Hi Gleek Monsters! I know I promised an Artie/Tina piece, and I have that and another Puck story on the back burner. But after spending a very boring day at work yesterday thinking of Sue Sylvester one-liners, this one had to be done. Thank you as always for the very nice reviews for Platonic Domesticity (and yes to those of you who wanted to know, I will write more stories about everyone's favorite Mostly Gay Not-Couple) and I hope you enjoy.
Still don't own Glee. Shame.
All in all, the latest confrontation with Coach Sylvester went better than Kurt could have hoped, even if he might have to spend the evening on the phone with President Obama's Secret Service team. Sure, his testicles may have crawled back inside of his body in fear, but at least they weren't pickling in a jar on Sylvester's desk. Santana had sworn up and down that that particular nasty rumor was indeed based in fact, and while he didn't necessarily believe her, he wasn't willing to risk his future sexual functioning on it.
Particularly if everything went according to plan and he ended up in a committed relationship with Van Hansis. What a waste that would be.
It had happened just before lunch. He and Tina were walking to the cafeteria together, keeping a sharp eye out for letterman jackets and incoming slushies and/or fists. Kurt was really hoping to avoid them all for the rest of the day, both to preserve his costume and to save him a headache: mulling over whether Tina was safer with or without him after their confrontation with Karofsky and Azimio was seriously starting to give him a migraine. And possibly premature wrinkles. On the one hand, even Karofsky and his asshole friends probably wouldn't hit a girl if she was all by herself. On the other hand, girlfriend was wearing champagne bubbles and a seriously unattractive blonde wig.
Flip a freaking coin and hand him an aspirin.
In any case, his attention was understandably occupied as they turned the corner. Thus, it was the voice that first caught his attention:
"I must admit, I'm surprised: Here I was, thinking that you couldn't possibly get any stupider without your clearly undercooked brain simply leaking out of your ears. But then you drop that particularly insipid verbal gem, and I'm forced to recant my assumptions. If you weren't my only Cheerio capable of both front and back standing flips, I'd put you down myself and call it an act of mercy."
Crap. Coach Sylvester was literally the last person Kurt wanted to see right now, even if she was distracted and yelling at Brittany rather than him. Ever since the whole debacle with Bryan Ryan (probably the dumbest name and biggest closet case ever, seriously), Coach Sylvester had been furious at Mr. Schue for slipping through her diabolical clutches yet again. She'd since been venting her ire and spleen on the Cheerios, demoralizing and physically taxing them with even more maniacal fervor than usual. And unfortunately for Kurt, who no longer had Mercedes as backup during practice, the Gleeks in the squad were taking the brunt of the abuse.
Trying to remain as unnoticeable as possible—no small feat on a good day, but especially difficult in his current regalia—Kurt slumped his shoulders and ducked down as far as he could, hoping to use Tina as a human shield until they made it past the danger zone.
"Hey, Siegfried! Front and center, pronto!"
Unfortunately, Tina was only about 5'4", and her clothing was translucent. Damn his need for ten inch heels! Still, there was a chance… "Me?" He asked innocently, eyes wide with some awful mixture of hope and alarm. She snorted contemptuously. "Well, as I don't see any other circus spectacle whose hair looks suspiciously like a large tiger has recently been chewing on it, I'd say yes, you. Don't make me repeat myself; it triggers blind rage in Alpha Males."
As Kurt stepped forward with a sense of impending doom, he couldn't help but wish—for what was possibly both the first and last time ever—that Rachel was there. She'd probably feel the primal need to correct Sue, saying that it was actually Roy who had been mauled by his tiger, and that although it was the opinion of some animal experts that the tiger had been acting on an instinctual urge to rescue Roy after he had fallen, the incident still served as a warning for those who chose to incorporate live animals into their performance that blah blah etc and so on.
Kurt was pretty sure that he, Tina and Brittany could make it at least halfway down the hall in the ten seconds it would take Sue to eviscerate and dismember the body.
While Kurt was busy planning his hypothetical exit strategy, Coach Sylvester had begun circling Tina like a vulture in a track suit, looking down in distaste. "Dear Lord," she stated, as Tina squirmed under the disgusted gaze, "it looks like a shipment of rejected lightbulbs." She shook her head. "I have seen some horrifying things come out of the jungles of Vietnam, but this might just take the cake."
Kurt prayed that Tina would be smart enough to remain silent, much like playing dead when being charged by an angry momma bear. Or Mercedes. Surely she'd have that much sense.
"Um, I'm Korean," Tina muttered. Kurt sighed. Too much to hope for. He adjusted his prayers, mentally begging Dear Sweet Merciful Versace to grant his friend a quick and painless death.
"Irrelevant. And don't think that your impertinence went unnoticed," Sue snapped, and Tina's eyes immediately dropped to the floor. "Now," she continued, the hint of a smirk on her face, "my sources tell me that you're the primary suspect in a certain Vampiric incident which took place at approximately 5:37pm last night, an incident which has resulted in Figgins filling his office with Holy water, crosses, and braided garlic, as well as renting every season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer—which, while we're on the subject, was based on the early life of one Sue Sylvester. Is this information accurate, Gothika, or do I need to behead one of my informants as a warning to the others regarding the dangers of misinformation?" Tina paused, probably trying to figure out which response was less likely to end in bloodshed, before nodding silently. Coach Sylvester smirked. "Well done. Now since your guerilla scare tactics have driven Figgins into a state of panic unbecoming to anyone with a sense of dignity, I suggest you take advantage of the repealed ban on your wardrobe. Before I screw you headfirst into a floor lamp and flip on the power switch."
With a last apologetic glance at Kurt, Tina ran swiftly down the hall. "Shame," Sue lamented, watching her go. "I do love a good fireworks bonanza resulting in human carnage. That's why I arranged for the eruption at Mount St. Helens. Now," she said, abruptly changing topics and swiveling back to Kurt and Brittany, "I have a bone to pick, Hummel, and it is my sincerest hope that your penchant for cognitive thought surpasses that of your friend here, who seems unable to articulate a complete sentence that doesn't involve either small woodland animals or some form of imaginary creature that belongs in a box of Lucky Charms. Do you want to tell me what that bone might be?"
Kurt felt the blood draining from his face as Sue fixed him with a penetrating stare. Don't flinch, and don't look scared, he chastised himself, this is Sue Sylvester—she can smell fear like a police dog sniffs out crack. He tried to smile; it came out more like a painful grimace. Close enough. "It's the outfits," he began apologetically. "They are a bit much, but—"
"Can it, Hummel," she barked. "Let me tell you something. 'A bit much' is when the first demonstration of intolerance and bile I'm forced to display on a Friday morning is at my star Cheerio, when she shows up dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West. Naturally I threatened to use her little dog as cannon fodder when I blasted her unrepentant Mexican ass straight back over the rainbow, but still. It's tiring.
"And then," she continued, reaching out and yanking a fistful of Brittany's hair, "I find out that my mentally subnormal but physically talented lackey here has not only forgone her regulation ponytail, but has seen fit to dye her doubtlessly Nazi-Germany inspired locks a color that unfavorably resembles the human ashes in the sacrificial pyre I keep lit in my underground lair for the quick disposal of enemies. And don't even mention the silver crustacean on her head. Seriously, don't," she warned, letting go of Brittany's hair and picking off the strands that still clung to her fingers. "Her confusion at the term was less than amusing the first time." Brittany nodded in support. "She's not interested in the banal details of my incompetence," she quoted helpfully, only stumbling a bit over the longer words. For about half a second, Sylvester looked almost as if she wanted to smile. In the blink of an eye, though, it was gone, and Kurt figured that he must have imagined it.
"Here I was," she launched back into the tirade as if she had never broken her stride, "thinking that I still might have one Cheerio who hadn't been irrevocably tainted by the fumes wafting from Schuester's hair. 'The gays are so unforgivably vain and meticulously style-conscious', I told myself. 'They wouldn't fall prey to this alarming trend of Halloween-like inappropriateness and ridiculous hair.' And then I see you, dressed like the giant Hershey Kiss I used to poison my neighbor's dog last month, and it dashed my hopes, dashed them with the same ferocity and vehemence that I long to dash Will Schuester's head against a brick wall with." Her eyes glazed over momentarily, no doubt finding the thought of Mr. Schue's grey matter dripping down a wall overwhelming.
Kurt took the opportunity to apologize—she didn't have to know he was lying. "It'll never happen again," he assured her, unconsciously smoothing the shiny fabric over his hips. She nodded. "Oh, I know it wont happen again, Ricky Martin, and here's why: Monday morning, 6am, extra Cheerios practice. You will both be there in full uniform, and if so much as a single hair follicle on either of your heads is out of place, I will be unhappy. Do I make myself emphatically clear?" Kurt nodded quickly. Seeing that Brittany was spacing out—seriously, he was going to start doping that girl's morning latte with Ritalin—Kurt reached out and tugged her hand to try and get her attention.
Sue sneered. "Seeing as your compatriot has the attention span of a brain damaged puppy, let me break it down for you in a way that ought to stick." She poked Kurt sharply in the chest, and he tried not to wince. "If I see you in that outfit again after today, I will have it impaled and strung up from the ceiling in the first dance hall I can find that is in need of a disco ball. With you still in it. And you," she continued, rounding on Brittany, "had better be fully blonde and out of that ridiculous headpiece, or come Monday I shall be dining on seafood straight off of your face, and I will not be particularly mindful about where my fork stops. Additionally, I may go straight to the source of this inanity. No, no, not Schuester," she dismissed Kurt's look of concern with an impatient wave of her hand. "Sure, he's destroying the ozone layer with his copious amounts of hairspray, but for once that's not relevant. No, I meant the glaringly eccentric inspiration behind your Looney Tunes outfits. I still have several contacts from my days as a paramilitary assassin, and I'm sure I could find at least one willing to put Lady Gaga's head on a spike in the middle of the White House lawn."
For the first time in the conversation, Kurt was actually speechless with horror. Coach Sylvester smiled. "Well, I see my point has been made. Thanks for wasting my time." And with that, she strutted back down the hall.
Brittany led a frozen Kurt by the hand toward the cafeteria. "You don't think she'd actually do it?" he asked breathlessly. "Kill Lady Gaga?" Brittany smiled. "She won't remember," she assured Kurt. "She usually only remembers to kill people she has to see everyday." Kurt breathed a little easier. That was true. Sue was likely to forget about the whole incident by the end of the day—she usually made about twelve death threats an hour, she couldn't possibly follow through on all of them, right? Brittany was right.
"Hey Kurt? What's the White House?"
Kurt dropped his face into his palm. On the other hand, a phone call to the Fame Monster's security team would probably be a good idea. Just in case.