Summary: Sue hates redundancy and Kurt's a brat. He's also, to her chagrin, completely unafraid of her, and right now, she kind of wishes he wasn't because it'd be so much easier to be ferocious that way. Instead, she watches how he takes his coffee. Set post-Funeral.

Tl;dr: This is really just an excuse to write Kurt x Sue friendship.

Disclaimer: Yeah, no. Not a chance.

"Hello, coach."

That's all Kurt says when Sue opens her door, not three hours after the funeral. He's put together, as usual. Unlike her, who hasn't found the motivation to change out of her pantsuit.

She's not his coach any more, but that doesn't seem to matter to him and she doubts that it ever will.

"Come in, Porcelain."

Her response is just as succinct as his greeting and says just as much.

She knows why he's here and as much as it galls her, the part of her heart that the surgeons couldn't remove feels grateful and Sue's reminded of how bad it tastes, unlike her raw egg and placenta powder smoothie that she drinks every morning.

What are you doing here?

She doesn't need to ask.

Why are you doing this?

She knows exactly what he'll say in response and doesn't want to hear it, so she doesn't bother.

Get out.

No point. Kurt's a brat (the attitude she coveted when he was a Cheerio) and combined with an intimate knowledge of grief, he won't be afraid to say no. He'll stand outside her house and fold his arms over his chest and glare at nothing for days if he has to, but he won't go away. Gone are the days that she could make him cower with a single look, they died the instant she didn't murder him for stealing that video and cremated the day she showed up in the hospital with a Tupperware of food, warm and still steaming.

They never talked about it because there was no need to.

He didn't want pity and neither did she. She wasn't going to bear her soul and he didn't want her to because he understood enough to know better than to try.

"You're the coffee-drinking type aren't you, shortie?"

"Not that short anymore, but yes, I am. Thank you."

She doesn't ask if he actually wanted to stay for some but Kurt's the kind of person who's polite but not insipid and Sue can actually respect that because he says what he wants. There's something to be said for a minion with a brain, even if she prefers minions without hearts because they're so much easier to deal with without them.

Kurt would resent being called a minion and the thought of it warms Sue's black, empty soul just like it shouldn't. Like being slapped in the face with a handful of William's warm hair spread.

"I kept Jean's things," Kurt finally says, and the words hit home like a punch in the stomach. "Not the magazines and newspapers and stuff, but the important things. The books, the movies, the photos. The pom-poms. Birthday cards. They're all safe in boxes. In my room, in my closet. So Finn won't trip over them and break anything."

Sue won't thank him. She doesn't need to because he only did it partly for her. Mostly for her, actually, but some of it, she knows, was for himself. So she won't thank him, even though Frankenteen would have inevitably tripped and broken something irreplaceable if he hadn't interfered.

"I don't know when you'll want them," now he sounds hesitant and normally, she'd relish in the sound of fear. Now though, she doesn't. "If you want them back now, I can go get them. But if… if you don't, I'll keep them safe until you do."

You'll want them went unspoken. I know you will. I did.

Sue could have ripped him to shreds right then and there. Sweet Porcelain was baring his throat and if he'd been anything else, Q or Schuester or Lopez, she'd be jump roping with his vocal cords. But it's not anyone but him, it's him, looking her in the face and Sue can only set a coffee cup in front of him. Sugar and cream, too.

She doesn't know how he takes it but she watches, and now she does.

Not that that means anything.

He doesn't offer anything else.

No consolations, no platitudes, no I understands because she knows he does and doesn't need to hear it again. Sue Sylvester hates redundancy.

"How's that hobbit you're dating?" she asks and the question throws him. There's that little shiver that runs up her spine, the one that says she's just won a point. It's a great feeling.

"Short jokes, now? You already called me shortie."

"You're short. He's shorter than you."

"At least be creative. Short jokes just brush off of Blaine; Wes and David wore them out."

Sue doesn't ask who Wes and David are because she doesn't care. She cares, not cared, about Jean, she cares about Becky, and she cares about Kurt. Not that she'll admit it. So she can't help but give half a crap about the boy Porcelain's with because if he breaks his heart, Sue will absolutely break everything on him but.

A raised eyebrow prompts a flush from him though, and Kurt stares into his coffee.


"Blaine's fine," he answers finally, just the slightest bit flustered. Glorious. "He's wonderful."

"He make you happy?"

Porcelain's staring at her like she threw a yak at him. That'll be the prize from her next big hunting trip, Sue decides. She's always wanted to bellow demands through an actual horn, even though the bullhorn is faithful and true.

"Y-yeah. He does."


Silence reigns until Kurt takes the final sip of his coffee and gathers his bag to leave. Sue's already at the door by the time he gets there, holding it open for him.

"Take care," Kurt says simply, "Thank you for the coffee."

He turns to leave and somehow, Sue's hand's made it to his sleeve, tugging his attention back.

"I can't take those boxes back. Not yet."

That's all she says and the look in his eyes says I know plainer than saying it straight ever would.

He doesn't say that he'll keep them, not again. He doesn't say that Jean's things will be safe because she knows they will be. He doesn't say to tell him when she wants them because he knows that she will eventually. They both know that she will because they both know love, and they both love someone who's no longer there.

As he leaves, Sue doesn't bother saying goodbye, only raises her hand when he starts his car.

Blue eyes, bluer than the brightest summer sky smile at her and he nods before pulling out of the driveway.

Sue doesn't have to check to know that the beginning of the most nefarious of smiles is threatening to tilt at her lips.

Oh, Porcelain.

He hates redundancy as much as she does.

AN2: THERE YOU GO. Sue is half-impossible to write, guh. If you enjoyed this, please review! If you hate this and want to skewer me upon a rusty trident, review with a letter of challenge and I'll happily take you on.