Just a little Kurt/Mercedes fic that popped into my Kurt/Mercedes obsessed brain. Can easily be seen as pre-relationship or simply friendship. Anyone whose read my other fic should be able to see how I interpret it, wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Something that came into my head while I was watching Wheels the other day.
Disclaimer: If I owned Glee, Kurt and Mercedes would be a couple, even though Kurt's gay.
Mercedes had stayed a few hours after school, working on a song with Artie and Tina. When they'd finally realized what time it was, she'd bid the other two good-bye and headed toward the back door of the school, thinking that she'd just cut across the football field to the lot where her car was parked. Practice had ended at least 45 minutes ago, so she figured she could escape without harassment from the jocks.
She was surprised when she exited the door to the solid thump of a football being hit. Had she underestimated McKinley's new commitment to winning football games? Rounding the bleachers, she saw only a solitary figure out on the field, repeatedly picking a football out of the pile next to him, setting it on a tee and sending it flying through the uprights with a powerful kick. Sighing in relief, she figured it was fine to simply ignore him and cut across the field regardless.
It took Mercedes a moment to realize that she knew the lonely figure out on the field, who'd just boomed yet another ball down the field. It was Kurt of all people, staying an hour after practice to kick. She smiled sadly, thinking that Kurt should be at home, sulking rightfully over losing the Defying Gravity solo to Rachel. God, it seemed like that girl got everything when it came to Glee. Why couldn't her boy catch a break just this once?
He's dressed in a way that seems utterly foreign on him, long, baggy red shorts with a cursive Titans written on the side, and a plain white t-shirt that seems ridiculously loose compared to the clothes that he usually wears. His helmet and shoulder pads have been discarded off to the side of the pile of footballs, and it doesn't appear that he's bothered to fix his helmet hair yet.
"Hey, kicker," she called, startling him slightly, judging from the way he whips around to look at her. She thinks that he's probably expecting it to be a jock, come back to give him a pounding that they've convinced themselves he deserves.
"Oh, it's just you," he says, validating her theory, "I thought you'd have been home by now."
"I was working on some music with Artie and Tina. We lost track of time. I thought practice ended an hour ago?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him.
He avoided her eyes as he set up another football to kick before he answered, "I wanted to stick around and get some extra practice."
She's knows that this probably isn't true, but she lets it slide for a moment cause Kurt's had a bad day and she knows that right now he needs his best friend, not the Spanish Inquisition.
"Need a holder?" she asks, and he mumbles an answer that sounds like 'Sure, why not?' to her, so she kneels down carefully next to the tee and sets her hands in the way that her brothers taught her when she was little. Kurt smiles slightly at her knowledge saving him from having to correct her, and takes his normal three step drop.
She watches his face as he kicks, the straight line of his mouth as he concentrates, blue-green eyes narrowing slightly as he stares down the ball, tongue peeking out slightly at the moment of impact. Her gaze transfers to the ball as it flies in a straight, true arc, sailing through the goal posts before bouncing once, twice, three times after it returns to earth before settling on the track among ten or eleven others.
"Damn boy," she says, breaking the silence that has encased their little world, "You can really kick," she finishes, and he shrugs slightly in a way that reminds her of earlier today in a way that's really almost painful. It takes a lot to resist the urge to ask him if he's okay for the hundredth time since he missed the note, but she does and simply sets the next ball up.
They continue like this for a while, him swinging his leg in that naturally gifted way that sends the ball 47 yards to the goalposts and beyond, and her keeping silent mostly, simply setting up the next ball for him to whack. The only time either of them speaks is when she compliments a particularly good kick and he thanks her sadly.
Finally, the large pile of footballs that once existed next to Kurt's discarded helmet and pads has been exhausted by his powerful kicks, but he doesn't seem ready to go home yet, so she follows him as he goes to retrieve the balls from the track where most of them rest. As he encases the first one in his large hand, she can see how much it's shaking and goes over to him.
"Kurt?" she asks, keeping her voice soft as she lays a caring hand on his thin elbow.
He looks up at her, and without the concentration of kicking to hide behind, his icy warm eyes look almost breakable. She carefully removes the football from his hand, tossing it carelessly behind her, and pulls him with her to a comfortable looking spot where they can sit and talk.
"I know you ain't feeling your best, boy, so why don't you take a break and tell me what's up?" she asks once they're settled. He shrugs slightly, and she shakes her head and tangles her hand with his in a companionable way (or at least that's what she tells her self in her head, as her stomach does flip-flops as his fingers lace through hers and squeeze slightly).
"It's not nothing, so stop with the shrugging. I'm your best friend, Kurt Hummel, and I've heard you sing that song plenty of times before. You can hit that note. I know you can. Why'd you miss it today?" she asks, squeezing his hand, observing the way that her entire small hand nearly fits in his large palm. His hands and feet are ridiculously large for a person with such a slight frame. He's fairly tall, but his hands and feet look almost cartoonish at times, extending from such thin limbs.
"My dad," comes the response, croaked out of throat that obviously hasn't really been used since he'd missed that note.
She knows Kurt's dad, and she knows that he'd never ask Kurt to miss that note. Hell, he'd been the one to stand up for him in the first place. So she keeps quiet, waiting for him to continue.
He takes a deep breath, one that shakes his chest slightly and makes her want to pull him into a tight hug and never let go, and continues, "He- he got a call yesterday, about me. Someone, someone called him and told him his son was a, a," he pauses for a moment for another gasp of trembling air, "a fag. And he was devastated. I'm used to that kind of stuff, but he's not. He never had to deal with that."
"Oh, Kurt," she said, wanting to nothing more then to pull him into a hug, but still resisting the urge.
"It's okay. Really. I wanted that solo badly, but," yet another quivering breath, "I couldn't do it to my dad. Imagine the phone calls if I got up on stage and sang a girl's song for a thousand people?" he said, face just as broken as his eyes, which refused to look at her, instead studying the wrinkles on the back of his knee as he sat Indian style.
"Kurt, baby, are you afraid to tell your dad, and that's the reason you've been kicking super long field goals for the past hour and a half?" she asked, but he shook his head quickly.
"It relaxes me. It's very strange, but for some reason, pummeling a ball down a football field and through two long metal poles makes me feel better. Maybe cause it's finally something I can do well without having to worry about what people will say about it to my dad," he says, almost spitefully, and she's done fighting the urge to hug him, She pulls him to her with her free arm, trapping their entangled hands between their stomachs (and, God, she has to fight whispering to him something about how their hands fit together, cause it's not something she can say to him and have their relationship stay the same, and also because it sounds far too much like some cheesy line you'd hear in a Top 40 pop love song).
"Kurt Hummel, you are goddamn good at lots of things, and don't you ever give a care about what anybody who doesn't love you says, okay. 'Cause they dumb idiots any way," she said, and he laughs softly at her use of the phrase dumb idiots, which she might have used in a simple attempt to earn a cheap laugh from him.
"Thanks, Mercedes," he said, and she can feel his smile against her shoulder. He seems to be breathing normally now, his chest stable as he draws in breaths, not gasps of air, and the normal pitch and strength of his voice is returning.
"You've got some talking to do with your dad, it sounds," she said, releasing him from her hug, but not letting go of his hand (and he doesn't seem to want to either, which gives her a ridiculous little glimmer of hope that's simply wonderful), "You need a ride?"
"No, I finally got my car back. Dad thought I deserved something for helping him out in the shop so much lately," he said, a ghost of his usual brilliant smile gracing his face, giving her hope that he really will be okay.
She was just about to let go of his hand when he tugged her to him slightly and kissed her cheek softly.
"Thank you, Mercedes, for being you. In all your wonderful amazingness," he whispered against her skin before he pulled back and looked sweetly into her eyes (she nearly melted, and told him she loved him at the same time, but restrained herself. Maybe someday, but not today).
"You're welcome, Kurt. Keep your head up, and talk to your dad," she said, before giving him one last hug before watching him walk away. Mercedes Jones had done good work today.
Soooo, that ended up just a little more shippy then I meant it to, but I really quite pleased with it. I think I got Mercedes voice and Kurt's upset!voice pretty well, but I guess you'll all just have to tell me in a review. Also, people keep talking about these other Kurt/Mercedes fics that they read to compare to my last one, but I haven't been able to find any. Rec please?
Thanks for reading.