Kurt & Rachel
Kurt woke to the sound of a thump and a cut-off screech. Blearily, he opened his eyes to see a mop of brown hair lift itself from the floor in front of…was he lying on a couch?
The figure in front of him groaned and curled itself back into the carpet, muttering something about a Tony award. "Rachel?" he rasped. Okay, wow—movement bad. Movement very, very bad. He closed his eyes and lay still. "Rachel," he whispered carefully, "why do I feel like an entire line of Gucci stiletto models just catwalked over my head?"
Her response sounded something like "groan mumble mumble ow mumble."
He tried opening his eyes again and found that, yes, he was in fact lying on a couch, in an unfamiliar room that was definitely not a hotel (unless the interior designer was blind as well as an illegal immigrant—American flag curtains? Seriously?). And now the stripes were going right to his stomach. Deep breathes, Kurt, deep breathes. You will not throw up on Rachel. You will not throw up on Rachel. You will not—
"Oh Prada, look out…" Kurt hopped over his frenemy, hit the coffee table with a shin and in a superb football move twisted himself toward the open kitchen area and wrenched the lid off the trash can just in time to meet the peppermint-flavored contents of his stomach. He heard an "oh, God" behind him as Rachel stumbled down the hall, probably in search of the bathroom. Bracing himself on the rim of the can, Kurt closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to pass. He knew the feeling of a hangover, and he knew that he must have drunk way more alcohol last night than was sane. The smell of peppermint was bringing back images of lights and dancing, loud techno-drums and laughter and city streets and…Oh holy Prada, was that a ring on his finger?
He lifted his left hand to his face and stared. It was a ring. On his ring finger. A definitely not gold ring with three not white-gold stripes. Did he mention it was on his ring finger? On his left hand?
Kurt scrabbled at the ring (NOT gold), trying to pull it off but it wouldn't budge. Oh no, it was too tight. It was cutting off his circulation! Soon his finger would turn purple, and then he would get gangrene, and he would have to cut it off, and then he could never be a hand model—if the opportunity should ever arise, after all who knew what interns were required to do in the fashion industry—
A hand touched his shoulder and he jumped (and may have shrieked, but no one has to know that). "Вы хорошо, дороги?" asked a woman's voice. A very female, very unfamiliar, very not-English woman's voice.
She was blond, blue-eyed, possibly Russian, and old enough to be his mother. "Um, hi," he said nervously. "Is this your place?" she just looked at him, puzzled. "Okay. No English?" She shook her head with a smile. "Right. Okay. Um, sorry about…" he waved in the direction of the trash can. She gave him a sympathetic look and went over to the sink, grabbing a small (red white and blue) towel and holding it under the tap. "Ni-nice apartment" he said weakly, trying again to subtly pull the ring off his finger. "Love the flag. Yay, America. Please tell me we're not married."
"Oh, my head," Rachel moaned, tip-toeing into the room from the hallway. She navigated blindly, one hand and most of her hair covering her eyes and the other hand tracing along the wall in front of her. "I swear, as long as I live, I will never, ever, ever drink again. Do you have any idea of the damage that bile can do to your throat? Lesions. Scarring. Raspy voice syndrome. Oh God, I can not pull off Janis Joplin. Well, I'm sure I can, but I don't think Broadway has many—oh!" At this point, she had finally peeked through her fingers and spotted the older blond woman watching her from Kurt's side, where she dabbed the wet cloth in her hand against his aching forehead. He eyed Rachel pleadingly, hoping that she knew the woman or at least knew how they had ended up in her apartment.
Rachel glanced between them and straightened up, holding out her hand for the woman to shake. "Hello," she said brightly, "I'm Rachel Berry, lead singer of the New Directions and future Broadway star." Kurt groaned. If not for the pained pinch in her red-rimmed eyes, he might hate her for unleashing such a horribly, horribly sunny smile in such a horrible, horrible situation. The unlikely-to-ever-be-named blond woman shook her hand with a (so far permanently) confused smile. Rachel soldiered on, "And you are?"
"Undetermined," Kurt said flatly. Rachel's grin weakened slightly. "She doesn't speak English."
"Oh." She brightened again. "IT'S NICE TO MEET YOU," she said in a loud, drawn out voice. The poor woman winced. "THANK YOU," she put her palms together in a little Japanese bow, "FOR LETTING US—"
"Rachel!" Kurt hissed.
"-STAY THE NIGHT IN YOUR LOVELY HOME."
"Rachel, she's Russian, not deaf!"
She gave him a strange look. "How do you know?"
"Because—"
"доброе утро, свет," said a male voice from the hall. Kurt and Rachel froze, while the older woman turned to welcome the newcomer with a smile. Strike that—there were more than one. An older man, also blond, and what were presumably their two children, a boy and girl who looked around Kurt and Rachel's age, all crowded into the kitchen, speaking cheerily in that Russian-sounding language. Rachel snuck closer to Kurt's side while the family greeted each other with kisses.
"Do you recognize any of them?" Kurt whispered.
Rachel shook her head mournfully. "I have absolutely no idea who any of these people are. How in the world did we get here last night?"
"I don't know. I don't remember a thing." He glanced down at his finger. Was his skin turning blue?
Rachel gasped. "Kurt, is that a ring?"
"What? No!" He covered it with his hand as she made to grab at his finger. "It's, um, oh—look! Coffee!"
The woman had turned her attention to the coffee machine while her family now watched Kurt and Rachel with differing levels of concern. Kurt batted away Rachel's groping hand with a nervous laugh. "Ah, I don't suppose one of you speaks English?" he tried.
The older man approached them with a stern look on his face and said something in the kind of voice that made Kurt worry that he might get shot for not understanding a word of it. The man looked them both in the eye for a very long, nerve-wracking moment, then clapped his hands to Kurt's shoulders. Kurt whimpered.
"добро пожаловать в семью," he said. He clapped his shoulders again (no, Kurt's knees did not buckle) and slapped his back once for good measure. The slap pushed Kurt forward a step toward the next family member, this time the girl. She also gave Kurt a short speech, her voice serious but her eyes sly and amused. Before he could stop her, she pinched his cheek and pulled him in for a very stiff hug.
Kurt heard a distinct snicker from behind him and gave his former-friend the evil side-eye.
Finally the girl moved aside to reveal her brother, a short blond boy who was pretty enough to give Kurt cavities just from looking at him. He smiled at Kurt bashfully and then threw his arms around the taller boy's neck and planted a kiss on his lips.
Kurt's arms flew up in the universal sign of 'WTF?'
He stumbled back into the (peppermint-smelling) trash can and almost knocked it over in his haste to detach himself from the deranged boy. "What—what are—who—ugh!" he cried, wiping his mouth furiously.
Rachel grabbed at Kurt's arm in shock as she pointed at the Russian boy's hand. "Kurt, look!" she said. "Look at his finger!"
Bemused, but noticing Rachel's interest in his hand, the Russian boy raised it in front of him with a wide smile. "да," he said cheerily. "Я - ваш муж. Разве Америка не замечательна?"
The ring on his finger looked exactly like Kurt's. Three not white-gold stripes and all.
Kurt may or may not have screamed.
**Translations, in order of appearance (according to random online English to Russian translator. Apologies if you know Russian! ;D ):
Are you all right, dear?
Good morning, sunshine.
Welcome to the family.
Yes. I am your husband. Isn't America wonderful?
