Title: Dr Strangelove

Rating: PG

Genre: Humor

Spoilers: 3x19

Warnings: None (or: Crack-tendencies)

Word Count: 3 600 or so

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. I'm only playing with the characters.

Summary: AU. There are things Kurt Hummel shouldn't find sexy.

A/N: So. This is a sort of reaction-fic to Prom-A-Saurus and the way it fried my brain. Title from the movie - might give you an idea of the overall tone, but not of the plot :P

Beta-ed by the very nice and diligent secret_chord25 :) Thanks a lot!

Dr. Strangelove

Growing up, Kurt knew, often meant finding yourself doing things you never thought you ever would.

Take, for instance, going to your office Christmas Party. Nothing like one of those to give you the impression of being an adult, of having toppled over into a world of the daily grind, permanent deadlines, and in-house gossip.

Much to Kurt's dismay, none of it differed much from high school. The outfits were more nondescript, appearances better kept, but the jeers were more discreetly vicious, the rivalries more intense. At least, he thought as he appraised the room he'd just stepped into, the environment was more classy and the refuges numerous if he ever felt the need to flee. Bless New York.

The party was being held at a restaurant near the office that had been rented for the evening. The decorations looked as tasty as the food, the outfits were tolerable even though it was a costume party, and it was still early enough that no one was pathetically drunk. (Yet.)

Kurt secured his top hat on his head and slowly stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over the various costumes, identifying what they were supposed to be and grading the associated hairdos. As the resident fashion columnist, he felt entirely entitled to his judging. Besides, he knew everyone was already thirsting for the merciless comments he'd deliver in the following weeks about this or that aesthetic crime.

And in his survey of the room, he certainly wasn't keeping an eye out for a head crowned with carefully slicked-back hair. Definitely not.

"No need to look for that tragic helmet, boy," a voice said right beside him, making him repress a shudder. "You won't find it."

He turned, hand reaching up to clasp the brim of his top hat to make sure it didn't fall down, and found himself face to face with Lucy, the magazine's literary critic, dressed as a sibyl.

"He's not here?" he managed, not even bothering to try and pretend in front of her. For all her apparent aloofness, she'd found out about his (apparently mortifyingly obvious) crush barely three days after it was born (on his second day of employment, in the two-point-five seconds it took him to hear a laugh ringing throughout a corridor and to catch sight of a radiant, genuine smile).

Now, there was something to know about Lucy: she had the perfect appearance of a middle-aged, stuck-up, close-minded harpy. When she'd spoken to Kurt for the first time on that fateful day - "Enjoying the view?" - and he'd heard her dry tone, he'd taken one look at her and jumped on the defensive. She'd noticed, of course, and thrown him nothing but a deadpan glance in return.

"Look," she'd drawled. "I've read everything, from the Holy Bible to the Marquis de Sade through Stephen King and Naruto. Don't think you'll ever manage to do anything I'll find offensive or haven't read about at least a thousand times."

Apparently, she simply felt a dark, almost perverse joy at witnessing things happen in real life the same way they did in what looked like unrealistic novels. Kurt's crush on the magazine's music reviewer had therefore become her favorite source of ceaseless, sarcastic amusement.

She was smirking now, obviously enjoying Kurt's crestfallen expression and the way it turned into a puzzled one when she cryptically answered, "I didn't say that." Her tone matched her costume to perfection.

Kurt knew it would be no use trying to find out what she meant. Over the past year, she'd given him an insane amount of minute details about the object of his affections, but only when it suited her fancy. Trying to pry information out of her when she didn't feel like it was as easy as trying to open a reinforced door with a toothpick. And if he trusted what he knew of her, her slightly narrowed eyes meant that she knew something he didn't and that she would keep silent about it until he found out on his own - and then she would stand on the sidelines and watch events unfold with cynical delight.

"I advise you to go get a drink," she said, taking a sip from the glass she was carrying. "You'll need it."

Kurt raised his eyebrows minutely, but she'd already turned away, her numerous shawls and scarves flowing behind her as she left. He followed her with his eyes until she'd melted into the crowd, then did as he'd been told. He couldn't help but take another look at the whole room beforehand, but Lucy had been right. No exceedingly groomed hair caught his eye.

Biting back a disappointed sigh, he stepped up to the buffet, letting his gaze rove over the glasses, bottles, and artfully laid-out appetizers, mini-sandwiches and tarts, pastries and cookies. It occurred to him he would probably have to take off his white gloves if he intended to eat something and keep them spotless at the same time.

"Here you go."

Kurt glanced up briefly - then froze and did a double take when he recognized the voice and took in the appearance of the person who'd just spoken.

Blaine Anderson was standing right there in all his glory, wearing a white lab coat with black plastic gloves sticking out of a pocket and goggles resting around his neck. The look was completed by the dreadful combination of a green-checkered shirt and a turquoise tie with yellow dots, a three-day stubble and a bright smile gracing his face as he held out a glass to Kurt. Kurt took it automatically, but his eyes were stuck to the most striking thing about the whole outfit - namely the mop of wild, curly hair standing on top of and around the man's head.

That was... a lot of hair.

"I mixed it myself," Blaine pointed out, gesturing towards the glass Kurt was now holding with his own. Kurt glanced down at it but his gaze was drawn back up almost at once. He knew it was rude to stare, but-

But.

But after almost a whole year of working for the same magazine, Kurt had never seen Blaine with a single hair out of place. Even when they'd gone together to a fashion show or a new music bar that had opened and that was to be the subject of a review; even on that miraculous day off when they'd bumped into each other entirely by chance – Blaine had always, always worn his hair firmly tamed by a pound of product.

In fact, the most rumpled Kurt had ever seen him was at the end of the very long days right before the latest issue of the magazine had to be sent to press, after they'd spent hours in meeting rooms poring over layouts and last-minute changes and rushing to meet the final deadline. Under the artificial neon lights, Blaine would often massage the nape of his neck with a small groan – his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the collar of his shirt open and slightly creased – then scratch at the right corner of his jaw, which always seemed to itch when his five o'clock shadow started to appear. Then he would reach up as if to thread a hand through his hair only to stop half-way and end up rubbing at his forehead or his eyes before he'd shake himself and bring his attention back to his work or what was being said - never going as far as to touch the rare curls that had managed to free themselves from the gel to twirl against his temple, at the base of his neck, or right beside his ear.

Kurt, of course, had never stared at these rebellious locks, had never wondered how they would look like if left entirely free, had never felt the itch to ask like so many of their colleagues did. Never.

But seeing Blaine in this moment, unshaved and unkempt, made him think of late Saturday evenings and lazy Sunday mornings, of comfortable familiarity and intimacy, of so many things he shouldn't be thinking of.

Kurt forced himself to keep his thoughts in check, to refrain from making any kind of remark like all the idiots they had to work with probably would. Actually, Blaine's decision to let his hair go rampant tonight seemed to be a glorious way to get back at everyone for their misplaced curiosity and teasing about his overuse of product and what might be underneath.

He looked back down at his drink. The beverage was pale orange and didn't give any clue as to what it might be.

"Should I be worried?" Kurt asked slowly, one eyebrow raised. He congratulated himself for keeping the tone of his voice cool and controlled.

"Maybe," Blaine replied, apparently proud of himself. He gave Kurt a genial, slightly manic smile, his eyes gleaming. "I am a mad scientist, after all. You never know."

Kurt let his second eyebrow join the first to make Blaine aware of the fact that he'd noticed the implicit challenge and wasn't intimidated in the least. Then he took a sip.

"And what are you working on right now, Mr. Mad Hatter?" he asked, careful not to let anything betray what he thought of his glass's contents.

(It was good; better than good. Damn it.)

He regretted the nickname as soon as he saw Blaine's eyes dart towards his hat, obviously tempted to snatch it, and clasped his hand on the brim protectively while his eyes narrowed in warning. No one would steal his fabulous hat.

Blaine laughed, his own free hand shooting up to tug slightly at his hair. Kurt couldn't help but follow it with his eyes.

(He wasn't jealous of a hand. Of course not. Much to the contrary - he was feeling very satisfied because that gesture only proved that he'd been right: Blaine did have the reflex of touching and grabbing his own hair, a reflex he had to repress when it was all gelled down. Which begged the question of why Blaine did that to himself.)

"Right now? Dinosaurs." Kurt wouldn't have thought it was possible, but Blaine's grin had widened. "I'm trying to build a time machine to bring a pterodactyl egg back to its mom. She must be going mad with worry to have it missing."

He finished his own drink in one gulp, ignoring the way Kurt was staring at him - before Kurt recovered and murmured:

"... I actually know someone who might help you with that."

Blaine laughed again, then shook his head fondly. "Only you, Kurt," he said, the tone of his voice making Kurt's stomach flip. But then he slipped back into his character as if nothing had just happened. "A little bit of help would be very welcome. As you might've noticed, I suffered a little mishap before coming here." He gestured vaguely at his crazy hair. "Nothing major. After all, who needs a roof to their house?"

He shrugged. Kurt snorted quietly.

"Blaine, are you drunk?"

Blaine only blinked at him, then stuck his nose in the air. "Not at all," he declared imperiously. "I'm used to work with undiluted ethanol; I can hold my liquor like no man!"

He nodded decisively, one of his curls falling down on his forehead in a wild spiral. Kurt was very tempted to reach out and flick it back.

He took another sip of his drink instead.

It happened often, him wanting to reach out and touch Blaine. So often, really, that he wasn't surprised by it anymore, and knew how to hold back before the urge could make his fingers so much as twitch. But it had surprised him at first, because it wasn't something that he'd felt before – the desire, so strong sometimes it almost resembled a need, to reach out and initiate physical contact with someone else.

He'd never felt the urge to touch anyone before. Or, only his dad, sometimes, when he'd needed reassurance, when he'd needed to feel that his father was here, really here, that he wasn't alone, that he was loved no matter who or what he was. But apart from that, Kurt had always had to consciously make the effort of reaching out towards other people when he felt they expected or wanted it, he'd always had to force himself not to flinch when someone unexpectedly touched him.

But with Blaine, it wasn't like that, had never been like that. With Blaine, he had to consciously refrain from reaching out. And he'd never so much as tensed when they happened to brush against each other, or when Blaine touched him.

Which he did. A lot.

But at the same time, Blaine was a very tactile person and touched more or less everyone. So Kurt tried very hard not to compare and not to draw any kind of conclusion. Especially since he didn't quite know what they were - colleagues, acquaintances, friends?

They always greeted each other when they crossed path in the corridors. Their eyes met in a silent, knowing look over the heads of the people separating them when someone said something particularly stupid or obnoxious during a meeting. They shared a secret smile when Kurt walked by Blaine's office, in which there was always some sort of music playing, when he recognized a song, a melody, and somehow had a hunch about why Blaine had chosen to listen to it that day. They went to fetch their mid-afternoon coffee at the small shop at the corner of the street together more often than not. They'd even accompanied each other on assignments once or twice, when there was an event or a place to review and they didn't want to go alone and the other had offered. Every single one of those evenings were treasures in Kurt's memory, sheets covered with a perfect melody he'd carefully pressed and filed away to revisit and listen to whenever he wanted.

Sometimes it felt like there was something there, something huge and precious and shared. It felt like they just got each other and it was all that mattered - but on the other hand, sometimes Kurt realized that he barely knew anything about Blaine, about his family, his friends, his tastes, his habits outside of work (apart from the music he surrounded himself with like he needed it as much as the air he breathed). Their conversations never strayed beyond lighthearted or work-related topics. So Kurt had never dared ask, Are we friends? for fear of what the answer might be.

(Blaine bursting out laughing at the word, like it was the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard.)

"I like your jacket," Blaine said, and Kurt blinked, shook away his worries and brought his attention back to his colleague. No, friend, to his friend, and his riotous hair. "So, who are you supposed to be? Mr. Darcy? Mr. Knightley? Willoughby?" Blaine's face fell suddenly and he went on, his voice turning pleading. "Please, not Willoughby, he's an idiot. You're not an idiot."

Kurt rolled his eyes. (Seriously. That unruly hair should've made Blaine look ridiculous, certainly not cute. Certainly not adorable. Certainly not- Stop it right now, Kurt Hummel. Right. Now.)

"I can dress like a gentleman of the early nineteenth century without impersonating a Jane Austen character, Blaine." Though why wasn't he surprised that Blaine seemed to know every single one of them?

"You're right." Blaine had gotten his smile back and took a step forward to take Kurt's arm. "You're far too young to be Colonel Brandon. And if you're not any of them, it simply means you're neither an idiot nor taken. All the better."

Kurt felt his smile freeze on his lips.

This happened a lot, too – Blaine doing or saying something that made Kurt pause, that made his heart miss a beat before stumbling through the following ones in flustered wonder, in hope - until his head took back the reigns and forcefully calmed it down. Stop. Don't jump to conclusions. Don't get ahead of yourself.

But he's doing it again, his heart whimpered every single time. What am I supposed to think?

Don't think, his brain retorted. That's my job.

But-

No buts.

Yet he couldn't help but wonder if Blaine even realized what he was saying most of the time. He knew his colleague's tendency to blurt things out before he'd thought them through, to let himself be swept away by his enthusiasm and to forget that people couldn't always follow, or couldn't always see things the way he did. But sometimes, it was too much. Sometimes Kurt just had to think, No. He can't be that oblivious.

Unfortunately, when he turned his head to look at Blaine's expression and see if there was any indication that Blaine had meant what he'd just said that way, all he got was nearly a mouthful of lush dark hair. Right there, right under his nose, looking frizzy and mellow and bouncy and oh God Kurt just wanted to reach out and poke at it. Just to see how it would feel, if it would resist under the slight pressure of his palm.

Just to see how easily he could thread his fingers through it and how Blaine would react if he tightened his grip and tugged while-

"Next up, Blaine Anderson!"

Blaine jumped at his name and Kurt started, then stumbled when his colleague suddenly let go of his arm, raising his empty glass in the air and shouting: "Yes! That's me!"

He gingerly put his glass down on the buffet beside them then reached up to rub hard at his head, making his already-wild hair stick up even more in every direction. Then without a backwards glance at Kurt, he sauntered towards the center of the room where Sarah, the editorialist, was holding a micro out to him.

(See? Kurt's brain said as he stood there, feeling unbalanced and bereft. I told you so.

But-

No. Buts.)

Blaine fiddled with the karaoke machine for a couple of seconds until he found a song to his liking. When the first notes started, he put down the mic on top of the machine and took advantage of the quite long musical introduction to take off his coat and fold in on the back of a chair. He undid his cuff buttons and rolled up his sleeves, then reached up to loosen his tie – no, more than loosened it. He tugged at it until the nook undid itself and he could slip it off his neck - but right before it happened he raised his eyes and looked right at Kurt, throwing him a bright smile turned wolfish by his stubble and unkempt hair. Then he winked, and that's when Kurt's brain more or less short-circuited.

Blaine held Kurt's frozen gaze as he took hold of the mic once more and brought it to his lips, then abruptly looked away and swept to the side as he began to sing.

Kurt stayed where he was, glass clasped in his hand and breath stuck in his throat - until Blaine's song choice registered, and he suddenly felt the urge to hang his head and pinch the bridge of his nose.

Only Blaine would choose to sing a song from The Nightmare before Christmas at a Christmas party. And to go at it with all the enthusiasm of a small child at that time of the year, when the prospect of countless presents was strong and near .

Kurt couldn't understand it - he himself had never had that kind of energy even as a kid. The way Blaine buzzed with it never ceased to amaze him and always reduced him to a simple onlooker watching in fascination while Blaine let it joyfully burst forward and all around him. So he watched, once more, while Blaine jumped on chairs, pointed in various directions asking What's this?, ran around the room to marvel at decorations and people, gathered a handful of the white confetti strewn over a table to throw it in the air like snow, loudly kissed Lucy on the cheek under the mistletoe, and stole a piece of bright red tinsel to wrap around his neck, all in accordance with the lyrics he never got wrong and along a rapid beat he never lost - making a fool of himself, but enjoying it so much that he only made people laugh.

And yet Kurt's heart was still beating strong, was still stuck in his throat, was still making his lips stretch into a hopeless, irrepressible smile.

"What. Is. This?" Blaine asked one last time, standing on a table and breathing hard in exertion, arms open wide to embrace the whole room.

('This' is more than a crush, Kurt's heart answered quietly.

But- his brain tried to protest.

No buts.)

His fingers tightened around his glass as Blaine looked down, letting his eyes glide over to room and settle on Kurt while he spoke the last line ("... Christmas Town?") and hummed.

They were definitely going to have a talk. And this time Kurt wouldn't get cold feet; he would gather his courage and stop letting Blaine get away with ambiguous words and ask. And find an excuse to fuss at Blaine's hair - which wouldn't be difficult, given the sweaty mess it had turned into during the song. Surely something had gotten caught in it, a bit of white confetti or a piece of tinsel, that he would just have to remove out of consideration for his colleague's appearance. Blaine would be grateful. And then-

And then.

Kurt swallowed.

Yes. Definitely more than a crush.

End

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