(no subject)
Title: Conversation for Dummies
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Puck/Kurt
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for 1.08; references to The Nanny
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue, I need my money for useful things like frilly dresses
Summary: This is a continuation of Pool Cleaning for Dummies. It contains more ~emotions~ and also Puck's impersonation of God.
A/N: I'm thinking about one or two more chapters to wrap this kiddo up. Thanks so much for your kind words so far. Any more and I might start pasting little gold stars behind my username. =D
Somehow Kurt never gets up to head back into the house. There are a couple times he tries and then Puck makes some casual remark (“So, are those pants last season?”) and that reels him back in again. Kurt finally gives up any ghost of an attempt and folds himself up, neat and nice on a deck chair. He puts his head to a side and watches Puck work. His mouth tastes sweet and sour and cold. He wonders if Puck’s does too.
The thought doesn’t unfold in his head like a knowing flower. Kurt’s mind doesn’t work that way. Instead it’s his self-defences and they blurt, Rachel would know. Rachel would know exactly how Puck’s mouth tastes:
a) After a grape slushie.
b) After a coke and lemon (his favourite drink? Does it matter?)
c) All by itself
“So,” Kurt says, leaning forward to catch Puck’s attention. The taller boy just goes on scraping and spreading and it looks really disgusting, actually. “Uh, excuse me? Yoohoo!”
That is definitely a snort but Puck turns his head “Yeah? I know you’re there, Hummel. You don’t gotta remind me periodically. I can feel your greedy little eyes on my ass.”
Kurt sniffs but chooses to ignore the comment. “You know, Puck, I was wondering-”
“Hey, two hundred sit-ups a day, man. And doing the plank, yeah. Totally tones up, like, everything, you know? I totally don’t blame you for wanting me but if you make a move, I’ll hit ya. I’m not into that kinda thing,” Puck says. “No offense.”
Kurt sits back. “You know, I was wondering why exactly you and Rachel got together,” he says. “But I do believe I see certain similarities that would certainly lead to an attraction.”
“What?”
“You see, when two people love themselves very, very much,” Kurt says. “And nobody else will put up with them-”
“Hey, shut up, okay?” Puck has turned around fully now. Kurt’s throat works but no words come out and that’s partly from fear and partly from awe. Puck always makes it seem like his body is some tanned, carnal wonderland but take away the posturing, add a fierce, irritated look and that chest becomes a wall, the arms like - battering rams. With, um, cannon balls rippling along it. Or something?
So Kurt never paid much attention to medieval warfare, alright? The outfits? Awful. Either way, the point he’s trying to make is that Puck could squish him and his Gucci loafers into grape slushie and look good doing it so he really kind of wishes he’d never brought it up. But he also kind of really wants to know.
“It was pretty sudden,” says Kurt, raising an eyebrow to show Puck his big, bad body doesn’t faze him in the least. “One minute, grape slushie; the next, sucking face. I’m used to the twists and turns of fashion (oh Balenciaga ‘09, why shoulder pads?) and even I was surprised.”
Kurt wonders if he’s gone too far. Now if Puck doesn’t want to say, who’s going to make him? He couldn’t tell his balls from Balmain and anyway, what’s Kurt going to do? Hit him? Please. Again the image of his autographed Beyonce poster going up in flames wavers before his eyes, then his vision clears and it’s Puck - so close that he could bite -
Kurt squeaks instead and nearly falls off his chair.
“Listen Hummel,” Puck says through gritted teeth. “You can’t tell anyone, right? Especially not your faghag Diva McLardass. You got that?”
“Ah - don’t talk about Mercedes that way,” Kurt stammers. It’s all he can think of when Puck is this close. He smells like smoke and sweat and chlorine. It should be gross; it would be gross maybe, if he was anyone but Puck. Totally unfair.
Puck accepts Kurt’s sputter as a ‘yes’ because he’s just that desperate. Maybe Puck hasn’t anyone to talk to, which is really sad because Kurt has Mercedes and Tina, sometimes Artie and sometimes Brittany - all of whom make being small, high-voiced, gay little fairy Kurt Hummel better than being the ripped, gorgeous, football-playing example of manly heterosexuality that is Noah Puckerman.
Kurt squinches himself in the farthest corner of the chair, away from Puck’s glistening, Harlequin romance body and sets his face to look earnest, interest and sympathetic. It’s a good look on him and it lasts for about five seconds as he listens to Puck.
*
Kurt’s looking at Puck as if the latter has just sawed his head open and revealed, instead of brains, a small, dusty little ball of snot. Puck wonders if it’s something he said. Let us review:
“So yeah, me, mom, little sis (she’s a total pansy, dude. You two’d get along). We’re watching this movie, I think it’s called the Shopping List. Or Schindler’s. Schindler’s Shopping List? Anyway. So, my mom’s totally tearing up, right? And it’s to the point where it’s kind of freaky coz I’ve never seen mom cry, like, never, not even when Dad left. She just kicked a kitten or something and then moved on and brought up two kids all by herself ‘coz yeah. My mom’s amazing. But now she’s tearing up and then she turns to me and she says, Why can’t you find a nice Jewish girl to date? And I’m like, I don’t know any hot Jews, ma. Then I get her some tissues before she wipes her nose on her sleeve and I go to bed.
“And - okay, bear with me, right? I have this dream. And get this, Rachel’s in it.
“Dude, you gonna throw up? Chill out, you fuckin’ fag, she had her clothes on. And more’n that. She has, like, the Star of David. Right. Over. Her Boobs.
“See? It was like God reached down and smacked me and said, Oy vey, can’t you be giving your mother a break? She’s the only mother you got, schlumper!”
Kurt is silent for a moment, still holding that Look and it’s really kind of impressive. Can a human’s eyebrows go that far? “So,” he says finally, “let me get this straight, your idea of God sounds like Fran Drescher?”
“I don’t think you can get anything straight,” says Puck because he doesn’t want Kurt to know he totally had a thing for The Nanny. She was hot, man. Lots of hairspray, tight, crazy clothes. Kind of like Kurt so you’d think the guy would cut her some slack.
“I’m not the one dating Rachel Berry because of a wet dream,” says Kurt.
“It wasn’t just a wet dream! It was a wet dream from God.”
Kurt’s big, blue eyes roll up. “Whatever,” he says briefly. “I was hoping for a better story than that, but I suppose that was asking too much.”
Puck bristles, he can’t help it. A better story than The Wet Dream from God (tm)? “What?” he says sharply. “You wanna hear something about how I realised that, minus the part where she’d sacrifice new born kittens for a chance on Broadway, I saw past her psychosis and realised that she only acts the way she does ‘coz she’s insecure and shit? Saw past all that and fell in love with the real Rachel?” He bites the words out, sharp, sarcastic shards of bitterness.
“Yeah,” says Kurt. “I guess I wanted something like that.”
“Why?” snaps Puck. The real Rachel was too kind and too in love with Finn.
Kurt shrugs. “It gives you hope that it can happen to you one day,” he says, examining his nails. “Too much hope, one supposes.”
Puck looks at him. This should be a moment for the softening faces, flattering light scheme, maybe a swelling song in the background. Kurt remains disdainful, the sunlight is harsh and doing neither of them any favours and the only background noise is - okay, there’s music. What the fuck? And it sounds like:
Hands, touching hands, reaching out -
Kurt does some complicated gymnastics to get his phone out of his back pocket before he can hear anymore (“Touching me, touching you - ohh~”) and flips it open while Puck tries to come to grips with the fact that Kurt Hummel has apparently pinned all his romantic hopes for the future on Rachel and Puck’s relationships. “Dad!” squeaks Kurt, starting to bat Puck away from the chair so he can uncurl. “Yeah! Of course I can start dinner. Um. Uh-huh. No problem. Bye, dad.”
He snaps the phone shut and then glares at Puck as if he’s the one who started this whole shit about love and relationships and chick stuff like that. “I’d get back to work, if I were you,” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to prepare.”
Then he flounces off, leaving Puck with the image of Kurt in an apron and nothing but. Fucking bratty-ass spiteful queen. Maybe he should get a spanking. And maybe Puck should just fucking toss himself into the pool and dash his brains out on the floor and ruin all his afternoon’s hard work.
Fuck.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Puck/Kurt
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for 1.08; references to The Nanny
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue, I need my money for useful things like frilly dresses
Summary: This is a continuation of Pool Cleaning for Dummies. It contains more ~emotions~ and also Puck's impersonation of God.
A/N: I'm thinking about one or two more chapters to wrap this kiddo up. Thanks so much for your kind words so far. Any more and I might start pasting little gold stars behind my username. =D
Somehow Kurt never gets up to head back into the house. There are a couple times he tries and then Puck makes some casual remark (“So, are those pants last season?”) and that reels him back in again. Kurt finally gives up any ghost of an attempt and folds himself up, neat and nice on a deck chair. He puts his head to a side and watches Puck work. His mouth tastes sweet and sour and cold. He wonders if Puck’s does too.
The thought doesn’t unfold in his head like a knowing flower. Kurt’s mind doesn’t work that way. Instead it’s his self-defences and they blurt, Rachel would know. Rachel would know exactly how Puck’s mouth tastes:
a) After a grape slushie.
b) After a coke and lemon (his favourite drink? Does it matter?)
c) All by itself
“So,” Kurt says, leaning forward to catch Puck’s attention. The taller boy just goes on scraping and spreading and it looks really disgusting, actually. “Uh, excuse me? Yoohoo!”
That is definitely a snort but Puck turns his head “Yeah? I know you’re there, Hummel. You don’t gotta remind me periodically. I can feel your greedy little eyes on my ass.”
Kurt sniffs but chooses to ignore the comment. “You know, Puck, I was wondering-”
“Hey, two hundred sit-ups a day, man. And doing the plank, yeah. Totally tones up, like, everything, you know? I totally don’t blame you for wanting me but if you make a move, I’ll hit ya. I’m not into that kinda thing,” Puck says. “No offense.”
Kurt sits back. “You know, I was wondering why exactly you and Rachel got together,” he says. “But I do believe I see certain similarities that would certainly lead to an attraction.”
“What?”
“You see, when two people love themselves very, very much,” Kurt says. “And nobody else will put up with them-”
“Hey, shut up, okay?” Puck has turned around fully now. Kurt’s throat works but no words come out and that’s partly from fear and partly from awe. Puck always makes it seem like his body is some tanned, carnal wonderland but take away the posturing, add a fierce, irritated look and that chest becomes a wall, the arms like - battering rams. With, um, cannon balls rippling along it. Or something?
So Kurt never paid much attention to medieval warfare, alright? The outfits? Awful. Either way, the point he’s trying to make is that Puck could squish him and his Gucci loafers into grape slushie and look good doing it so he really kind of wishes he’d never brought it up. But he also kind of really wants to know.
“It was pretty sudden,” says Kurt, raising an eyebrow to show Puck his big, bad body doesn’t faze him in the least. “One minute, grape slushie; the next, sucking face. I’m used to the twists and turns of fashion (oh Balenciaga ‘09, why shoulder pads?) and even I was surprised.”
Kurt wonders if he’s gone too far. Now if Puck doesn’t want to say, who’s going to make him? He couldn’t tell his balls from Balmain and anyway, what’s Kurt going to do? Hit him? Please. Again the image of his autographed Beyonce poster going up in flames wavers before his eyes, then his vision clears and it’s Puck - so close that he could bite -
Kurt squeaks instead and nearly falls off his chair.
“Listen Hummel,” Puck says through gritted teeth. “You can’t tell anyone, right? Especially not your faghag Diva McLardass. You got that?”
“Ah - don’t talk about Mercedes that way,” Kurt stammers. It’s all he can think of when Puck is this close. He smells like smoke and sweat and chlorine. It should be gross; it would be gross maybe, if he was anyone but Puck. Totally unfair.
Puck accepts Kurt’s sputter as a ‘yes’ because he’s just that desperate. Maybe Puck hasn’t anyone to talk to, which is really sad because Kurt has Mercedes and Tina, sometimes Artie and sometimes Brittany - all of whom make being small, high-voiced, gay little fairy Kurt Hummel better than being the ripped, gorgeous, football-playing example of manly heterosexuality that is Noah Puckerman.
Kurt squinches himself in the farthest corner of the chair, away from Puck’s glistening, Harlequin romance body and sets his face to look earnest, interest and sympathetic. It’s a good look on him and it lasts for about five seconds as he listens to Puck.
*
Kurt’s looking at Puck as if the latter has just sawed his head open and revealed, instead of brains, a small, dusty little ball of snot. Puck wonders if it’s something he said. Let us review:
“So yeah, me, mom, little sis (she’s a total pansy, dude. You two’d get along). We’re watching this movie, I think it’s called the Shopping List. Or Schindler’s. Schindler’s Shopping List? Anyway. So, my mom’s totally tearing up, right? And it’s to the point where it’s kind of freaky coz I’ve never seen mom cry, like, never, not even when Dad left. She just kicked a kitten or something and then moved on and brought up two kids all by herself ‘coz yeah. My mom’s amazing. But now she’s tearing up and then she turns to me and she says, Why can’t you find a nice Jewish girl to date? And I’m like, I don’t know any hot Jews, ma. Then I get her some tissues before she wipes her nose on her sleeve and I go to bed.
“And - okay, bear with me, right? I have this dream. And get this, Rachel’s in it.
“Dude, you gonna throw up? Chill out, you fuckin’ fag, she had her clothes on. And more’n that. She has, like, the Star of David. Right. Over. Her Boobs.
“See? It was like God reached down and smacked me and said, Oy vey, can’t you be giving your mother a break? She’s the only mother you got, schlumper!”
Kurt is silent for a moment, still holding that Look and it’s really kind of impressive. Can a human’s eyebrows go that far? “So,” he says finally, “let me get this straight, your idea of God sounds like Fran Drescher?”
“I don’t think you can get anything straight,” says Puck because he doesn’t want Kurt to know he totally had a thing for The Nanny. She was hot, man. Lots of hairspray, tight, crazy clothes. Kind of like Kurt so you’d think the guy would cut her some slack.
“I’m not the one dating Rachel Berry because of a wet dream,” says Kurt.
“It wasn’t just a wet dream! It was a wet dream from God.”
Kurt’s big, blue eyes roll up. “Whatever,” he says briefly. “I was hoping for a better story than that, but I suppose that was asking too much.”
Puck bristles, he can’t help it. A better story than The Wet Dream from God (tm)? “What?” he says sharply. “You wanna hear something about how I realised that, minus the part where she’d sacrifice new born kittens for a chance on Broadway, I saw past her psychosis and realised that she only acts the way she does ‘coz she’s insecure and shit? Saw past all that and fell in love with the real Rachel?” He bites the words out, sharp, sarcastic shards of bitterness.
“Yeah,” says Kurt. “I guess I wanted something like that.”
“Why?” snaps Puck. The real Rachel was too kind and too in love with Finn.
Kurt shrugs. “It gives you hope that it can happen to you one day,” he says, examining his nails. “Too much hope, one supposes.”
Puck looks at him. This should be a moment for the softening faces, flattering light scheme, maybe a swelling song in the background. Kurt remains disdainful, the sunlight is harsh and doing neither of them any favours and the only background noise is - okay, there’s music. What the fuck? And it sounds like:
Hands, touching hands, reaching out -
Kurt does some complicated gymnastics to get his phone out of his back pocket before he can hear anymore (“Touching me, touching you - ohh~”) and flips it open while Puck tries to come to grips with the fact that Kurt Hummel has apparently pinned all his romantic hopes for the future on Rachel and Puck’s relationships. “Dad!” squeaks Kurt, starting to bat Puck away from the chair so he can uncurl. “Yeah! Of course I can start dinner. Um. Uh-huh. No problem. Bye, dad.”
He snaps the phone shut and then glares at Puck as if he’s the one who started this whole shit about love and relationships and chick stuff like that. “I’d get back to work, if I were you,” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to prepare.”
Then he flounces off, leaving Puck with the image of Kurt in an apron and nothing but. Fucking bratty-ass spiteful queen. Maybe he should get a spanking. And maybe Puck should just fucking toss himself into the pool and dash his brains out on the floor and ruin all his afternoon’s hard work.
Fuck.