Mercedes barely paused long enough to allow Kurt to slide on a pair of shoes before dragging him toward the stairs, cutting off the move he had made toward his closet when he glanced down at his unusually casual attire and tried to apologize for it.

"Don't worry about your clothes. It's just me and your dad and we've already seen you," she reminded him. "We're only going to play games, after all."

With a reluctant sigh and one last glance toward his beckoning wardrobe, Kurt gave in. "Fine, but if anyone asks you, I looked fabulous."

Putting on a serious face, Mercedes raised her right hand. "I solemnly swear that Parisian runway models were calling you to ask for styling advice."

Kurt laughed; the surprised, heartfelt chortle that Mercedes loved so much and heard all too rarely. She grinned and hauled him up the narrow flight of steps before he could change his mind and go into a fashion frenzy that would eat up their entire evening.

"Hey, Dad?" Kurt called as they reached the top of the stairs. "How long will it be until dinner is ready?"

Burt emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a paper towel. "Should be about an hour or so; I was just putting a few finishing touches on the casserole. Why, you hungry?"

"Depends," Kurt told him. "Are you fixing the kind with chicken and potatoes or the kind with tuna and egg noodles?"

"Chicken."

He smiled. "Then, yes, I'm hungry."

Burt laughed. "Somehow, I had a feeling you'd say that. What about you, Mercedes? You joining us for dinner?"

"Don't be afraid to say, yes. Dad's chicken casserole is usually pretty good," Kurt assured her.

"Gee, thanks, son," Burt said sarcastically, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow toward Mercedes. "Please tell me the food critic over here isn't hiring you to be his taste-tester."

A delighted chuckle burst from her lips before she could stop it. It wasn't so much the quip as the fact that Burt's posture, right down to the way he had shifted his weight onto his back foot and raised his chin in pretend indignance, reminded her so very much of Kurt. When the two Hummels exchanged an identical puzzled shrug at her reaction, she just laughed harder.

"Sorry, sorry," she gasped, waving a hand in apology. "That just . . . really struck me as funny. I'd love to stay, thanks. I told my mom I would either eat here or get something on my way home."

"Great, I'll set another place."

Mercedes glanced at the big-screen TV, which was currently showing a basketball game, and flashed her most charming smile. "Kurt promised to play Dance-Dance-Revolution with me, Mr. Hummel. Do you think we could use the TV up here? There really isn't enough space for the dance mats down in Kurt's room."

Seeing Kurt open his mouth to protest her choice of game, Mercedes subtly kicked him, never losing her expression of pleading eyes and hopeful smile.

Burt checked his game and shrugged, grabbing the remote and shutting it off. "Sure, go ahead. The Cavs are getting their butts handed to 'em anyway. I gotta go finish making dinner. You kids have fun."

As he turned and walked back into the kitchen, Kurt gaped at his best friend. "How did you do that? More importantly, can you teach me to do it?"

Mercedes laughed. "Sorry, Kurt. Trade secret." Gesturing toward the television, she asked, "We gonna play or what?"

Balancing on one foot, Kurt rubbed the shin she had kicked. "What'd you kick me for? It's not enough that you go and choose a game you're already better at than I am, you also have to increase your odds of winning by maiming the competition."

She simply grinned, unrepentant. "You might as well get used to pain, white boy. That little kick is not going to hurt near as much as the ass-whooping I'm about to hand you."

"Oh, bring it on, sister," he snapped back, quickly removing his portable game system and the necessary accessories from a cabinet under the television and hooking everything up with expert speed. "You're goin' down."

A while later, Burt came back into the living room to watch them, drawn by the wild laughter as Kurt and Mercedes pounded out steps on the portable dance pads. Kurt had an adapter that allowed him to hook up two pads at once for competition mode and it was clear that both teens were in the zone. For the moment, Mercedes had the upper hand but Kurt was gaining ground as the colored arrows moved faster and faster.

Finally, Kurt missed a step and lost his rhythm, ending his round within seconds. "Oh, man," he moaned, plunking down to sit on the carpet at his father's feet and panting as he watched Mercedes continue her game winning dominance on the dance floor. "Now I owe her a facial."

Mercedes threw up her hands and stopped dancing. "Enough," she declared, blowing out an exhausted breath. "And don't feel bad, Kurt. You won the manicure round."

"True," he said, obviously pleased with the reminder.

"Wait, you were playing for . . ."

Kurt just nodded at his father's nonplussed expression. "Spa services."

Burt sighed. "Right. Of course you were."

His father's reaction unintentionally deflated some of Kurt's enthusiasm. "The competition is better when you have something to play toward," he explained quietly.

"Want to try it, Mr. Hummel?" Mercedes interjected, hoping to salvage her friend's newly gained good mood. "It's a lot of fun."

"Oh, no, I don't think," he began, then paused, seeming to realize that his dismissive comment of a moment ago had hurt his son's feelings. "Aw, hell, why not? But no laughing at the old man, 'kay, Kurt?"

Kurt's eyes widened in pure astonishment. "You really want to play?"

"Well, I can't do what you two were doing, but if this game has a Beginner level or something, I'll give it a shot," he declared bravely.

A grin spread over Kurt's face and he scrambled back up to his feet, resetting the controls at once.

Together, they explained how the game worked and gave a slo-mo demonstration while Burt watched. Kurt made him take off his heavy-soled work boots, afraid they would damage the sensitive pad, but then allowed him to take a turn.

At first, Burt did everything wrong, displaying a level of dance aptitude that made Finn Hudson look like Fred Astaire, and sending the two teenagers into fits of helpless giggling. But after a few minutes and some helpful suggestions, he began to get the hang of it.

Kurt laughed delightedly as he and his father began to hop and stomp in a relatively slow but surprisingly accurate pattern on the pads. "Want to go faster?"

"Uh . . ."

Taking that for assent, Kurt changed the controls again, making them speed up. Laughing and cursing, Burt did his best but soon had to declare himself defeated. "Okay, that's it! I'm just too darned old for things like this."

"That was great, Dad!"

He smiled and ruffled his son's hair. "Don't sound so shocked. I may be a little out of practice now, but I wasn't such a bad dancer when I was your age."

Kurt made a face. "Wasn't that when Disco was still considered hot, though?"

Exchanging a glance with Mercedes, the two of them broke into the spazzy little dance Mr. Schuester had taught them a couple of months ago to the song, "Le Freak".

Burt grinned and joined in for a couple of the moves he recognized, causing them to break down in laughter again.

"You're not bad, Mr. H," Mercedes told him. "Maybe we should get Mr. Shue to recruit you for glee club."

"April Rhodes did set a precedent for old people," Kurt pointed out with a devilish little grin, ducking the playful swat his father aimed at his head.

Burt shook his head and told Mercedes, "I'm afraid I wouldn't qualify anyway. Kurt gets his singing ability from his mother's side." He smiled fondly. "Like pretty much everything else."

Mercedes winced when Kurt's smile abruptly vanished and he shut off the game-console's power with a sharp stab. Heading for the basement, he mumbled a barely-polite, "Bathroom, be right back," and disappeared into his sanctuary.

"What'd I say?" the perplexed father asked, shooting Mercedes a confused look.

Unsure whether Kurt would volunteer anything himself, and not wanting to betray her best friend's confidence, Mercedes compromised. "I think he's still kind of upset about what happened at your garage this morning. He told me somebody insulted you guys and said something mean about him and his mom."

Burt sighed deeply, running a hand over his scalp. "And I reminded him of it. Damn it, I should have known he let that go too easy."

Mercedes bit her lip, glancing from the distraught father to the open basement door. "You know, Mr. Hummel, I think I'm going to pass on dinner tonight. You and Kurt really need some time alone together." Seeing that he was about to offer a token protest, she decided to be blunt. "Talk to him. Sometimes a guy . . . even a guy like Kurt . . . heck, especially a guy like Kurt, needs to know that his dad is proud of him and that he's worth a little of that special man-to-man bonding stuff that guys do. You know what I'm saying?"

He nodded, blue eyes looking a little sad. "Yeah, I know. It's not easy, though."

Sympathy rolled over her like a tidal wave. Mr. Hummel looked so lost and she was struck again by how familiar the expression was. She reached out and squeezed his hand in lieu of the hug she would have given his son. "It wouldn't mean as much to him if it was easy. What he cares about is that you're willing to try."

Burt turned a startled look on her. "My wife used to say that to me."

"Then I guess you know it's good advice." She smiled and patted him on the arm. "See you later, Mr. H. Tell Kurt to call me tomorrow. I fully intend to collect on that facial."

He smiled back at her. "I'll tell him. And Mercedes? Thanks."

TBC