or that cleaning out yuppie swimming pools is a job for grownups; or that it’s ok to have a haircut that makes my eyes burn to look at it. Jesus.” He gives a theatrical little shudder, and behind his shoulder Mercedes snickers, even as she hugs Tina Cohen-Chang, who’s just arrived and looks as fierce as ever. Tina’s boyfriend Artie Abrams rolls to a stop behind her in his wheelchair and pulls Tina, giggling, onto his knees. Puck can feel his face growing redder and redder. Because Kurt loves an audience, but Puck really doesn’t, especially an audience of the glee kids, who don’t own an ounce of compassion between them. “I’m, uh--” Puck was going to say he was sorry: put an end to this exhibition as soon as possible and escape all these mocking pairs of eyes. But Kurt’s still looking at him; Kurt Hummel’s body is just three inches away from his and Puck’s heart is pounding stupidly hard in his chest beside where the other boy’s finger rests and it makes him want to do stupid things. “W-well, maybe you should spend less time looking at me.” He says, and every muscle in his body tenses as if he expects someone to land a blow on him. But Kurt doesn’t even blink. He just continues staring at him and, eventually, offers up a pitying smile. “Oh dear.” He mocks quietly. “Talking back are we? That must be strain on the synapses.” Puck’s too horrified at himself to reply. “Good morning friends.” Thankfully, just then, Rachel Berry makes her entrance, granting a dazzling Broadway smile to the rest of the glee kids and handing them each a bundle of papers. She completely blanks Puck as she holds out a pile in Kurt’s direction, and Kurt is instantly distracted from his sadism, flicking through the first few pages and looking vaguely disappointed at whatever’s on them. He’s careful to not let any of the others see though. “Rehearsal fourth period today, and into lunch.” Rachel is saying, in that bright, dismissive way she has, shuffling the last set of papers and sliding them neatly into her satchel. “Only eighty-nine days till sectionals!” Puck shuts his mouth (which had been hanging stupidly open) and shifts his weight to his other foot, and realises that every one of the glee kids has forgotten he’s even standing there. He’s not sure why that makes him feel even more shit than when they were spitting insults at him. Finally, the bell for first goes and Rachel turns on her heel and marches down the corridor-she prides herself on perfect attendance. The rest of the gleeks follow her at a slower pace, chatting happily together. Kurt hooks his arm with Mercedes, leaning in and whispering something in her ear that makes her guffaw loudly and wave gaily at Rachel when she turns back to look. Just when Puck thinks it’s safe to skulk away however, Kurt holds a finger up in the air like he’s forgotten something and spins around, back to face Puck again, dragging Mercedes round with him: “Oh, before I go; just to reiterate, because this is important: this-” he gestures once more at Puck’s mohawk. “-is not the haircut of a well-adjusted child. If you don’t want to be taken into care, I suggest you fix it. Really. Fix it.” He gives Puck a very, very serious look, and Puck actually finds himself nodding, pathetically, like a dog. Kurt smirks: “Good boy.” And with that, he and Mercedes are swallowed up by the bustling crush of students, and Puck leans back, breathless, against his locker, and hates how the only thing he can feel is that tiny spot of warmth on his chest where Kurt Hummel’s finger was.
xxx