A/N: This scene just randomly popped into my head while I was listening to my iPod, so naturally I had to post it. Any and all feedback is appreciated, so PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review. Also, check out my other Glee stories, titled Shattered, Common Cause, Shame On You, and Broken. Good God, this show lends itself to fanfiction easily.

Kurt grimaced at the chaotic mess of Puck's bedroom. The only reason he was there in the first place was because Mr. Schue had for some unfathomable reason decided that he and the mohawked Neanderthal would make good duet partners. Puck wasn't too happy about it either, but he'd reluctantly volunteered his house as their practice space after Kurt let slip that his Aunt Mildred was currently staying at his house after a recent bout at the hospital. If there was one thing Puck hated, it was sick old women. Cougars were all well and good, but once they passed that stage he wanted nothing to do with them.

So now, Puck was downstairs in the kitchen getting a glass of water for Kurt (only because his mom was demanding that he be a good host, whatever that meant) while the boy he'd repeatedly thrown in the dumpster sat on the edge of his bed with a distasteful scowl. Kurt supposed that if it weren't for the god-awful mess (and the bed was so in the wrong place in regards to the sunlight), Puck's bedroom might have been pretty. After all, the maroon walls were a surprisingly nice touch, though Kurt would have gone for a slightly different shade.

But who was he to judge?

Sighing as he waited for Puck to return with his water, Kurt stood and lightly skimmed over the pile of stuff that covered the surface of the desk, something that he'd never imagined would be in Puck's room in the first place. It looked like Puck used it as more of a place to throw junk that he didn't want, though, rather than a work space. The very idea of Puck having a work space in any shape or form made Kurt snort in a very un-ladylike fashion.

Then, something caught his eye from where it protruded from beneath a discarded school notebook that looked like it hadn't been used since freshman year. Curiously, he moved aside the clutter and pulled out a cracked CD case, the cover graced with a black-and-white picture of a smiling brunette, her hair kept short and curled in a classy '50s style. Kurt nearly laughed out loud, instead resorting to a mischievous grin as Puck finally walked back in, water glasses in hand.

He stopped when he saw Kurt regarding him with an expression that could only be described as highly amused, which, coming from either one of the Kurt/Mercedes duo, was almost always bad news. "What?" he snapped.

"You listen to Patsy Cline?" Kurt exclaimed, gleefully holding up the CD.

Puck coughed uncomfortably. "Uh…my mom left that in here—"

Kurt quirked a delicately-shaped eyebrow, as if to say Oh, really?

After a long, awkward pause, Puck rolled his eyes, huffing indignantly. "Fine," he said. "I like her, okay? She's not that bad. She's…kinda hot." He shifted from foot to foot. "And if you tell anybody at school about…that…then I will personally kill you."

Kurt giggled, still amazed. "Puck, Patsy Cline is one of the most incredible artists of the twentieth century. Why on earth would you be ashamed of listening to her work?"

"It's chick music."

It was Kurt's turn to roll his eyes. "There is a huge difference between chick music and classic American country, Puck." He resumed his seat on the edge of the bed, taking a glass from Puck as he studied the CD cover. He sighed in adoration. "She's the female Johnny Cash," he said wistfully.

Puck snorted. "I like Johnny Cash."