Entry tags:
Glee Fic: Before You Had It Written for You
Title: Before You Had It Written for You
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson
Word Count: 2,781
Notes: An Entourage fusion AU. Title is a line from “Hollywood” by RAC featuring Penguin Prison. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kmousie for betaing. Thanks to ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
celli for encouraging, even though it wasn't her fandom.
Summary: A great agent is respected for being judgmental and bitchy. A great agent can afford the best clothes and gets invited to the best parties. Kurt is going to be the best agent ever.
According to rumour, Sue Sylvester unofficially runs this town. Rumour has it that she made Megan Fox a multi-million star within three hours and destroyed Ryan Philippe’s career in half the time. Anyone who’s anyone in Hollywood knows Sue’s name and fears it.
It’s why Kurt took this job. He’s never aspired to be an assistant, but everyone knows that if you can survive two years working Sue’s desk, you’ll have your pick of agencies.
Kurt has three months to go. Three more months of getting coffees and waiting on hold for people. Three more months of hand-crushing wheatgrass into Sue’s daily smoothies. Three more months of collecting dry-cleaning, and driving across LA because someone’s craving a Pinky’s hotdog this second, and getting calls at 11pm because Sue’s latest darling needs a chauffeur who won’t blab to the press.
He’s marking off the days on his desktop calendar when Sue calls him in. She doesn’t use the intercom like a sane person. No, she hollers from the other side of her glass-walled office and glares when he steps in. Tall and lean, Sue’s blonde hair cut short in a style that cost more than Kurt’s Ferragamo loafers. She doesn’t look like the kind of woman who can make studio executives rend their clothes and sacrifice their firstborn.
“Seven seconds, Porcelain.” In a bright blue pants suit, Sue stands behind her limed-white desk and taps her wrist. She’s wearing a plastic monstrosity of a watch, too large and cheap-looking, but it matches her suit exactly. “You know there’s only a five-second allowance for mincing your way in here.”
“I had to transfer a call,” Kurt says, making sure his pen and clipboard are ready. Sue tends to dictate at impossible speeds and with very little warning. He’s learned not to leave his desk without pen and paper.
“Not quick enough. You have lost the privilege of Porcelain. For the rest of the day, you’ll be Tickle-Me-Doughface to anyone who wants to keep their jobs.”
Kurt rolls his eyes. Sue’s dramatics are well-known, and it’s best to go along with it. Most of the staff avoid the issue by not referring to Kurt by any name, but it’s best to warn everyone. “I’ll send a memo out.”
“You do that.”
***
It’s not the worst job Kurt’s had in LA. Originally, he came out to visit Mercedes, to fill in a few months while he figured out what he was going to do with his life. He stayed because Kurt Hummel has always appreciated aesthetics, and there are a lot of very attractive people trying to become stars in this city. It was a shallow reason, but he was young and aimless. He figured six months of sunshine and dead-end cater-waiter jobs would give him a break and help him figure out where he wanted to be.
Then he met Sue. He was at the right party at the right time, and the only person stupid enough to drop everything to drive Sue out to the Valley. Three hours later, Kurt had a job offer, an insight into talent management and firsthand experience of Sue’s brand of crazy-competent-terrifying.
As homicidal as Sue can be on a long car trip, it was inspiring. After that, Kurt knew he’d be a great agent. Half of the job is listening to industry gossip, keeping track of who’s doing what project and who got caught doing blow; the other half is flattering or intimidating people to get what he wants. A great agent doesn’t understand the meaning of moderation. A great agent is respected for being judgmental and bitchy. A great agent can afford the best clothes and gets invited to the best parties.
Once he gets there, Kurt knows his life is going to be fantastic.
***
“Sending out resumes yet?” Santana, the last successful occupant of Kurt’s desk, is waiting for Sue to get off the phone. Sue’s pacing and throwing her arms wide, clearly in the middle of a rant. Interrupting Sue mid-rant is an offence worthy of termination.
“I’m counting down the weeks,” Kurt says, firing off a quick email as he speaks, “but I don’t want to jinx it.”
“Meaning you’re pinning all your girlish hopes on staying here?”
Santana’s story is the tale that always gets repeated in the break room, told to new staff in tones of awe. She spent a year as an overlooked assistant, two years on Sue’s desk without taking a single mental health day or attacking anyone with a letter opener -- something that’s happened three times in the past, according to the rumour mill -- got promoted to an agent by Sue and is now the assistant head of the TV department. It’s the success every admin assistant dreams of. It’s the one-in-a-million tale that keeps everyone working long, thankless hours at minimum wage.
Of course Kurt wants it. He’s not stupid enough to jeopardise it with impatience. “If Sue hears word of me applying to other agencies before that magical two-year mark, I’ll be the next Matt Rutherford.”
According to office legend, Sue screamed at Matt for five hours straight, until he quit and left in tears. There are rumours saying he now sells secondhand cars in Sun Valley. There are other rumours claiming he was institutionalised and the sight of a ladies’ pants suit sends him into seizures. Kurt’s not sure which version is worse.
“In that case, I’m going to do you a favour,” Santana says sweetly, and Kurt can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck. With her glossy dark hair and caramel skin, with her killer curves and bright smile, Santana looks like one of a hundred Hollywood hopefuls. But behind those red lips and white teeth, she’s all shark. “I’m going to convince Sue to promote you now.”
Kurt stares at her. Santana didn’t get where she is by doing people favours. “And you’re going to do this out of the goodness of your blackened heart?”
Santana holds up three fingers. The colour of her talons matches her lipstick perfectly. “One, you’re interested in features so you won’t be direct competition in my department. Two, you will owe me big time for this and it’s always good being owed favours. And three, I’ve got a new client you’re going to be perfect for.”
“Why will I be perfect?”
“Same reason Brittany’s the best assistant I’ve ever had. Never underestimate the value of supplying eye-candy for clients.”
Kurt doesn’t waste time on personal outrage. If you’re easily offended, LA will eat you alive. “Eye-candy? Yes. Pimping me out? No.”
***
Sue refuses to use the intercom function on her phone. Apparently, yelling across an office is better for staff morale (although Sue’s definition of good morale is rather unique). So she never notices when Kurt brings paperwork to her desk and brushes a hand over her phone, turning the intercom on.
Kurt spends a lot of time typing dictation from his headset or answering phones, so there’s nothing unusual about him sitting at his desk, intently listening between answering calls and screening emails. It’s the best way to eavesdrop.
It takes Santana twenty minutes to convince Sue. As he expected, Santana told him the essential facts, but there’s a little more to the story. She has a new client for the agency, she’s sure he’ll be good in features and when she mentions the name (“Anderson will make this agency money,” Santana insists), Kurt nearly squeals out loud.
He’s been watching Cooper Anderson on his screen since he was a teenager stranded in Ohio and Cooper Anderson was only known as the gorgeous freecreditrating.com guy. Since then, there’s been two WB dramas and a handful of made-for-TV movies that Kurt’s religiously watched. And, fine, recorded. If the client is Cooper Anderson, he may renegotiate the no-pimping clause of his employment contract.
“Tell me you’re not trying to sell Cooper Anderson to me,” Sue says. “The only thing more depressing than his downward-spiralling career are the crows’ feet chiselled into that otherwise smooth face. High-definition films aren’t going to help that situation.”
“Not him, his little brother.” Kurt glances across briefly and sees Santana slides a headshot across Sue’s desk as she adds, “He’s cute and clean-cut enough to skew to a younger audience. Not so pretty he’ll get stuck as a tween heartthrob. He’s white enough and traditionally masculine enough to land a mainstream role, and the bi-racial queer thing will be interesting for reporters. He’s easy to sell.”
“There’s potential there,” Sue allows, tilting her head like a vulture scoping out the next meal. “So why are you talking to me about this? Shouldn’t you already have him signed?”
Kurt turns his attention back to his computer. He googles Cooper Anderson and brother. After a few hits, he gets a name and goes to IMDb. The photo is black and white, a little too flattering the way all headshots are, but the guy’s cute. Santana’s got a good eye for what appeals to a casting director.
“His brother got him an introduction here. He’s looking for TV work, but he’s going to be perfect for film. He just needs a little convincing.”
“So convince him.”
“My sweet-talking works better on a straighter audience,” Santana says plainly. “I need someone more appealing to a Kinsey level eight.”
“I still don’t know why you’re standing in my office,” Sue says, in the bored tone that can mean bad things. “You’re taking time I could be using to make Ridley Scott cry.”
“Like that’s hard,” Santana snaps back. “He’d cry if he stubbed his toe.”
“Quit wasting my time, Santana. What do you need?”
Santana smiles widely. “Replace Porcelain and promote him.”
“His two years aren’t up. There are rules for a reason.”
“The reason is because you say so. You can be unpredictable and still be terrifying.” Santana shrugs off Sue’s annoyance. It might be the bravest thing Kurt’s seen someone do in Sue’s office. “There’s a Universal script going round that Anderson could get, as long as he doesn’t get caught in some sleazy WeHo club, half-dressed and on his knees. Get Porcelain to shimmy into those skin-tight jeans and babysit him for a few weeks, and that commission will be ours.”
Kurt would do much worse things to get into this agency.
***
Kurt’s in a foul mood, and having to march up the world’s steepest driveway isn’t helping matters. He understands that the views are the best thing about living in the Hollywood Hills but if he wanted to walk up footpaths so steep they need a staircase, he’d be living in San Francisco. When he gets to the top, the mutantly overgrown Spanish-inspired villa looks even more monstrous. Kurt doesn’t see the need for any home to have fourteen bathrooms, but the Hills aren’t known for subtlety.
If Kurt were feeling more generous, he’d allow that having fourteen bathrooms is like owning a dozen Givenchy suits. Nobody needs them, but if you can afford them, why not?
Kurt’s not feeling generous. Kurt’s feeling annoyed. An hour of eavesdropping and then running around for his whole lunch (to do what he should have been doing instead of eavesdropping) and Sue still refused to promote him. It’s not like he objects to being an assistant, but he’s waited patiently for twenty-one months, and to have that hope dangled in front of his face and then snatched away feels heartless.
Then again, Kurt now has his very own assistant. Sue made it clear that if a contract gets mislaid amongst the unread scripts, it will be Kurt’s head that rolls, but he’s not stuck at a desk answering calls. He’ll get the experience of handling clients, even if he’s refused the title of agent.
“Hi,” Kurt says when the door opens. “I’m Kurt Hummel. I work for Sylvester Talents.” It’s not a lie and until someone asks his specific job title, he’s going to imply and suggest as much as he can.
The guy who answers the door doesn’t seem impressed. He’s not quite as tall as Mike Chang, but he has a much better haircut. For a moment, Kurt wonders if it’s racist to automatically compare him to Mike because they’re both Asian. Then he shrugs it off.
“Wes Montgomery.” He holds out his hand, and gives a short, confident handshake. “We were dealing with Miss Lopez.”
“You were, but Sue thought a more personal touch might be best. Santana mostly deals with television,” Kurt says smoothly. “I thought Blaine might have a few questions about the contract Sue sent over. Maybe we could discuss the finer points.”
Wes’ expression shifts to something speculative. “Are you authorised to negotiate for the agency?”
“No.” There’s no point lying about something like that. Sue would kill him if he promised something she didn’t like; Santana would raise him from the dead and kill him again for making her look bad.
“Then David and I will email the agency directly. We have a few concerns about the fees on post-distribution marketing.” Wes grips the door meaningfully and gives Kurt a polite smile as he inches it closed. “It was nice meeting you, Kurt.”
***
A reasonable, balanced person would turn around and leave. Kurt works for Sue Sylvester; he knows the best agents are rarely reasonable or balanced.
So he nods, and makes his goodbyes, and walks back up the driveway until he’s out of sight behind a convenient tree. Then he cuts around the back of it, hunched over to avoid being seen from the house, and crawls under the hedge. He tries not to think of dirt beneath his knees (these pants are John Galliano, and he hasn’t worn them enough yet to justify the purchase) and then leans out to steady himself.
Unfortunately, he reaches out to a rosebush, and a thorn cuts into his palm. The actual injury is less of a gash and more of a scratch, but it hurts. Kurt grumbles under his breath about the stupidity of people who make his life so hard.
He looks over at the sound of a splash. From the clear azure pool, a dark head emerges from the water. Kurt did his research before he came here, so he recognises Blaine Anderson immediately. The headshots didn’t do him justice. On IMDb, he looked like another disposable actor, cute enough with dark messy curls and a smooth smile, but nothing too special. Certainly not something to catch Kurt’s breath or make him stare.
But he’s definitely staring as Blaine stands up in the pool, dark hair slicked back, water running down cheekbones and strong chin. Kurt’s gaze follows the path of the water, sliding over shoulders and tanned, defined biceps and traveling back up abs and a smooth chest.
Blaine blinks his eyes open, dark lashes clumped and framing the biggest brown eyes Kurt’s seen outside of a zoo. Then they go even wider. “Hi,” Blaine says uncertainly. “Are you supposed to be here?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Kurt says, injured palm forgotten.
“You’re not with the press, are you?”
“Please. Does this outfit look like appropriate wear for muckraking and rummaging through people’s garbage?” Kurt has standards. Those standards should make it clear he’d never work for tabloids. “I’m Kurt Hummel, of Sylvester Talent.”
Blaine’s gaze flicks across the green grass and the thick hedge behind Kurt. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”
“I wanted to meet you.” Stepping forward, Kurt keeps eye contact. He resolutely doesn’t watch a drip of water slide down Blaine’s neck towards his collarbone. “Since you’re new to LA, Santana thought it’d be good to have someone show you around the place.”
“That’s… unexpectedly nice.”
“That’s Santana. Thoughtful and considerate.”
Blaine looks like he wants to laugh. “So what’s included in this tour?”
“The inside scoop on the nicest bars and the best clothing sales in the city. It also includes access to my sparkling wit and conversation, and the promise of unflinchingly honest fashion critique.” Kurt gives a flourish of his hand and half a bow. “Consider me your personal welcome wagon.”
“I feel very welcomed,” Blaine says with a flick of his eyes as he checks Kurt out.
Kurt grins. “So you should. It’s only the best for our clientele.”
He’s got three months before he gets to become an agent. Instead of spending them chained to a desk, answering furious phone calls and withstanding Sue’s tirades, he’s going to be babysitting a client. A very attractive client, who’s shooting him a bright, charming smile that belongs on the silver screen.
Kurt’s going to enjoy this.
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson
Word Count: 2,781
Notes: An Entourage fusion AU. Title is a line from “Hollywood” by RAC featuring Penguin Prison. Thanks to
kmousie for betaing. Thanks to celli for encouraging, even though it wasn't her fandom.Summary: A great agent is respected for being judgmental and bitchy. A great agent can afford the best clothes and gets invited to the best parties. Kurt is going to be the best agent ever.
According to rumour, Sue Sylvester unofficially runs this town. Rumour has it that she made Megan Fox a multi-million star within three hours and destroyed Ryan Philippe’s career in half the time. Anyone who’s anyone in Hollywood knows Sue’s name and fears it.
It’s why Kurt took this job. He’s never aspired to be an assistant, but everyone knows that if you can survive two years working Sue’s desk, you’ll have your pick of agencies.
Kurt has three months to go. Three more months of getting coffees and waiting on hold for people. Three more months of hand-crushing wheatgrass into Sue’s daily smoothies. Three more months of collecting dry-cleaning, and driving across LA because someone’s craving a Pinky’s hotdog this second, and getting calls at 11pm because Sue’s latest darling needs a chauffeur who won’t blab to the press.
He’s marking off the days on his desktop calendar when Sue calls him in. She doesn’t use the intercom like a sane person. No, she hollers from the other side of her glass-walled office and glares when he steps in. Tall and lean, Sue’s blonde hair cut short in a style that cost more than Kurt’s Ferragamo loafers. She doesn’t look like the kind of woman who can make studio executives rend their clothes and sacrifice their firstborn.
“Seven seconds, Porcelain.” In a bright blue pants suit, Sue stands behind her limed-white desk and taps her wrist. She’s wearing a plastic monstrosity of a watch, too large and cheap-looking, but it matches her suit exactly. “You know there’s only a five-second allowance for mincing your way in here.”
“I had to transfer a call,” Kurt says, making sure his pen and clipboard are ready. Sue tends to dictate at impossible speeds and with very little warning. He’s learned not to leave his desk without pen and paper.
“Not quick enough. You have lost the privilege of Porcelain. For the rest of the day, you’ll be Tickle-Me-Doughface to anyone who wants to keep their jobs.”
Kurt rolls his eyes. Sue’s dramatics are well-known, and it’s best to go along with it. Most of the staff avoid the issue by not referring to Kurt by any name, but it’s best to warn everyone. “I’ll send a memo out.”
“You do that.”
***
It’s not the worst job Kurt’s had in LA. Originally, he came out to visit Mercedes, to fill in a few months while he figured out what he was going to do with his life. He stayed because Kurt Hummel has always appreciated aesthetics, and there are a lot of very attractive people trying to become stars in this city. It was a shallow reason, but he was young and aimless. He figured six months of sunshine and dead-end cater-waiter jobs would give him a break and help him figure out where he wanted to be.
Then he met Sue. He was at the right party at the right time, and the only person stupid enough to drop everything to drive Sue out to the Valley. Three hours later, Kurt had a job offer, an insight into talent management and firsthand experience of Sue’s brand of crazy-competent-terrifying.
As homicidal as Sue can be on a long car trip, it was inspiring. After that, Kurt knew he’d be a great agent. Half of the job is listening to industry gossip, keeping track of who’s doing what project and who got caught doing blow; the other half is flattering or intimidating people to get what he wants. A great agent doesn’t understand the meaning of moderation. A great agent is respected for being judgmental and bitchy. A great agent can afford the best clothes and gets invited to the best parties.
Once he gets there, Kurt knows his life is going to be fantastic.
***
“Sending out resumes yet?” Santana, the last successful occupant of Kurt’s desk, is waiting for Sue to get off the phone. Sue’s pacing and throwing her arms wide, clearly in the middle of a rant. Interrupting Sue mid-rant is an offence worthy of termination.
“I’m counting down the weeks,” Kurt says, firing off a quick email as he speaks, “but I don’t want to jinx it.”
“Meaning you’re pinning all your girlish hopes on staying here?”
Santana’s story is the tale that always gets repeated in the break room, told to new staff in tones of awe. She spent a year as an overlooked assistant, two years on Sue’s desk without taking a single mental health day or attacking anyone with a letter opener -- something that’s happened three times in the past, according to the rumour mill -- got promoted to an agent by Sue and is now the assistant head of the TV department. It’s the success every admin assistant dreams of. It’s the one-in-a-million tale that keeps everyone working long, thankless hours at minimum wage.
Of course Kurt wants it. He’s not stupid enough to jeopardise it with impatience. “If Sue hears word of me applying to other agencies before that magical two-year mark, I’ll be the next Matt Rutherford.”
According to office legend, Sue screamed at Matt for five hours straight, until he quit and left in tears. There are rumours saying he now sells secondhand cars in Sun Valley. There are other rumours claiming he was institutionalised and the sight of a ladies’ pants suit sends him into seizures. Kurt’s not sure which version is worse.
“In that case, I’m going to do you a favour,” Santana says sweetly, and Kurt can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck. With her glossy dark hair and caramel skin, with her killer curves and bright smile, Santana looks like one of a hundred Hollywood hopefuls. But behind those red lips and white teeth, she’s all shark. “I’m going to convince Sue to promote you now.”
Kurt stares at her. Santana didn’t get where she is by doing people favours. “And you’re going to do this out of the goodness of your blackened heart?”
Santana holds up three fingers. The colour of her talons matches her lipstick perfectly. “One, you’re interested in features so you won’t be direct competition in my department. Two, you will owe me big time for this and it’s always good being owed favours. And three, I’ve got a new client you’re going to be perfect for.”
“Why will I be perfect?”
“Same reason Brittany’s the best assistant I’ve ever had. Never underestimate the value of supplying eye-candy for clients.”
Kurt doesn’t waste time on personal outrage. If you’re easily offended, LA will eat you alive. “Eye-candy? Yes. Pimping me out? No.”
***
Sue refuses to use the intercom function on her phone. Apparently, yelling across an office is better for staff morale (although Sue’s definition of good morale is rather unique). So she never notices when Kurt brings paperwork to her desk and brushes a hand over her phone, turning the intercom on.
Kurt spends a lot of time typing dictation from his headset or answering phones, so there’s nothing unusual about him sitting at his desk, intently listening between answering calls and screening emails. It’s the best way to eavesdrop.
It takes Santana twenty minutes to convince Sue. As he expected, Santana told him the essential facts, but there’s a little more to the story. She has a new client for the agency, she’s sure he’ll be good in features and when she mentions the name (“Anderson will make this agency money,” Santana insists), Kurt nearly squeals out loud.
He’s been watching Cooper Anderson on his screen since he was a teenager stranded in Ohio and Cooper Anderson was only known as the gorgeous freecreditrating.com guy. Since then, there’s been two WB dramas and a handful of made-for-TV movies that Kurt’s religiously watched. And, fine, recorded. If the client is Cooper Anderson, he may renegotiate the no-pimping clause of his employment contract.
“Tell me you’re not trying to sell Cooper Anderson to me,” Sue says. “The only thing more depressing than his downward-spiralling career are the crows’ feet chiselled into that otherwise smooth face. High-definition films aren’t going to help that situation.”
“Not him, his little brother.” Kurt glances across briefly and sees Santana slides a headshot across Sue’s desk as she adds, “He’s cute and clean-cut enough to skew to a younger audience. Not so pretty he’ll get stuck as a tween heartthrob. He’s white enough and traditionally masculine enough to land a mainstream role, and the bi-racial queer thing will be interesting for reporters. He’s easy to sell.”
“There’s potential there,” Sue allows, tilting her head like a vulture scoping out the next meal. “So why are you talking to me about this? Shouldn’t you already have him signed?”
Kurt turns his attention back to his computer. He googles Cooper Anderson and brother. After a few hits, he gets a name and goes to IMDb. The photo is black and white, a little too flattering the way all headshots are, but the guy’s cute. Santana’s got a good eye for what appeals to a casting director.
“His brother got him an introduction here. He’s looking for TV work, but he’s going to be perfect for film. He just needs a little convincing.”
“So convince him.”
“My sweet-talking works better on a straighter audience,” Santana says plainly. “I need someone more appealing to a Kinsey level eight.”
“I still don’t know why you’re standing in my office,” Sue says, in the bored tone that can mean bad things. “You’re taking time I could be using to make Ridley Scott cry.”
“Like that’s hard,” Santana snaps back. “He’d cry if he stubbed his toe.”
“Quit wasting my time, Santana. What do you need?”
Santana smiles widely. “Replace Porcelain and promote him.”
“His two years aren’t up. There are rules for a reason.”
“The reason is because you say so. You can be unpredictable and still be terrifying.” Santana shrugs off Sue’s annoyance. It might be the bravest thing Kurt’s seen someone do in Sue’s office. “There’s a Universal script going round that Anderson could get, as long as he doesn’t get caught in some sleazy WeHo club, half-dressed and on his knees. Get Porcelain to shimmy into those skin-tight jeans and babysit him for a few weeks, and that commission will be ours.”
Kurt would do much worse things to get into this agency.
***
Kurt’s in a foul mood, and having to march up the world’s steepest driveway isn’t helping matters. He understands that the views are the best thing about living in the Hollywood Hills but if he wanted to walk up footpaths so steep they need a staircase, he’d be living in San Francisco. When he gets to the top, the mutantly overgrown Spanish-inspired villa looks even more monstrous. Kurt doesn’t see the need for any home to have fourteen bathrooms, but the Hills aren’t known for subtlety.
If Kurt were feeling more generous, he’d allow that having fourteen bathrooms is like owning a dozen Givenchy suits. Nobody needs them, but if you can afford them, why not?
Kurt’s not feeling generous. Kurt’s feeling annoyed. An hour of eavesdropping and then running around for his whole lunch (to do what he should have been doing instead of eavesdropping) and Sue still refused to promote him. It’s not like he objects to being an assistant, but he’s waited patiently for twenty-one months, and to have that hope dangled in front of his face and then snatched away feels heartless.
Then again, Kurt now has his very own assistant. Sue made it clear that if a contract gets mislaid amongst the unread scripts, it will be Kurt’s head that rolls, but he’s not stuck at a desk answering calls. He’ll get the experience of handling clients, even if he’s refused the title of agent.
“Hi,” Kurt says when the door opens. “I’m Kurt Hummel. I work for Sylvester Talents.” It’s not a lie and until someone asks his specific job title, he’s going to imply and suggest as much as he can.
The guy who answers the door doesn’t seem impressed. He’s not quite as tall as Mike Chang, but he has a much better haircut. For a moment, Kurt wonders if it’s racist to automatically compare him to Mike because they’re both Asian. Then he shrugs it off.
“Wes Montgomery.” He holds out his hand, and gives a short, confident handshake. “We were dealing with Miss Lopez.”
“You were, but Sue thought a more personal touch might be best. Santana mostly deals with television,” Kurt says smoothly. “I thought Blaine might have a few questions about the contract Sue sent over. Maybe we could discuss the finer points.”
Wes’ expression shifts to something speculative. “Are you authorised to negotiate for the agency?”
“No.” There’s no point lying about something like that. Sue would kill him if he promised something she didn’t like; Santana would raise him from the dead and kill him again for making her look bad.
“Then David and I will email the agency directly. We have a few concerns about the fees on post-distribution marketing.” Wes grips the door meaningfully and gives Kurt a polite smile as he inches it closed. “It was nice meeting you, Kurt.”
***
A reasonable, balanced person would turn around and leave. Kurt works for Sue Sylvester; he knows the best agents are rarely reasonable or balanced.
So he nods, and makes his goodbyes, and walks back up the driveway until he’s out of sight behind a convenient tree. Then he cuts around the back of it, hunched over to avoid being seen from the house, and crawls under the hedge. He tries not to think of dirt beneath his knees (these pants are John Galliano, and he hasn’t worn them enough yet to justify the purchase) and then leans out to steady himself.
Unfortunately, he reaches out to a rosebush, and a thorn cuts into his palm. The actual injury is less of a gash and more of a scratch, but it hurts. Kurt grumbles under his breath about the stupidity of people who make his life so hard.
He looks over at the sound of a splash. From the clear azure pool, a dark head emerges from the water. Kurt did his research before he came here, so he recognises Blaine Anderson immediately. The headshots didn’t do him justice. On IMDb, he looked like another disposable actor, cute enough with dark messy curls and a smooth smile, but nothing too special. Certainly not something to catch Kurt’s breath or make him stare.
But he’s definitely staring as Blaine stands up in the pool, dark hair slicked back, water running down cheekbones and strong chin. Kurt’s gaze follows the path of the water, sliding over shoulders and tanned, defined biceps and traveling back up abs and a smooth chest.
Blaine blinks his eyes open, dark lashes clumped and framing the biggest brown eyes Kurt’s seen outside of a zoo. Then they go even wider. “Hi,” Blaine says uncertainly. “Are you supposed to be here?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Kurt says, injured palm forgotten.
“You’re not with the press, are you?”
“Please. Does this outfit look like appropriate wear for muckraking and rummaging through people’s garbage?” Kurt has standards. Those standards should make it clear he’d never work for tabloids. “I’m Kurt Hummel, of Sylvester Talent.”
Blaine’s gaze flicks across the green grass and the thick hedge behind Kurt. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”
“I wanted to meet you.” Stepping forward, Kurt keeps eye contact. He resolutely doesn’t watch a drip of water slide down Blaine’s neck towards his collarbone. “Since you’re new to LA, Santana thought it’d be good to have someone show you around the place.”
“That’s… unexpectedly nice.”
“That’s Santana. Thoughtful and considerate.”
Blaine looks like he wants to laugh. “So what’s included in this tour?”
“The inside scoop on the nicest bars and the best clothing sales in the city. It also includes access to my sparkling wit and conversation, and the promise of unflinchingly honest fashion critique.” Kurt gives a flourish of his hand and half a bow. “Consider me your personal welcome wagon.”
“I feel very welcomed,” Blaine says with a flick of his eyes as he checks Kurt out.
Kurt grins. “So you should. It’s only the best for our clientele.”
He’s got three months before he gets to become an agent. Instead of spending them chained to a desk, answering furious phone calls and withstanding Sue’s tirades, he’s going to be babysitting a client. A very attractive client, who’s shooting him a bright, charming smile that belongs on the silver screen.
Kurt’s going to enjoy this.