Fic: Reverseverse Ep3: 'Gay', Part 3 - PG
Title: Reverseverse Ep 3, part 3
Verse: Reverseverse
Author: test_kard_girl
Rating: PG, for some sweary language.
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Genre: AU
Warning: Puck and Kurt not being themselves.
Spoilers: Say through Season 1, although as it's AU, in a very roundabout, squint and you'll miss it kind of way.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone. I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Author's Notes: A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. The original fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme. 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.
Word Count: (This part) 6606
Summary: The "social ladder" is upside down. Puck gets bullied by one ice-queen Kurt Hummel. Doesn't mean he isn't head over heels though.
The Reverseverse, episode 3 part 3: Puck tries to deal with Kurt taking over football practice, but Tina is far less happy taking over Rachel's solo. And Mr Schuester gets an important phone call...
Puck shoves the locker room door open with a shoulder, but catches it with his other hand before it swings shut again, letting it fall back quietly with a dull thump.
Kurt glances up from fixing his bangs, catching Puck’s gaze in the one mildewy mirror the guys’ locker-room can justify.
He doesn’t look away, and Puck just shrugs, awkward with his pads on, and asks:
“…What you playin’ at?”
Kurt turns, still clutching his hairbrush like he’s not ready to fully commit to a conversation. He stares at Puck like he’s the one with bi-polar tendencies:
“I’m sorry?”
Puck smiles humourlessly, wrapping his arms over his chest.
“You’re a footballer now?”
“Not any more Lewis Carrol than you being a choirboy.” Kurt returns pointedly, bending down to replace his brush in what looks like some fancy hairdressing set, and Puck grimaces, surprised at how much Kurt’s casual dismissal makes his heart hurt. He’s built walls for this, dammit.
But Kurt doesn’t seem to notice, only a tiny shadow creasing between his eyebrows as he continues packing his stuff into his messenger-bag:
“I don’t see why you’re getting your lederhosen in such a knot. I heard you needed a new kicker, I thought I could help and- in case you didn’t notice- I scored your field-goal, which a certain large, gangly pigeon told me you professionals haven’t managed to do since Fred Flintstone last got his leg over-”
“-Yeah, dancing to Shakira!” Puck blurts, rolling his eyes “What the hell was that about?”
Kurt scowls, looping his bag over his shoulder. He’s wearing a red and white sweater that matches perfectly with Puck’s practice uniform. The strap of his bag pulls the fabric away from the smooth, milky white curve of his neck.
“It was Beyonce.” He retorts flatly; like it matters.
He makes a move to sweep past Puck to the door, but Puck side-steps, blocking him in.
“Look: I know I’m too dumb to get what your sick little plans are,” He snaps, fists constricting as Kurt’s eyes flare open: “but can you just do me one favour?” He struggles to keep from growling as Kurt takes half a step back, and Puck recoils from the sudden whiff of spicy-lemony shower-gel in his nostrils. “Can you not screw this one up for me, ok? I’m not like you Kurt: I don’t get straight As; I don’t have half a dozen other extra-curriculars fawnin’ over me. I got football. That’s it. And I need it to pass this semester, so whatever it is you’re tryin’a do, can you just leave me out of it?”
Puck exhales shakily, glowering at Kurt’s unmoved face: his eyes clear like those weird glass pebble things you get for the bottom of fish tanks but totally unreadable. Puck’s heart’s beating really fast and he doesn’t even know why. He hadn’t meant to say any of that.
The door bangs open, and the rest of the team start trickling in, grumbling, laughing, shouting; heading for their lockers. Puck can feel their eyes on him and scratches angrily at the back of his neck, looking away, avoiding their gazes: he is so not having a domestic in the middle of the locker-room.
Kurt’s eyes narrow. “Are you done?” He asks in an undertone, arching an eyebrow when Puck makes no reply; pulling the zipper a little further up his sweater:
“Great. I’ve so missed our little conversations.”
He starts once more towards the door; making a show of pausing in case Puck feels like body-blocking him again; but Puck just jerks away, squeezing his eyes shut against the feeling of his stomach deflating. Kurt yanks the door open, and Puck flinches as it smacks hard off the wall behind him.
*
“There’s only you tonight, what you are what you do, what you saaaaaayyyyy…”
Tina reaches out an imploring hand, grasping for the phantom of an absent Tony, a first taste of love: fleeting; desperate; all-consuming.
The piano melody dances around her as she holds that note, listening closely to the reverberation of her voice around the auditorium’s shoddy 1970s acoustics.
“Today, all day I had the feeling, a miracle would happen, I know now I was right…”
That descent needs to sound beautiful; flowing; like an unbound river coursing to the ocean.
“For here you are, and what was just a world is a staaaaarrr, to-nigh-”
Tina clutches a hand against the sudden painful swoop in her stomach, voice breaking in her throat and flying off like shrapnel into some horrendous, grating C-sharp.
Crap. Crap crap crap crap. She instantly feels tears spring into her eyes, pressing her fist hard into her traitorous abdominals. Why can’t she get this??
She clutches her other hand tight around the support of the ladder, steadying herself before she tumbles off in pure frustration. She sucks a breath in hard through her teeth. And another.
“…Hey girl.”
Tina startles, wrapping her arms around the ladder’s struts as it wobbles underneath her.
“Artie.” She gasps, fighting back another unexpected bout of nausea- probably this time something to do with the vertigo. She shakes her hair out of her face. “H-how long have you been there?”
Artie rolls himself forward. “That any way to greet your loverboy?” He asks, making a face as he squeaks to a stop under Tina’s perch. He peers up at her.
“Hey. You’re up a ladder.”
“Well noticed.” Tina returns, climbing gingerly down to meet him. (Why is Maria up a ladder anyway? There is no logic to this artistic direction…)
“I could roll right under there. Hope you’ve got panties on.”
“Artie.” Tina scolds.
“Tina.” Artie sticks his tongue out; but there’s some softness in his eyes that Tina’s missed in the last few days. It calms her nerves slightly.
He pats his knee and Tina easily slips into his lap, leaning in to peck him on the lips before she even really notices she’s doing it. Artie runs a hand down through her hair.
“Why didn’ you just tell me you were rehearsing? I woulda got that.”
Tina looks over his head. She’d blown off date night, it was true; but it’s not like Artie made such an effort every other week.
“I wasn’t feeling great.” She explains softly, and it’s not really a lie. “I was just gonna go home… But Schue’s really at me to nail this solo…”
“You sounded dope.” Artie offers, and Tina just narrows sarcastic eyes at him:
“I was sharp.”
“On one note.” Artie protests, shrugging. “You’ll get it next…” He stops, eyes focusing over Tina’s arm towards their resident pianist, still waiting patiently on the piano-stool for Tina to resume.
“Hey, Uh, Brad? D’ya mind giving us a…” Artie jerks his head pointedly towards the back of the stage, and Tina forces herself not to giggle at their accompanist’s blank-faced glower. But he goes without protest, scooping up the sheet music from the piano and stamping away in irritated staccato across the stage.
“I found him wandering the corridors.” Tina divulges in a whisper, as she watches Brad vanish into the wings. “I don’t think he even goes home…”
Artie breathes a laugh, squeezing his arms tighter around Tina’s middle, and Tina immediately stiffens, remembering the last time they were this close; all the words she let him say.
Eventually, Artie clears his throat.
“Listen.” He begins awkwardly, pressing the side of his face against Tina’s shoulder so she doesn’t have to look at him. She’s not very good with confrontation.
“I know I wasn’t totes supportive when Schue gave you this solo. But y’know: you rock girl; and I am one hundred percent behind you nailing this like it’s the last nail hot chick at a frat party.”
Tina narrows an eye: “Kind of offensive..?”
“Sorry. Anyways: You’re an awesome Maria. Natalie Wood was only half-Jewish y’know. And I wanna be up there with you. We deserve to be at the front of the stage again, Tee… I wanna get me some spotlight.”
Tina smiles, gazing out over the waves of identical empty seats swooping away and up into the shadows at the back of the auditorium:
“…You can have it.”
“Huh?”
“You heard Mr Schuester.” Tina traces her fingertip over the button on Artie’s cuff: “He only gave me this solo to screw with Rachel-”
“-What, you kiddin’?” Artie looks up, forcing Tina to meet his eyes. He sounds appalled by the very idea, which is sweet of him. He can be very sweet, sometimes. “Hey, listen to me girl:” He continues, staring at Tina over the rim of his glasses and looking very much like a math teacher “if all he wanted to do was rile Rachel, he would’ve given it to Quinn Fabray.”
Tina can’t help but snort, imagining how far Rachel’s eyes would’ve popped out of her head if Fabray had got first dibs on Maria. There would’ve probably been bloodshed.
Artie looks relieved to see his girlfriend finally crack a smile. He leans in to touch their noses together:
“There’s my sexy lady…”
Tina feels her cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t flinch from the feel of Artie’s lips on hers. Warmth floods her stomach as she
kisses him back, tiny and soft and apologetic.
Artie is first to pull away, hand stroking fondly through the back of Tina’s hair.
“You’re good, Tee.” He reminds her, pressing their foreheads together.
The corner of Tina’s mouth quirks:
“About the solo though?”
“And about the solo!” Artie confirms:
“Tonight, tonight, it’s only you toniiiight!!”
“Artie!!!” Tina squeals, clutching her arms around Artie’s neck as he pushes his wheels in opposite directions, sending the wheelchair into vomit-inducing spirals.
“What you are, what you doooo…!!”
“Artie! Stop!!” Tina buries her face in Artie’s neck, giggling with hot breath against his skin, laughing even more at the feel of his laughter vibrating through his chest.
“What you saaaayyyy!!!”
“Artie!! Stop stop stop!!”
At the sudden real urgency in her voice, Artie does as she asks, catching the wheels and jerking to a giggly halt, as Tina stares wide-eyed at a steady spot on the wall, sucking deep breaths through her lips, face suddenly white as a sheet.
“Tee?” She feels Artie’s hand rubbing gingerly at her back. “You ok babe?”
“Yeah… Yeah.” Tina squeezes her eyes shut, and when she opens them again the room has at least stopped blurring round the edges. “Sorry. I just…” She curls an apologetic arm over her stomach; grimaces: “…Crampy.”
It does the job: Artie looks blankly horrified.
“…Oh.” He says, with the nonchalant terror of any man faced with a menstrual crisis. “Uh…” Then he cocks his head just a tiny bit:
“…Really-?”
“-Yeah, sorry. Stupid. Girl things.” Tina assures him, pulling the hair back out of her face; fiddling with her highlights. Artie, against all the odds, takes the hint.
“Ok, uh. No more questions.” He slaps his hands down on Tina’s knees. “So: do you wanna try this thing once more? Or do you wanna come back to mine and we can get all freaky with those two cray-cray friends of yours?”
Tina gives him half a smile:
“Sondheim and Bernstein?”
“Ben and Jerry, yo!” Artie corrects, leaning in again and pressing a fond kiss to the curve of Tina’s nose.
Tina chuckles, resting the side of her head against the top of his.
“Can I try it one more time?” She asks tentatively. “It’s just, Mr Schue said he wanted actual tears-”
“Say no more.” Artie raises a finger; leans over his shoulder:
“…Brad!!”
*
Puck stares around the locker-room, already feeling that familiar sense of foreboding wriggling in his stomach. He's freakin' best buds with his sense of foreboding at the moment. His sense of foreboding could have its own shirt number.
The football team- minus one conspicuously missing soprano-turned-place-kicker- are crushed up onto two sweaty benches near the laundry hamper, grumbling and elbowing each other in the ribs as they pull their practice shirts on.
Puck narrows his eyes:
"What's goin' on?"
Karofsky grunts, shoving Mike out the way so he can lace his cleats up.
"Your boyfriend got his Judy Garland on and bullied Tanaka into giving him half the locker room."
"Yeah; I bet coach’s testicles will look real nice nailed up next to yours on Hummel's bedroom wall, right Puckerman?"
"At least I got some balls, Z." Puck snaps back, biting the inside of his cheek and dropping his bag with a clunk onto the floor.
Everyone pauses as a tuneful, carefree song floats across to them from the other side of the lockers:
“… start a fight, It's not worth the drama, for a beautiful liar…”
Puck glances at the ceiling.
“Yeah, he needs his privacy.” Karofsky schools his face into something that almost resembles sincerity: “Y’know; ‘case ‘dumb’ is catching.”
“Well it’s obviously not sexually transmitted-or you not got that far yet?” Azimio smirks, throwing his hands up when Puck starts for him:
“- Ain’t me coach, he insulted my mother!”
“She probably deserved it.” Tanaka shoots back, unconcerned, emerging from his office and brushing crumbs of burrito off his polo shirt. “Right, you pile of miscreants: in the choir room in five, full pads.”
Puck blinks:
“Say what?”
“Choir room.” Kurt’s voice repeats smugly, and Puck lifts his head to find the other boy leaning against the bank of lockers, examining his fingernails. He blows carefully over the tips of them. “Don’t worry. Finn and Noah know the way. If you all hold hands you should make it.”
“Mr Hummel here has a few ideas for getting you all back in fighting shape for next week’s game.” Tanaka explains, and Azimio snorts like he’s going to object; but Kurt freezes him with a death-glare.
“-And since he’s the only one who’s come close to lookin’ impressive out there recently, I’m inclined to do whatever the hell he wants. So get up, get your pads on, and get your sorry asses into that music department.”
There’s no point arguing, and Puck’s only a tiny bit triumphant when he skulks past Kurt’s impatient gaze and the other boy can’t quite look him in the eye.
“Line up, that’s it; three rows, make sure you have space, we don’t need any… inappropriate touching.” Kurt smirks when they reach the choir room, directing football players into lines like a real-life game of foosball. Puck tries to hide at the back beside Finn- but no such luck:
“Puckerman! Move forward, I can’t see you cowering behind Lance Bass here.”
“It’s David.” Karofsky sulks as Puck elbows his way forward, and Kurt sniffs a condescending little laugh:
“As if I care.”
Eventually, satisfied, Kurt spins to face them, fixing his hands on his hips.
“That’s perfect. Now: in the few days since you all instated me as the newest member of you little… team,” Kurt wriggles his fingers, like the word freaks him out a bit. “I’ve observed that your greatest weakness out on the field isn’t really your lack of speed or power or technique; but actually a startling lack of confidence in the abilities of your own bodies.”
Puck coughs in the back of his throat, looking at the floor so Kurt doesn’t realise he’s laughing. Lack of confidence? Wonder where that came from?
Maybe Kurt notices anyway, ‘cos he pauses for a moment before continuing.
“So; after discussions with your good Coach, He’s given me permission to try something a little bit different with you today to help… loosen you up a bit; get the blood flowing…”
Puck crosses his arms. He has to make everything sound obscene, doesn’t he?
“I’m going to teach you some dance moves.”
Instantly, the shuffling, spell-bound huddle of footballers bursts into protest.
“We can’t… dance.” Puck hears Mike’s voice stammer over everyone else’s, pleading with Kurt’s stonily neutral expression.
“You can try.” The gleek returns, in a tone that instantly shuts the room up. One by one he meets the cow-eyed gazes of the ten football players arranged before him.
“Dance is one of the most universally beneficial forms of exercise you can partake in.” He explains crisply, casting around as if for a big stick and looking mildly displeased when he can’t find one. “A properly executed ballet routine woks all the core muscle groups in your body, as well as honing balance, flexibility, control, breathing-technique- improving even one of which might go some way to helping you figure out how to pass a football without putting your spectators in mortal danger.”
Behind him, Puck hears Finn mumble: “That was one time…”
“So.” Kurt claps his hands sharply, hitching his smile higher even though it’s starting to wear a bit at the corners. “If you gentlemen are all on-board, I thought we’d start with a popular little Beyonce number you might be familiar with…”
Puck hardly believes what he’s seeing. Kurt snaps a finger down on the play-button of the CD-player propped on the piano behind him, and the music’s hardly started before the football team are shuffling their feet, staring avidly as Kurt leads them through the breakdown of the first verse, beads of nervous perspiration dripping down their faces.
Is he honestly that good? Do they honestly not see it? That he’s just making them look like idiots? Puck frowns and glances at the ceiling. It wouldn’t surprise him if there were even cameras in here, recording them, so the gleeks can watch their pitiful efforts on playback with smirks and glasses of pink chianti.
Whatever the fuck chianti is.
“-Finn, Finn, no-!”!
There’s a crash from behind him, and Puck sighs as he turns to find Finn sheepishly rubbing his knee while Matt tries to disentangle himself from a music stand and climb back to his feet.
“Sorry,” The quarterback mumbles. “I didn’t… Sorry…”
Kurt folds an arm across his chest, using his other hand to replace some stray hair behind his sweat-band. He jerks his head and Finn obediently lumbers forward to the front of the class.
“Thankyou.” Kurt tells him softly. “Ok, let’s… Try again. Just the same except, y’know… Good. Or something.”
The music starts again and this time, Puck tries to at least move his feet in the same direction as everyone else, hoping that Finn’s Bigfoot-like form might block him from view.
They look like freaks. This is a girl’s song; it’s called ‘Single Ladies’. for crying out loud Kurt might be able to pull-off petite and elegant, but there’s no-one else in this room under a hundred kilos, and anyway, isn’t football meant to be about tackling the crap out of each other?
Puck realises he’s out of time and trips a bit trying to swap back to the right foot. He glances up; catches Kurt watching him with absolutely no mocking in his face and blushes furiously, instantly grinding to a halt. Dammit. What’s the point anyway? He’s a running back. All he has to do is run, and fuck it if Puck hasn’t at least got that down after ten years in the public school system.
He snorts, but looks up again as his light is suddenly blocked from view:
Kurt’s standing in front of him, brushing the hair off his forehead:
"You're not dancing." He observes, eyes very blue against the pink of his cheeks.
The rest of the team are still going, music running on cheerily through the first chorus.
Puck glances down at his own (immobile) feet. Raises his eyebrows: "Guess not."
"…Do you… know what you’re doing?"
"I never know what I’m doing.” Puck returns bluntly. "I thought you’d got that."
Kurt looks at him for a moment. Then, he sets his jaw, and walks away from Puck to go harass the defensive line, still struggling over their twist-heel twist-heels.
"Everyone!” He hollers, voice razor-sharp around the edges. “Watch how Mike does it, it's perfect; well, you know-- no technique or style or anything like that-- but he has the basic idea..."
Puck watches him go, pout forming on his lips.
It isn't like Kurt to walk away from a confrontation.
He’s not sure why he’s annoyed at him for it.
Carefully, as his boyfriend's busy with Mike Rutherford's step-changes, Puck peers around to check no-one's paying him attention and practices some surreptitious hip-circles. Instantly, it feels like every vertebrae in his spine clicks out of place.
Damn dancing.
It lasts the full forty minutes. Puck's kinda surprised: the chances of either him or Kurt storming out, or Finn breaking someone's face with a misplaced foot-flick, or Karofsky having some respiratory emergency seemed stupidly high when they got here. But, when Coach finally blows his whistle, the whole team look kinda traumatised yet weirdly pleased with themselves.
After keeping schtum for the whole session, Tanaka strides pompously back to the front, lifting his hand like he’s gonna clap Kurt on the shoulder again and looking disgruntled when the boy slides neatly sideways to avoid him.
“Uh, ’kay everyone:” He coughs “you wanna, uh, thank Mr Hummel for helping us out today-?”
“-Coach, I’m sorry; I wasn’t quite finished.” Kurt interjects, raising a finger and stepping back into the centre of the room. Tanaka’s mouth gapes dumbly but Kurt pays him no attention.
“For next week I’d like everyone to be able to dance the first verse, and the first repeat of the chorus.” He instructs, smiling beatifically like he’s informing them of world peace. Maybe it’s Puck’s imagination, but Kurt doesn’t seem to look his way at all. “Practice in your spare time-two hours a day is a minimum, and I will be able to tell who’s rehearsed and who’s not come next session.” Off the team’s blanched faces Kurt turns cheerfully back to Tanaka: “Well I think that’s it, don’t you?” He tugs the sweatband off his head with a flourish: “Class dismissed.”
Kurt heads directly for the door and, after just a few seconds of exchanged glances, the rest of the team follow. Puck shakes his head. He wishes he took acid, ‘cos then all of this would make a lot more sense.
“Puckerman.” Coach snaps, striding over to block him from leaving. Puck rolls his eyes; he knew this was coming. Coach is awful good at spring-boarding off other people’s authority.
“Yeah?”
“Do what he says.”
“I wasn’t not doing what he said.” Puck protests, pouting like an angry bear.
“Don’t backtalk me.” Coach stabs a finger in Puck’s chest. “You keep your frilly little personal life outta my practices, ok? If your attitude loses me my kicker, it’ll be your ass flying over that crossbar.”
Puck glowers, watching Tanaka as he lurches out, angry like an obese pitbull. Yeah, ok, he gets why the team are quite happy to stare and preen and kow-tow to Kurt’s demands- he totally does, he’s been doing that for longer than any of them, and even when he’s mad at him there’s like eighty percent of Puck’s brain that concerned primarily with memorising every single sexy little move that Kurt makes. But: the teachers too? They’re meant to neutral, right?
Puck runs a hand back over his mohwak. It comes away damp and he wonders why the hell he was even trying hard enough to break a sweat.
When he gets back to the locker-room, most everyone else is already gone. He takes his time getting changed, enjoying the hot throb of the shower against his shoulders; the weird comfort in the smell of stale laundry and the leftovers of eleven different body sprays. As he pulls his jeans back on, he resigns himself to murmuring that damn West Side Story song, in the off-chance it might get freakin’ ‘Single Ladies’ out of his head.
He thinks he might even make it to the end of the school day without pounding his fist off the wall, right up until the moment he pushes the door open and steps out into the hallway.
“Puck.”
A pale hand curls around Puck’s wrist and, against all logic, Puck lets himself be stopped. Kurt’s fingers are warm against his skin. Despite everything, the reality of Kurt Hummel touching him voluntarily still makes Puck’s blood fizz.
For a minute they just stare at each other, and eventually Kurt heaves a sigh:
“I don’t see why you care so much.” He says, pulling his hand awkwardly back to himself. “It’s football.”
Puck looks at him; rolls his lips together, and Kurt narrows his eyes:
“…What?”
“Nuthin.” Puck shakes his head to clear the sudden fogginess, shrugging his backpack further up his shoulder. “Just… That’s the first time you’ve called me that.” He realises, and heads off towards the parking lot before his brain figures out what to do with that information.
*
“Yo.” Puck calls as he kicks his sneakers off, trailing through the front room and finding Sarah sprawled out as usual on the recliner, eyes fixed on the tv.
“Yo, dickface.” She returns, grinning at the forbidden pleasure of a swear-word.
“Who you calling dickface, cumbucket?” Puck returns, depositing his rucksack on his sister’s lap and making her shriek with indignance.
“Noah, get your smelly shit off me! Noah!” She shrieks again as Puck perches himself on the arm of her chair, slipping nonchalantly down till Sarah’s crammed right up into one corner of it, digging her toes into his diaphragm.
“Noah, you’re such a moron.” She tells him, wriggling till they both get comfortable, and the recliner gives an ominous cracking noise.
“Guess mom’s not about then?” Puck asks, snatching the remote from where it had fallen on the floor.
“Upstairs.” Sarah corrects him sulkily. “-Don’t change that, I was watching that!”
Ke$ha’s writhing about the floor covered in body-glitter, miming one of her whiny come-fuck-me autotune numbers.
Sarah obviously notices him looking; pokes him in the ribs:
“Don’t you think she looks hot?”
Puck snorts, flipping the channel to something a bit more rock. “Nah, she looks pretty chilly rolling ‘bout there in her underwear.”
Sarah makes a half-hearted attempt to snatch the remote back:
“Mom said she’d get me dance-classes.” She divulges smugly and it’s Puck’s turn to make a face:
“Like hell. Anyways, don’t you do that bendy shit in cheerleading?”
“It’s not the same…”
Doesn’t Puck know it. He lifts his eyes away from the telly at the sound of his mom thundering down the stairs, late, as usual.
“Noah!” She snaps, noticing his shoes before she notices him. “Do you have my lighter?”
He might do.
“Nah, haven’t seen it…” He lies. “Hey, you got something in for dinner?”
“What?” His mom yells, cantering into the kitchen. Puck hears the sound of the drawers being yanked opened and slammed shut again.
He sighs, levering himself painfully out of the recliner and following her to the kitchen, flipping the bird to his smug-ass little sister as he goes.
“You got something in the freezer?” He repeats bluntly, shoving his hands in his pockets and wondering if she’ll even make eye-contact with him before she disappears for another twelve hours.
His mom wraps an arm around his neck, leaning up to peck him a quick greeting on the cheek:
“Not time today, but I called Pizza Express. You liked the Barbeque, right?”
“Sure ma…” Puck replies neutrally, as his mom downs the remains of a mug of coffee that’s been sitting there long enough to leave a ring of grounds around the inside. He leans back against the counter, fighting his usual battle to say it or not say it:
“…He’s not paid it, has he?”
Hi mom snickers unhappily, checking her hair in the mirror on the window-ledge. “Said something about spending it on alcohol, but what the hell does he expect me to spend it on working these shifts?” She adds something else under her breath; something that kinda sounds just like that brand new swear-word she yelled Sarah out for the other weekend.
Puck swallows back some choice words of his own, turning round instead to bend down and yank open the dishwasher. The plates are slick with watery orange grease. Great. Someone forgot to switch it on for the last load.
Puck grabs a handful of cutlery and slams the appliance closed again, stabbing the on button as his mother rests her hand briefly on his shoulder. She’s a good five inches shorter than him now. He remembers looking at his mom when he was a kid and thinking she was the tallest, prettiest, most wonderful lady he knew.
“Use the good plates tonight, huh?” She suggests, in a much softer voice than before.
Puck looks at her and she shrugs, eyes big, dark pools of chocolate just like Sarah’s.
“Sure, whatever.” He sighs in reply, turning on the tap and running his handful of forks under the screaming jet of water.
There’s a few minutes of jagged silence as his mom bustles about, reclaiming the contents of her handbag from wherever she’d abandoned them around the kitchen; fixing her earrings; pushing her feet into pumps, then boots, then changing her mind and pumps again.
“Hey mom?”
“Mmm? What Noah, I need to go-”
“-Just: I got a game next week.”
“A game of what?”
Puck pushes the tap off again, shaking his wet hands over the sink.
“Monopoly.” He snarks back. What does she think he does with his time?
“Noah, you’re not actually that funny sunshine.” His mom shoots back.
“Football, Ma, what did you think?”
His mom doesn’t seem to get the significance:
“That’s great honey.”
She’s halfway out the door. This probably wasn’t the time to bring it up. Puck turns the dishtowel over in his hands.
“Just figured, you know, you might wanna come?” For once, he adds silently.
“Noah, you know I can’t take time off in the evenings.”
“Sarah said you were gonna start her at dance classes.”
His mom gives him the side-eye: “No need to be a smart-ass Noah Puckerman.”
Puck sighs heavily: “Fine, ok, I was just sayin’…”
The doorbell dings, and his mom startles, grasping for the latch. “That’ll be Ian… Why is this game so important? You never let us go to your games; I thought you were ashamed of us-”
“-Mom…” Puck rolls his eyes, not even bothering to wonder how she knows the pizza guy’s name. He takes the pie as she passes it back, mouth watering at the smell of hot, spicy, cheesy goodness even despite his mood. All that prancing about earlier has totally worked up an appetite. He tugs a piece off the crust and pops it in his mouth:
“Don’t be stupid. It’s just… It’s a big game.” He explains through a faceful of dough and garlic. “…I think we’re gonna win it.”
“Noah, I’ve got to go-”
“- I can get tickets. Bring Sarah, whatever. It’d just…” He sticks the pizza down on the counter; licks sauce off his thumb. “It’d be cool.”
His mom looks at him, propping the door open with her toe. Puck notices one of her earrings is already dangling halfway out of her ear.
“Next Wednesday?” She asks, after a minute’s scrutinizing.
“Thursday.” Puck corrects.
His mom nods: “Well, we’ll see… Oh shit…” She catches her earring as it drops out of her ear, fiddling around till she pushes it back in.
“Right, make sure Sarah eats that- she’s been staring at an awful lot of pictures of that skinny Kardashian girl with the breasts. And don’t let her watch CSI!-”
“-Right, ma!” Puck shouts back, as the door bangs shut behind her.
Sarah comes trotting through as soon as she hears the car start, and immediately begins inspecting the pizza.
“Eugh, does it have peppers on? She knows I hate peppers-”
Puck elbows her out of the way, grinning as she shrieks and tries to pinch him back.
“You can pick them off, dingbat.” He tells her, catching her skinny little body and holding her in a giggly, wriggly headlock till he finishes slicing.
K$sha’s been replaced by Justin Beiber by the time they get back in the living room, which kind of makes Puck wanna rip his own ears off. But it does give him an idea of an evening’s entertainment if he’s gonna be stuck in the house with his bratty little sister.
“Hey.” He says, picking a green pepper from Sarah’s neat little reject pile. “You know that Beyonce song? The ‘Single Ladies’ one?”
Sarah swallows down a greasy mouthful: “Yes. I love Beyonce, she’s so awesome.”
Puck smirks: “Well; you wanna learn the dance to that?”
*
“Coach Sue asked me to give you this.”
Will narrows his eyes suspiciously at the proffered carry-out box of donut holes, adorned with a giant red ribbon, and the blonde, ditzy-looking cheerio holding it out to him. He thinks her name might be Barbie.
“Sue?” He repeats incredulously. “...I suppose someone’s stuck it under a metal-detector?”
Barbie shakes her head: “She wanted me to say ‘congratulations’.
Congratulations? Gingerly, Will takes the package, turning it slowly round in his hands.
“... Mr Schuester... Are you having a baby?”
What? Will opens his mouth to answer, but-thankfully-his cell phone starts ringing, giving him a reason to dump the package on top of the piano (much to Brad’s distress) and let Barbie skip gaily from the room, trailed by the rest of the weary New Directions.
(He’s worked them hard today. They deserved it. There’s been far too little sweat slicking up the floor recently.)
Cheered by the idea that it might be Emma calling, Will digs his phone out of his pocket; glances at the screen.
It isn’t Emma.
Dammit. Will scowls at the treacherous little piece of technology, giving over to a moment of unhappiness. Then he notices: it isn’t a Lima number at all. Curious, he jabs the green button, pressing the phone to his ear:
“You’re through to Will Schuester.”
“Mr Schuester. Hi there, my name’s Jeff McKlung, I’m calling from WOHN-TV news studios.”
WOHN. Television. Oh god she’s told them.
“Mr McKlung, how amazing to talk to you…!” Will enthuses, snatching his sunglasses from the top of his head and replacing them on his face, instantly deflecting the curious glares of his embittered show-choristers. He searches the room for one face: Rachel Berry. Finds her; fixes her in the aim of one pointed index finger:
“…But before this conversation goes any further let me just state for the record that any accusations of anti-Semitism are entirely untrue, and in fact every one of my students have very personal and fulfilling relationships with their local ACLU officers.”
Rachel scrunches her pretty little face up, confusion turning to incredulity as Will turns his hand round and points to his own shaded eyes, then back at her again: I’m watching you.
“That…” McKlung sounds ever so slightly taken aback “…that’s good to hear Will- Can I call you Will?-“
“-Of course you can, Jeff-”
“- great Will, because actually, your exciting new methods of cutting discrimination out of high school extracurriculars are exactly what we here at WOHN wanted to talk to you about.”
Will blinks:
“...It is?”
Jeff’s voice is warm and confident: “It is, Will. See, I have a daughter on the cheerleading squad there at McKinley, and she tells me a lot of the top athletes at the school are being invited to audition for the showchoir. I mean; wow! You've got to know how radical that is?"
Will swallows hard, striding quickly back towards the reassuring interior of his office.
"Well, that's what the arts always aim to be, Jeff." He blags, noticing with irritation that Mulan’s emo little sister seems to be hanging around, waiting for an audience. He jerks his head, gesturing at Tina to follow him. “Radical. Life-changing.” He folds himself into his chair, spinning halfway round to avoid the goth girl’s stony gaze. “Y'know, we in New Directions see these kids, these struggling, neglected kids- I mean, half of them don't even know their alphabet; just this morning I was teaching one of our girls the difference between a ‘n’ and an ‘m’- and we say, no: that's not ok. We know how empowering the arts can be; and so we invite them to join us, these social outcasts, and we make their lives better."
"That's… That's perfect Will. That's all perfect. Look: we love what you're doing; what you and your kids are doing. I've got a tip-off from a contact of mine that you guys are gonna be big news before the year's out and we at WOHN think you are exactly the right guy to fill an upcoming space on our programme."
"...Really?"
"Yup: we wanna offer you your very own slot on the show. We were thinking: 'Schue's corner'."
Will’s eyes widen, and he brings his thumbnail dazedly up to his mouth, chewing on it even as his mind instantly begins to chew over the possibilities.
Jeff gives a smug little chuckle:
"... It's a got a ring to it, right? Look: think it over, talk to the missus, whatever: then give me a call, ok, and we can talk money; and we can talk advertising; we can talk guest stars."
"Guest stars?" Will repeats dumbly.
“Guest stars. Look, like I said: think it over. Then give me a call and we can make you Western Ohio’s biggest celebrity educator.”
Biggest celebrity educator.
“Sounds amazing Jeff,” Will grins hugely, making Tina take a nervous step backwards away from his desk.
“Remember, it’s all about opportunities, Will. Take ‘em while you have ‘em.”
“I fully intend to.”
"Well, be in touch. Great speaking to you Will. Thanks for your time.”
“No, thankyou Jeff. Ok. Speak soon. Bye now.”
Biggest celebrity educator.
Celebrity educator.
Biggest celebrity.
“Mr Schuester?”
Will inhales sharply, slamming his phone down on his desk. “What do you want, Tina?” He grates, scowling as his fluffy-happy-dreamtime is interrupted by yet another moaning bag of hormones and vocal chords.
The girl’s black lacquered fingernails dig tighter into the strap of her bag, but her expression doesn’t flicker.
“Mr Schuester.” She repeats, very evenly. “You need to give this song to Rachel.”
Will stares at her. He’s still slightly distracted by the images of red-carpets and flashbulbs and one-time rendezvous with Scarlett Johnasson exploding around his brain, but even through all that the irregularity grates: a team-member giving back a solo?
Off his silence, Tina presses her lips together:
“She’ll quit the club if you don’t.”
“She wouldn’t dare.” Will argues, leaning back in his chair, picking a pen to twirl intimidatingly between his fingers. “Do you have some kind of intelligence--?”
“-You only gave me this song to piss her off.” Tina reminds him. “Rachel’s a much better singer than I am. Our next invitational might be our last chance to recruit new members before Sectionals- we can’t screw it up.”
Will shrugs: “Then don’t screw it up.”
Tina lifts her chin. She rarely shows any emotion in class; any preferences; any likes or dislikes; any opinion. She leaves all the talking to her boyfriend, who for the love of Moses could do with learning to keep his mouth shut. But for some reason, right now, on this, she looks immovable.
They stare at each other for a long moment, until eventually Tina offers a tiny, grim little smile:
“She’s a much better singer than me. Let Rachel have the solo. Let’s take one for the team.”