A Few of My Favourite Things
Kurt Hummel didn't much care for PETA, beyond their divine ad campaign featuring Michael Trevino wearing nothing but a fake mink stole and a smile, but he was certainly aware that a pet was for life, and not for Christmas.
Unfortunately, Rachel Berry, armchair animal rights activist extraordinaire, was not aware of this important fact.
"Isn't she just adorable!" Rachel said, clapping her hands together, her eyes bright and wild. She nodded to Finn who sneezed as he presented Blaine with a cardboard box. Kurt peered into the box and wrinkled his nose; he thought Cannery Row in Monterey had stunk to high heaven, but this was in a whole new zip code of stench.
Clearly, Blaine did not share Kurt's reservations.
"Kurt! Kurt!" he exclaimed, setting the box on the floor and bending down to extract a tiny, cinnamon-coloured kitten with bright green bush-baby eyes. "Gosh, isn't this just great? We always said we wanted a pet, didn't we?"
Kurt nodded, because they had discussed getting a pet, that was no lie. And he liked animals, he really did, providing they stayed on leads, or in cages. Pavarotti had never scratched the couch, or stolen a piece of chicken breast from his plate or… yes, Blaine's maroon sweater was already flecked with so much golden fur it looked like a bizarre tribal print.
Kurt scowled. God, he was going to have to buy stock in lint rollers. Wait, perhaps he could make fashionable lint rollers? Now there was an idea.
"And there's a bowl, and a water fountain, and some little catnip mice, and, oh!" Rachel nodded, smiling brightly. "We played some Barbra to her on the drive over; her favourites are 'Evergreen' and 'Moon River', but she doesn't much care for 'Send in the Clowns'."
"Wait," Kurt said. "Why did you decide to give her to, well, us? You two love animals."
"Yes," Blaine said, gently stroking the kitten's head with his fingertips. "Finn looks really torn up. Is he okay?" He met Kurt's eyes before glancing across to Finn, frowning. "Separation anxiety is completely normal, Finn; it's nothing to be ashamed of. I learned about it in my psychology class, and…"
"Oh, no. Finn's not crying, he just has a near-fatal allergy to cat hair," Rachel explained, "except actually, it's the dander, rather than the cat hair, and so to call it cat hair is quite the misnomer when…"
Kurt tuned her out before any more three-syllable words could escape from her mouth.
"Does this mean that he won't be able to come over for Friday night dinners anymore?" Blaine's tone was far too hopeful for Kurt's liking. "Uh, well, I mean, erm…"
Kurt stamped on his boyfriend's foot. "We'll just have to go over to Finn and Rachel's more often, won't we, darling?"
"Sure," Blaine replied, shooting Kurt a fierce glare.
"You're going to have so much fun together!" Rachel walked over, pressing Kurt tightly to her chest and kissing his cheek, before walking across to Blaine and giving a far more tender kiss to the kitten in his arms. "So much fun! Auntie Rachel will visit you all the time!"
"Fun," Finn echoed, patting Blaine on the shoulder, though it sounded more like fub. "Can we go now, Rach? My vision's kinda going double."
Despite the fact Finn could barely breathe, Kurt secretly hoped his brother's reaction to Benadryl would be akin to his reaction after taking Vitamin D, because the blackmail potential would be glorious.
"See you later!" Rachel said, cheerily, waving them goodbye.
Kurt slammed the door behind them and clenched his hand tightly by his side. He walked over to Blaine, forming a plan to get rid of this, this thing, but his boyfriend only had eyes for the ball of fur in his hands.
Sure, Blaine's bright eyes and thousand-watt smile were adorable, but he wouldn't admit it in a million years.
"She needs a name, Kurt! What about Edie? Oh, or, Roxy?" Blaine paused as he scratched the kitten under her tiny white chin.
"Getting away with murder," Kurt said, raising his eyebrow. "How apt."
"No, silly! After Roxy Music, not 'Chicago'. Roxy! Roxy! Look! She loves her name! She's purring, Kurt!"
Kurt covered his ears, and shook his head. Good God, it took some talent for something which only weighed two or so pounds to sound like a dentist's drill.
They've owned the cat — or been owned by the cat — for several weeks, and Kurt's having some trouble with his scriptwriting assignment. Placing his laptop to one side, he decides to write a list of everything Roxy has ruined so far.
1. His headphones.
2. The salmon tartare he'd made Blaine for their anniversary dinner.
3. A very rare vial of Creed cologne.
4. The $400 cashmere cardigan he'd imported from Scotland.
5. The bedazz—
Roxy is chewing the lid of his pen as he writes, and Kurt shakes his head and rips the sheet of paper from his notebook, scrunching it tightly in his hand. The action is not even remotely cathartic.
"Mew?" the cat inquires, winding herself around his legs, tail quirked at the tip like a question mark.
"And what do you want?" Kurt asks, but he knows. Oh, does he ever. He sighs, standing up to retrieve the turkey ham from the fridge, Roxy's tongue sandpaper rough against his fingertips.
She jumps in his lap, stomping all over the keyboard, her wet nose cold and unpleasant against his, still smelling like cheap meat products, and why does Kurt even indulge her, he doesn't even like her, and this is how she rewards him? That, that…
Wait. She's managed to delete the part of his sentence which had been giving him the most trouble, and… Wow. It's redundant! The sentence was actually redundant! That… actually reads better!
Okay. There are some perks, he realises, bending down to give her a scratch behind the ears.
"Mornin'," Blaine mumbles sleepily against the shell of Kurt's ear, warm breath ghosting across his neck. Kurt turns over, pressing a sloppy, sleepy kiss against his boyfriend's jaw.
"Hm, it is a good one," Kurt says through a smile, tracing his fingers down Blaine's chest. "A very good one indeed."
"Wanna make it better?" asks Blaine, placing his warm palm over Kurt's hand, raising it, then moving it further down and Kurt gasps, feeling Blaine hardening against his touch. He shifts his hips and twines their legs together and it's slow, and gentle, and perfect, and oh god, and —
Blaine sits up without warning. "Kurt?" he says, "your feet are a little bit scratchy today…"
"Hm?" Kurt replies, nipping at his jaw. "But I got a pedicure two days ago."
"Mmm," says Blaine. "it's actually kinda nice. Feels like I'm being… mmm." He groans, low in his throat. "Kiss me."
It's wet, and it's gorgeous, and Kurt melts into it as he pulls Blaine's chest against his, feeling his heartbeat quicken, and —
"Damn it, Nermal!" Kurt sweeps the bedsheets away and stands up, stomping his foot petulantly. "I've got every mind to send you to Abu Dhabi!"
God. That, that thing is staring at him. It, Kurt has now named it, because it is going back to the animal shelter, or even back to Rachel. That would show her. Roxy's not grown too much, still tiny and cinnamon-coloured, with little pink paws and bright green eyes, and if Kurt believed in any sort of higher power, he would swear that Ms. Pillsbury's Animagus was a voyeur.
"Aw!" It is in the crook of Blaine's arms now, little smug chin tilted up in pleasure as it kneads invisible air. "You're just being playful, baby, aren't you?" Blaine giggles, stroking the tiny kitten's fur with his fingertips. "Oh, yes you are."
"Playful? Cockblocking, more like," Kurt says, with a growl.
Blaine is utterly oblivious to Kurt's need, and how can his boyfriend go from what was supposed to be lazy morning sex to tossing his kitten a god damned pipe-cleaner spider in five seconds flat? Probably at the same time their bed transformed itself from a sensual sanctuary to a graveyard for their spoiled kitten's ever-increasing collection of toy cast-offs.
"Forget it," Kurt says, grabbing a towel. His resulting sigh of frustration is so loud the neighbours bang on the ceiling with a broom handle.
"We should make a Facebook profile for her," Blaine says, giggling. "Ooh, or maybe Twitter?"
"Yes," says Kurt, shaking his head. "Let's share the joy with the whole world."
Damn that feline.
Rachel Berry was dead to him. Dead. Deader than the trend forecast for cheetah-print dead, and deader than Lindsay Lohan's chances of winning an Oscar.