Disclaimer (whoops, totally forgot to put one of these up in the first chapter): All things Glee belong to Ryan Murphy and friends. Not the bad puns, though: those are all mine. I'm not making any money off this piece of writing, as is abundantly clear to all those who know me in real life.
AN: Firstly, a big, gaudy and glittery Thank You! to all who read and reviewed. I don't think I have ever squealed so hard in my life as I did when I read all those lovely words you guys sent me. No, seriously: evidently I can reach a pitch only dogs and large bats could hear. It is because of those wonderful, terrific, awesome, splendiferous reviews of yours that I'm here proudly presenting this second installment now, since technically I should have been studying for my uber-important finals that are coming up ... crap, tomorrow ... instead of working on this story. That being said, I wouldn't expect another chapter for a while - I really will have to concentrate on the exams I didn't study for, which are happening all this week. After that, though, I am free to write to my heart's content.
Oh, and that thing I said about not writing any more chapters as long as the first one? Yeah, totally lied. I think this second chapter is longer by two hundred words, or something.
Chapter Two: Burt's Interrogation
All things considered, Kurt supposed that the evening could have started off much worse than it did. True, his heart was still thumping uncomfortably fast and the hand he had used to tug Blaine along behind him was clenched so tightly it was beginning to cramp - but nobody had cried yet, which was always considered a plus during mealtimes in the house Kurt Hummel's acerbic tongue lived. And while there had been some blood spilled, Finn cracking his head on the lighting fixture above the kitchen island was a daily occurrence, as the lumbering boy always failed to remember that, though the rest of the family could function perfectly fine underneath it, that particular lamp was hung in a location primed to concuss him. But Finn being abominably clumsy and accident-prone was common knowledge; that his forehead smacked into the lamp at the precise moment Kurt and Blaine stepped through the kitchen doorway was nothing more than coincidence partnered together with bad timing and low blood-sugar. Finn's depth perception always suffered when he was functioning on an empty stomach, everyone knew this, and therefore Kurt decided to construe his step-brother's bloodied left eyebrow, not as an ill omen for the outcome of the evening, but instead as an unconventional ice-breaker.
"Remember to use the towels under the sink, honey," Carole called out helpfully as her son rushed past, a hand clamped over his eye, the other flailing about in front of him as a means to ward off any other unseen hazards he might encounter on his trek to the bathroom. "The ones on the towel rack are new." She turned to Kurt and Blaine with a cheerful smile. "We're so happy you could join us tonight, Blaine."
It was lucky that Kurt had had the foresight to mention the probability of bloodshed during the course of their evening to Blaine, for it allowed a quicker recovery time, and Blaine was all dapperness and smiles again after only a few shock-filled seconds. "Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Hummel," he replied politely. He looked over his shoulder to watch Finn's slow progress down the hall. "Should someone go with him?" he asked Kurt in an undertone, sounding concerned, and wincing sympathetically when Finn tripped himself with his own foot.
Kurt, who had flattened himself against the wall when Finn barreled past, had straightened up and was now attempting to fix his hair with one hand. "He'll be fine," he said dismissively, not even bothering to glance at his brother's retreating back. "We removed everything with sharp edges from the hall after Finn's blender incident last month."
Blaine appeared both intrigued and alarmed by this. He opened his mouth to speak - presumably to ask Kurt for a more detailed explanation - but something seemed to catch Blaine's attention, because he closed his mouth abruptly, his gaze snapping forward, and an odd, garbled noise emitting from his throat. Kurt, who could feel the tension suddenly wafting from the usually unflappable boy next to him, stopped fussing with his hair and looked at Blaine inquiringly, frowning slightly. What had gotten into him?
The answer came to Kurt almost instantly, wearing red flannel, a gray baseball cap, and leaking an aura of poorly-hidden hostility.
Kurt had been so busy repairing the damage Finn's hasty exit from the kitchen had caused his hair, that he had not noticed the looming form of his father making its way around the island counter until it was too late. Burt now stood right in front of him and Blaine, arms crossed and expression inscrutable as he eyed the pair of them beadily. His gaze flickered downwards briefly, and Kurt audibly gulped when he belatedly remembered that he and Blaine were still holding hands. Resolve crumbling pathetically in the face of his father's scrutiny, Kurt smiled weakly and tried to let go. Blaine was having none of that, however; whether he was trying to be courageous, or was paralyzed by fear, Kurt couldn't tell, but the shorter boy's hand had clenched painfully around his, and Kurt was sure nothing short of a crowbar and a blow torch would be separating them any time soon. And when Kurt remembered his dad not only owned several blow torches, but used them on a regular basis as well, he was overcome by a bout of high-pitched, panic-stricken laughter.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Kurt, his tendency to dissolve into maniacal giggling whenever a situation turned dire was as common placed as Finn's penchant for inflicting harm on himself, so rather than look at his son as though he were loonier than a pocketful of Canadian change, Burt merely waited until Kurt regained control of himself before asking gruffly, "This mean what I think it means, Kurt?"
He gestured to their hands.
Kurt wavered. For a very brief second, he entertained the tempting notion of denying it, of shaking his head and explaining to Burt that hand-holding was the gay version of a high-five - his dad, as clueless as he was about most things homosexual, would probably believe him - thus successfully delaying the inevitable interrogation until the following weekend … or year. Or never. Whichever.
But then Blaine squeezed his hand and whispered, "Courage," out the side of his mouth, and that fluttery feeling in Kurt's stomach was back with a vengeance as he was reminded of the amount of unending support he had behind him. It would be so stupid of Kurt not to want to show his amazing new boyfriend off, and the absolute last thing he wanted was for Blaine to ever think Kurt was ashamed, when he very much was not, and so he gathered his fleeing courage together, took in a deep breath and, before he could chicken out, nodded his head mutely.
Burt gazed at his son for a breath. He did not appear all that surprised. "I see." He turned, and that steady gaze was now resting fully on Blaine. The set of Burt's jaw was taut and grim as he regarded the boy, his expression stoic with just a hint of unfriendly around the eyes.
Kurt was not an expert, but he was fairly sure knuckles were not meant to crunch together the way his currently were, locked so tightly within Blaine's death grip. It was plain to see that Blaine was not faring well under Burt's incessant gaze. The hand Kurt was holding was growing damp, and he watched as Blaine swallowed thickly several times. Kurt hadn't even known it was possible for a person's skin to turn that particular shade of green, and he was therefore startled when Blaine, instead of falling to the ground dead-like in an attempt fool Burt (which is what Kurt would have done, had their positions been reversed), straightened to his full height, squared his shoulders bravely, and put on his best showman's smile.
"Mr. Hummel," Blaine said; Kurt was impressed and a little envious by how steady Blaine's voice was - he hadn't squeaked once. Blaine unclamped their hands with difficulty, then offered his to Burt instead. "It's nice to see you again, sir."
Burt stared down at Blaine's outstretched hand in a way that had Kurt fighting down more nervous giggles; it was as though his father were mentally cataloguing every tool he owned based on the amount of damage it could inflict upon the limb currently proffered to him. The seconds ticked by in strained silence, with Kurt and Carole gazing uncertainly between Burt and Blaine, both of whom were standing unnaturally still. Kurt could not fathom why his father had yet to move, either to shake Blaine's hand or remove him bodily from the house; but Blaine made it perfectly clear, by the slight widening of his eyes and the anxious grimace his smile was slowly morphing into, that he feared any sudden movements on his part would have Burt rushing in for the kill.
The seconds lengthened in unbearable silence, until there was a clattering from the hall, causing everyone in the kitchen to flinch and (in Kurt's case, though he would vehemently deny it later) shriek. Then, in all his galumphing glory, Finn returned, ducking his head between Kurt and Blaine and smiling obliviously, a Spongebob band-aid plastered across his eyebrow.
"Dudes, why are you just standing around?" he asked, looking from Kurt to Blaine and back again; the dopey look Finn wore was magnified ten-fold by his ridiculous bandage. "Time for food!" He shouldered his way into the kitchen - Kurt squawked indignantly as he was shoved up against the wall a second time - and asked his mother what plates he should set for dinner.
And just like that, the staring contest was over. While Carole turned away to ensure Finn did not stab himself with the knives he had just pulled from the cutlery drawer, Burt took a step toward Blaine. Blaine sucked in a steadying breath and closed his eyes. Forming the same conclusions Blaine had apparently reached, Kurt eyed his father warily, but before he could come to his senses and pull his boyfriend out of harm's way, Burt had darted forward, and he and Blaine were suddenly grasping hands and shaking. Blaine opened his eyes slowly, blinking down at his hand as though surprised to find it still attached to his wrist. Kurt found himself studying his father's expression closely, searching for some small sign of deceit, afraid the hand-shaking was merely a ruse, or perhaps part of an elaborate trap.
"Blaine." Burt drew out the name slowly, appraisingly, and in a way that had Blaine's eyes widening a fraction more. Burt noticed this, and must have been pleased by the anxiety he was invoking in his son's suitor, because soon he was wearing a grin that showed off far too much teeth to ever be labeled as warm and inviting.
"You're looking a little nervous, kid," he continued, his tone light and casual. They were still shaking hands as Burt leaned in closer to Blaine, making the contrast between their heights more prevalent; Blaine had to tip his chin up to keep eye contact, and the poor boy did not seem comfortable with exposing quite so much of his neck. Burt's grin widened. "More nervous than the last time we talked, even. You remember the last time we talked, there, Blaine?"
An odd little spasm seemed to ripple through Blaine's shoulders, an abrupt and jerky movement, and Kurt felt his eyebrow slowly raise as he looked back and forth from his father to his boyfriend. He was beginning to feel as though he was missing an important thread to the conversation.
Blaine cleared his throat several times before responding. "Y-yes, sir." Kurt's second eyebrow joined the first. Did Blaine just stutter? Blaine didn't stutter! Never, in all the time Kurt had known him, had Blaine ever stuttered.
Kurt did not like the look his father was wearing. It was contemplative. Burt Hummel didn't do contemplative. Sensing danger, Kurt opened his mouth to speak, but before he could think of anything to say other than, Please don't hurt his face!, Burt held up his free hand to silence him, not once removing his eyes from Blaine's.
"We're just having a friendly conversation, Kurt, that's all," he said easily, before returning to Blaine. "D'you remember what it was you talked to me about, kid?"
Blaine nodded his head. His stage smile was still fixed firmly in place, though it was looking increasingly pained every second he stood there with his hand clasped by Burt's.
"Thought you might." Burt still spoke lightly, as if he and Blaine were simply discussing the weather, but something in his gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. Kurt thought his father's smile looked a smidge more intimidating than it had a second ago, and although his dad had finally stopped shaking Blaine's hand, he did not relinquish his hold on the other's fingers just yet; Blaine's eyes flickered down to his wrist, looking wary and wildly distrustful, and Kurt wondered whether Blaine was regretting his rash decision to allow Burt the golden opportunity of inflicting physical damage on the boy who was dating his only son.
Burt's smile was looking remarkably feral by this point. "Don't suppose the reason you're so nervous right now has anything to do with that little chat you and me had, does it, buddy?"
Kurt didn't know whether he would categorize the short, stuttering laugh that escaped Blaine at these words as hysterical - Blaine was still smiling, after all, even if he did look a little shell-shocked - but it held an edge of something distinctly uncomfortable. Blaine's shoulders hitched, and the hand being held captive by Kurt's dad flexed; it almost looked as though Blaine was trying to free himself from Burt's clutches, and failing miserably at it.
"No - ah, no sir," he fumbled, his grin slipping a few notches as he gritted his teeth; Kurt saw his hand flex again.
Burt cocked his head to the side, squinting down at Blaine. His speaking was completely effortless when he asked, "You sure about that, Blaine?"
There was no mistaking it this time: the threat was prominent in the quiet manner his father enunciated Blaine's name, and Kurt was sure he saw Blaine's knees buckle ever-so-slightly when Burt unexpectedly tightened his grip. Fearing for the well-being of Blaine's digits - he strummed his guitar with that hand! - Kurt looked desperately over to his step-mother, wishing for her to intervene. Most unfortunately, Carole was preoccupied: Finn had somehow managed to get the salad scoops twisted in his T-shirt, and Carole was busy fussing with the camera on her phone, trying to snap a picture of the spectacle that was her son before he freed himself. And since Kurt could not count on Finn escaping the clutches of the salad tongs any time soon, as normally the blundering teen needed help figuring out which way his socks went, he knew there would be no help from that corner.
But as it turned out, an intervention would not be necessary. While it was true Blaine was visibly shaking under the formidable presence of the boyfriend's father, he wasn't known as Dapper Blaine for nothing. Blaine Anderson flourished under pressure, was born for it - a quality which made him a force to be reckoned with during performances. He always managed to melt the iciest of hearts with a few well-placed winks, or change the most hardened of opinions with a flirty smile or two. The young Warbler had yet to meet a show judge he could not woo, and Burt Hummel was nothing more than an exceptionally critical adjudicator …
A burly hand clamped down, hard, onto Blaine's shoulder. "You understand what I'm saying, here, kid?"
… A truly intimidating, mildly frightening, exceptionally critical adjudicator.
"Absolutely, Mr. Hummel, sir." Blaine's voice, while still very strained, was also clear, and Kurt felt a trickle of admiration begin to fill him as he watched his boyfriend conquer his flight instinct. Though he was still completely lost about what it was his dad and Blaine were talking about, because as far as Kurt knew, the two of them had never partaken in conversation with each other before, unless one counted the breakfast debacle after Rachel Berry's party, wherein Burt said "grr" and Blaine threw up on the door mat. Kurt sure didn't count it, since he was the one who had to clean the door mat, and could attest to the fact Blaine hadn't done all that much talking.
"I can assure you, sir," Blaine continued, his voice growing stronger with every second that passed without Burt striking him, "that I had only the best of intentions then. The same as I do now," he hastily added, when one of Burt's eyebrows rose in a fashion eerily similar to Kurt's. "I have nothing but the utmost respect for your son, sir." He smiled a watered-down version of his heart-stopping grin, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Kurt felt his stomach flop pleasantly. "My mother raised me to be a gentleman."
Kurt thought this a terrific tactic of Blaine's, slyly inserting a mention of his mother into the conversation, because then Burt would feel less inclined to murder him if he knew the boy had loved ones who would wonder at his absence.
Amazingly, it seemed to do the trick; after staring hard at Blaine for a few more beats, Burt nodded his head slowly, and finally released Blaine's hand.
"You know what, kiddo?" he said, and Kurt let out a sigh of relief when his dad's face broke into a much more natural, easy-going grin. "I think she did." He chortled at Blaine's flabbergasted look. "Come on." Burt had both hands on Blaine's shoulders now, and was steering him toward the table in the next room. "You can sit next to me."
Blaine glanced over at Kurt, distressed. Kurt could only shrug back, equally nonplussed. He was still trying to process what had just happened, and whether or not his father had just, in his own gruff way, given him and Blaine his blessing.
"Kurt?"
Burt, Carole, and Finn were seated around their dinner table. Blaine was standing between two empty places, looking awkward yet endearing as he held out one of the chairs, waiting for Kurt to join them.
Kurt felt his soppy look return full-force, and he tried very hard not to skip the short distance to the next room.
He wasn't so sure he succeeded, though.
"So," Burt said, clapping his hands together once everyone had settled down, "dig in! Oh …" He eyed Blaine's crisp white button-down and fitted blue dinner jacket dubiously. Kurt thought he knew what was puzzling his father: it was a rarity to have more than one well-dressed male seated at a Hummel-Hudson meal. "You're not one of them churchy types that say grace before each meal, are you, Blaine?"
"Dad!" Kurt hissed, shocked and embarrassed. "Could you be any more insensitive?"
Burt gave him a what'd I do? shrug. "I was only asking a question, Kurt. Can't a man do that at his own dinner table, or d'you got another list for me to read?"
Kurt frowned at the jibe to his list. He had worked hard on that.
"It's fine if you are, honey," Carole interceded smoothly, shooting Burt a warning look before smiling encouragingly at Blaine.
Blaine returned her smile. "My family isn't religious," he replied easily. "My mom tries to get us to say grace during holidays, or when company's over, but my dad grumbles about it." Blaine took a bite of casserole. "This is delicious, Mrs. Hummel."
Carole beamed and Kurt suppressed a smile. Blaine would have no troubles getting on Carole's good side now. She loved anyone who complimented her cooking, and that included Noah Puckerman.
"So do you live at home during the school year, then, Blaine?" Carole asked as she passed Kurt the salad bowl.
"No, I stay in the dormitories," said Blaine, accepting the bread basket from Burt without making eye-contact. "Dalton has really nice rooming facilities."
"Do your parents live very far from Westerville?"
Blaine hesitated for only half a second. "They live just south of Columbus, actually."
"Oh." Carole seemed surprised by this. "Well, it must be nice having them so close by. They probably visit you all the time."
Blaine smiled politely but didn't say anything.
"Blaine has his own room," Kurt piped up, looking pointedly at his father as he spoke. He and Burt had argued for days over whether or not Kurt should board at Dalton during the week. Burt had been adamant that Kurt live at home and keep close to the family, while Kurt had tried to convince his dad that commuting nearly two hours each way five days a week was a terrible idea in the current economic state, not to mention morally reprehensible in regards to gas emissions and the depleting environment. He had nearly convinced Burt, too, until Finn had come up with the brilliant idea of him and Kurt switching cars during the week.
The alarming possibility of Finn driving his baby to McKinley had Kurt quickly abandoning his campaign for boarding at Dalton, and he instead had had to focus all of his exemplary negotiation skills (and a binder devoted to screenshots of his step-brother's more risqué website perusals) toward convincing his father he would be mocked off school grounds if he showed up for his first day driving Finn's beat up old station wagon. It had been a close call, and Burt was continuously griping about the rising gas prices, but Kurt easily ignored this, because really now - how was Kurt expected to coordinate outfits with wooden paneling? He may have an eye for fashion most grown women would maim for, but even he wasn't that good.
"Dude, you get your own room? Awesome," Finn said - or at least, that's what Kurt assumed Finn said; it was hard to tell when his brother had half of Carole's casserole stuffed into his cheeks. Kurt sniffed disdainfully when a half-eaten piece of broccoli tumbled out of his step-brother's gaping, black hole of a mouth; Finn's actions were a blatant disregard of rule number seven, and proved to Kurt that his father and brother had not taken his list seriously.
Finn tore a chunk off a bread roll and swigged some milk before asking Blaine thickly, "Is it like going to college?"
"Not really," Blaine answered, hardly batting an eye at Finn's impromptu squirrel impression; Kurt didn't know how Blaine managed to watch Finn chew without feeling ill. "There's a feeling of independence most boarders experience, being away from their parents, but the teachers and monitors are big on structure and abiding by the rules. We have a curfew, for one thing, and we're not allowed to leave school grounds after six o'clock during school nights."
"Nothing wrong with having a bit of structure," Burt grunted as he reached for a second helping of casserole; Kurt pushed the salad bowl closer to him with an arched eyebrow, and Burt sighed heavily.
"Oh, I agree, sir," Blaine responded immediately, nodding his head emphatically, and Kurt had to hide his chuckle behind a cough. He was almost positive Blaine would agree to running six blocks uphill with a bag of rocks in each hand if it meant gaining Burt's favor.
"These rules," Burt began, spooning some leafy greens onto his plate with a disgruntled look, "they say anything about having visitors in your room?"
There was a dull thunk as something collided with the underside of the table. Everyone turned to Blaine, who was diligently eating his dinner, the back of his neck beginning to redden.
Once again, Kurt could sense imminent danger approaching. "Day students are allowed to visit the dorms until six during the weekdays," he informed his father curtly. He snatched the bottle of blue cheese dressing out of Burt's hand and replaced it with a raspberry vinaigrette instead. "Weekends are open."
Burt scowled briefly at the bottle in his hand, before reluctantly uncapping it and sprinkling its contents over his salad. "What's that mean, 'open'?" he directed at Kurt.
There was a pause, while Kurt tried to word his response in a way that did not make it seem as though he had been actively researching it - even though he had. Thoroughly. "It means there aren't any visiting hours, Dad. People can stay as long as they want when there isn't school the next morning. There's something about signing over-night guests in with a hall monitor -"
"It's so the monitors know how many people are in the buildings in case of an emergency," Blaine supplied knowledgably. Then he blanched. "Not that I know that because I've ever signed someone in for an overnight, or anything," he blurted, wide-eyed, "because I haven't. Ever. Not - not even friends."
Everyone was looking at Blaine again, who coughed uncomfortably and stared down at his plate in apparent mortification. Kurt could sympathize; it seemed he wasn't the only one dealing with a malfunctioning brain-mouth connector that evening. Kurt rubbed Blaine's knee comfortingly, but the unexpected touch only caused the tense boy to jerk violently and bump the table again.
Carole decided to take pity and change the subject. "Kurt tells us you're a Buckeyes fan," she said coaxingly to Blaine. "Did you make it to any games last season?"
Blaine appeared immensely grateful for the change in subject, and he answered Carole with a vigor Kurt only half-believed was fabricated. Finn, who up until this point had been busy inhaling his third helping of casserole, perked up eagerly at the mention of his favorite college football team, and soon he and Blaine were deeply engrossed in an animated discussion about the legendary Buckeye-Wolverine rivalry, with Carole and even Burt occasionally adding to the conversation. Kurt had a feeling his father was grudgingly impressed by Blaine's advanced knowledge of football, if the way his dad shot Blaine a stunned glance when he began naming his favorite players was any indication.
The sports talk lasted all the way to dessert. Normally when this happened, Kurt would pout, loudly complain about feeling excluded, and demand they discuss at least one article from his latest issue of Vogue. This time, though, he found himself not caring overly much. Sitting there and watching the way Blaine's eyes lit up with enthusiasm as he spoke about something he clearly enjoyed was more than enough to keep Kurt pleasantly content, without feeling a need to enter the conversation or change the subject.
And anyway, even if Kurt had been bored sitting there listening to the dull discussion about quarterbacks and runner backs and whatever-backs, there were other ways he could keep himself entertained. Due to the close proximity of Burt and his healthy fear of the man, Blaine had kept his feet planted stubbornly against the wooden floor for the entire duration of dinner. Since Kurt did not share his boyfriend's fear of castration should Burt become privy to any shenanigans (even shenanigans as innocent as footsie under the dinner table), he had taken it upon himself to casually rub his foot against Blaine's ankle whenever the other boy would speak. Kurt found the way Blaine's voice faltered slightly whenever he felt Kurt's foot move delightfully hilarious, and when Blaine took advantage of a pause in the conversation to shoot a withering glower at him, Kurt just smiled innocently and rubbed his foot higher.
Later, after the dinner dishes had been cleared away and everybody had eaten at least two of Kurt's homemade, low-fat brownies, Burt addressed Blaine again.
"You know, Blaine," he said, as he smothered his third brownie with a generous dollop of whipped cream, "for all the yapping Kurt does when it comes to you, I still feel as though we don't know all that much about you."
"Dad," Kurt began warily, instantly distrustful of his father's motives, "remember the list …"
"Your fancy list didn't say nothing about getting to know your friend, Kurt," Burt replied calmly. "I'm allowed to ask questions, ain't I?" He took a bite of his dessert, before gesturing with his fork for Blaine to begin.
Blaine took a moment to swallow his own mouthful of brownie before he asked cautiously, "What would you like to know, sir?"
"Well, we know you enjoy football - d'you like any other sports?"
"Oh, sure," said Blaine, relaxing subtlely into his chair. "I watch baseball during the summer, and me and my dad used to go golfing."
"Your dad, huh?" Burt focused his attention back on his plate. "And what does he do?"
"He's a CFO," Blaine responded automatically. "Works in downtown Columbus in one of the large investment firms there."
"And no, Finn, that has nothing to do with extra terrestrials," Kurt interrupted with an eye roll, knowing the wild leap his brother's mind had made before he even opened his mouth.
"… Oh." Finn looked almost disappointed. Carole shook her head sadly behind her hand.
"Does your mom work?" Burt continued with his interrogating, undeterred, and Kurt wondered frustratingly just how many more questions his dad was going to ask.
Blaine was a trooper, though, and had yet to show any sign of discomfort at Burt's mildly invasive inquiry. "She's an event coordinator at the community center near their house," he said.
"Huh." There was a pause in the questioning, and for a moment Kurt was hopeful his father had run out of queries to pepper Blaine with.
But then -
"So how many relationships you been in, Blaine?"
Kurt screeched, "Dad!" at the same moment Carole cried, "Burt!"
"Rule number ten, Dad!" Kurt all but shrieked. "No asking the dinner guest about past relationships! It's on the list!"
"That was the worst segue I've ever heard," Carole admonished her husband, sounding exasperated. "Really, Burt, if you were any blunter, you'd have small birds following you around, trying to crack walnuts open on your head!"
Finn chortled at the visual this provided.
Burt did his What, me? look again. "I'm just curious, is all," he smirked, clearly enjoying the reactions he had extracted from his son and wife.
Kurt turned to Blaine. "You do not have to answer that question."
But Blaine, to Kurt's utter amazement, was actually still smiling.
"It's all right," he said, placing a placating hand on Kurt's arm when the other started puffing up indignantly on his behalf. "I don't mind."
"No, Blaine, Kurt's right," said Carole, instantly siding with her step-son. "Burt is being completely inappropriate, and he's going to stop immediately." She glared across the table at her husband. "Aren't you, Burt?"
Burt appeared totally unrepentant as he pushed away his empty dessert plate and leaned back in his chair leisurely. "Blaine doesn't mind my questions, do you, kid?"
"I don't," Blaine affirmed. "I really don't," he repeated when Kurt scoffed disbelievingly. "I totally understand where you're coming from, Mr. Hummel." He smiled thinly at Burt, who blinked back, caught off guard. "And the answer to your question is none."
Everyone stilled, even Kurt, who had been seconds away from crisply informing his dad he could expect nothing but celery sticks and bean sprouts for dinner over the course of the next month. All eyes were focused on Blaine once more, and for the first time that evening, the boy seemed perfectly comfortable with that fact.
Finn was the first one to speak.
"Dude," he said, shaking his head softly, and Kurt amazed at the amount of sympathy his brother could inject into just one word. Because after all, it was Finn."That's rough."
Blaine shrugged modestly. "Nothing but the truth."
"Wait, so, nothing at all?" Burt sounded incredulous, and Kurt wondered whether or not his dad was actively trying to humiliate him. "Not even before you - y'know - figured out your … preferences?"
Blaine shook his head in the negative.
"Huh." Burt didn't seem to know how to respond to that. He scratched at his slightly distended stomach absently as he pondered what Blaine said. "No shame in it, bud," he said finally, sounding almost apologetic for bringing it up, "I guess I just assumed, since Kurt dated that girl last year and all -"
Next to Blaine, Kurt froze. His father had not just said what Kurt thought he said … he glared accusingly at Burt, feeling utterly betrayed.
Blaine wheeled around to stare at him. "You dated a what?"
Kurt groaned, horrified by Blaine's disbelieving look, and hid his face in his hands. He was hallucinating, he must be, because there was no way Burt had just told Blaine about his pathetic attempt at playing straight. Kurt peeked through the gaps in his fingers, and saw that Blaine was watching him, looking totally gob-smacked. Kurt found himself desperately wishing for a distraction, anything to steer the conversation away from him, and was heavily disappointed when none came. If there ever was a time in Kurt's life when he believed in a higher power that took sadistic pleasure in causing its creations misery, it was then.
Finn had started to laugh. "Hey, yeah, I remember that!" he guffawed, as chocolate sauce dripped off the end of his chin. "Kurt and Brittany!"
Blaine's brow furrowed. "That tall, blonde girl from Rachel's party?" he asked blankly, trying to recollect his hazy memories from that night. "The one that kept squeaking at me?"
"She thought she was speaking dolphin," Finn supplied with a shrug.
"There's lights on in that girl's head, but nobody's home," Burt commented off-handedly. "Completely out of her tree."
"Sweet girl, though, even if she is confused all the time," Carole added. She stood up and began collecting everyone's plates. Blaine immediately leapt up to help. "Don't trouble yourself, hun, I've go them. Burt?" She looked pointedly at her husband. "Your turn for dishwasher duty."
Kurt thought his father seemed very reluctant to let Blaine out of his sight; Kurt himself desperately wanted his father to just leave already before he let slip some other humiliating aspect about his son's past Blaine did not know about yet. And anyway, Kurt privately felt his father had nothing to worry about in terms of Blaine putting any moves on him: the young Warbler had been favoring his right hand all during dinner, which led Kurt to believe that the unspoken threat Burt had conveyed through their record-breaking handshake was still fresh within his boyfriend's memory.
Carole cleared her throat loudly from the doorway, and Burt huffed. He wasn't a stupid man, and he had been married to Carole long enough to correctly interpret her I-mean-business glare, so after leveling a charged glance at Blaine that had the young man hiding his hands nervously beneath the table, Burt lumbered slowly to his feet and followed his wife into the kitchen.
"Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Hummel," Blaine called sycophantically to Kurt's step-mother's retreating back. When the sounds of the kitchen faucet could be heard in the next room, he sighed audibly and slumped against his seat, looking battle-worn, as though he had just braved the beaches of Normandy with nothing but a broken umbrella as a weapon. He looked over at Kurt.
"Your dad is terrifying," he told him hollowly. Kurt patted his shoulder in commiseration, not bothering to deny it.
Finn pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, stretching his arms languorously above his head and yawning. The yellow Spongebob band-aid was still easily noticeable, standing in stark contrast to his dark-colored eyebrow.
"Burt's not so bad once you get used to him," he offered, glancing down at Blaine and smiling crookedly. He hesitated, then added, "You're a cool dude, Blaine. And I'm, y'know, really sorry I egged your car last month."
Blaine blinked up at the boy towering over him. "That was you?"
Finn ducked his head sheepishly, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like kissed Rachel, then turned to leave the dining room. He paused and glanced back at the two boys still seated at the table when he reached the doorway. "Doesn't mean I won't do it again if you mess around with Kurt, though," he added balefully, ducking out of the room before either of the other boys could respond.
Kurt and Blaine stared after him, their mouths hanging open.
"Do you think my step-mom would be angry with me if I sold him to a circus?" Kurt finally spoke in a deadpan, puckering his lips as he pondered the thought.
Blaine seemed to think it over, too. "It'd probably help if you pointed out how much she'd save on groceries if he were gone."
The two boys grinned at each other as the final vestiges of their tense dinner finally lifted from them.
"Well," Kurt began lightly, sliding out of his seat and waiting for Blaine to do the same. "You managed an entire hour in my father's presence without throwing up on anything -" Blaine glared half-heartedly at him, affronted - "so I think this calls for a celebration." He grabbed Blaine's non-mangled hand and began pulling him toward the living room. "Finn's got a basketball game tonight, which gives us free reign over the television. Do you want to watch Ghost Adventures, or re-runs of The Jersey Shore?"
"Kurt, you hate both of those shows," Blaine felt the need to point out.
Kurt glanced saucily over his shoulder at Blaine as he said in an impish voice, "I'm not planning on actually watching any television tonight, silly boy."
"I heard that!" called an irate voice from the kitchen.
Kurt and Blaine both flinched.
AN#2: So whadya think? Fun fact - I rewrote every interaction Blaine had with Burt after watching the BTW episode. I thought Burt was so freaking awesome in the Figgin's office scene, that I just had to redo his whole over-protective-fatherness. He'd been a lot quieter and more brooding in my first version.
Reviews are my drug of choice! They make me giggly and philosophical ... and also give me the munchies. **shrug** I don't get it either.