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“Mercedes?” His son snatched up the ever present i-Phone, and let out an ear splitting squeal at something his friend said. Kurt raced downstairs, and Burt could hear the tell-tale sound of Kurt’s wardrobe door being thrown open. Burt smiled and shook his head. He took a seat at the table, pulling his checkbook out of his shirt pocket, and slid the pile of household bills toward himself.
He always waited until the lot of them were in, and then sat down to take care of it all at once. No point in suffering more than necessary, and the only time the bills really ever varied was in winter, when the heat and electric went up, and that was to be expected. Especially since it was so much simpler to spend a little more and not watch Kurt shiver.
Burt sighed, and pulled the last envelope to himself, which would be Kurt’s Visa. It was far easier to give the kid a little cash here and there, and monitor the rest of it on the credit statement. It wasn’t like it cost interest, he paid the damn things in full every month, both Kurt’s and his own. It was a little easier to spot where he went wrong on his own budget, and-
“Jesus, Mary and JOSEPH,” Burt swore, his son’s proximity preventing him from delving into variations of the f-word - preferred variations, he thought.
“We’re not Catholic, Dad, give it up and use the stupid word,” Kurt’s voice drifted up from the basement.
Burt was not in the least amused. “KURT HUMMEL! Get your sorry butt up here RIGHT NOW,” he bellowed, and listened to the silence radiating for a moment, before his son stirred.
“Um, ‘cedes? Yeah - dad - gotta go- bye -” Kurt’s footsteps fell far too hesitantly upon the stairs for Burt’s peace of mind.
Burt pointed at the chair next to his wordlessly, and Kurt, well versed in household routines, sank down into it warily. And then Burt simply slid the bill in front of Kurt. “Why don’t you read the total for me there, buddy,” he asked, his tone deceptively mild.
“Ah, fourteen hundred and fifty six, dad?”
“And?”
“Isn’t that what your bill usually is, dad,” Kurt asked, blinking innocently at his father.
Burt actually smiled, which had the unplanned effect of Kurt shrinking slightly in his chair. “You’re right, kiddo. But that isn’t my name listed to the that total there, is it.”
That garnered Burt an out and out slump. “No sir.”
“I suppose you have some sort of explanation,” Burt suggested, hoping that there’d be a valid excuse. The last time this had happened, it had taken some prying to get it out of the boy, but there’d been a good reason - Kurt had been too ashamed to show him the first vandalism the Navigator suffered, and hadn’t thought about the fact that Burt reviewed the bills when he put the parts on his own card, rather than the garage account assigned to the SUV.
“Yes?” Kurt’s voice was far too hopeful for Burt’s comfort.
“Go on,” he suggested, still calm, but bracing himself.
“Oh my gosh, Dad, there was this estate sale!!! They had the most amazing vintage pieces, and it was all such a steal, a fraction of the price I’d have paid anywhere but an auction like that - I-”
Burt’s hand slapped down a little harder than he intended it to on the table.
“Kurt, I don’t usually bother saying anything to you when you’re a little over budget - I can usually see eye to eye with you on what the overage was about. Buddy, this is a THOUSAND DOLLARS over budget,” he said heavily. “You just told me that you’re aware that’s what my usual bill is - do you realize what that means?”
“Uh...” Kurt faltered. “I’m sorry - I didn’t think that I’d be in trouble, I-”
“That’s not what I meant, son. My usual bill is normally around fourteen to sixteen hundred. That’s just the household expenses, utilities, groceries, stuff like that. Are you starting to see the point?”
“Um.”
His son was frowning, and Burt knew he’d gone too fast and serious for the teenager. Why it was that these kids seemed to learn better the hard way, he’d probably never know, but...
“Kurt. You’re essentially showing me that you spent an ENTIRE MONTH’S allowance - and not YOUR allowance, the household allowance.”
Kurt remained silent, a telltale flush staining his face.
“I’m waiting, Kurt.”
“Yes, sir,” his kid said slowly and reluctantly. “I.. I should have asked?”
“That’s part of it, kiddo. Next?”
“You make me keep a budget for a reason... sir...” His son squirmed in discomfort.
“Closer.”
“I disobeyed,” came the quiet voice. “I’m sorry, Dad, I couldn’t resist-”
“What happens in this house when you fail to demonstrate self control?”
“Daaaaaddddd,” came the usual whine, and Burt leaned back in his chair, eyeing the kid.
“I can provide extra incentive,” he warned, when there was nothing more forthcoming.
Kurt gave him a smoky, sullen look. “I get spanked,” Burt’s little boy mumbled.
“Right,” Burt replied, matter of fact. He felt calm enough, they had the money to cover it - and he had a few more plans. Better to take care of it now. He slid his chair well back from the kitchen table, and beckoned his son over. Kurt reluctantly stood, taking a tentative step closer as Burt motioned impatiently. Probably the least favorite of all father son activities, here, but Burt didn’t hold with stalling, when it was time for Kurt to face the music.
“And,” Burt prompted gently.
Kurt flushed terribly, and slowly shimmied out of the extremely tight jeans he was wearing, as his father raised a critical eyebrow. Burt didn’t say another word, just gently grasped Kurt’s arm and drew his son forward over his knees. He then swept the silk boxers aside, baring Kurt’s pale bottom.
“Let’s see here,” he mused, patting Kurt’s backside warningly. “Lying, disobedience, and irresponsibility, I think, wouldn’t you agree?”
Kurt ducked his head further.
“Yep,” Burt said. “You know what that gets you,” he sighed, shaking his head as he brought his hand down sharply in the first of several dozen stern swats that reddened Kurt’s buttocks thoroughly, and would ensure the boy wouldn’t be sitting comfortably for the rest of the weekend. Kurt squirmed in his grip, and he swatted at the white thigh to check that behaviour promptly. “I’m going to trust that we don’t ever have this particular discussion again, Kurt,” he said as he spanked, hearing the sniffling and tears starting. “Because if we do, son, it’s going to involve more than my hand, kiddo,” he said gently, rounding off the punishment with a series of harder swats, and righting Kurt’s shorts.
“Now,” he said to his son, lifting him up, and pulling the kid into a hug, “Two more things - no, Kurt,” he said gently as the boy flinched. “Grounded, two weeks minimum, and no card until I say otherwise. Use the gas card in the SUV for fuel, and you’ll have to ask me for cash as you need it - and I might make the suggestion that you keep it as minimal as possible for a while. Understood?
“Yes, sir,” came the tearful reply. “I... Dad, I’m sorry, I-”
“Shhh,” Burt soothed. “Thank you. The only thing I want to see out of you is good behaviour - adherence to the grounding, and some responsibility where money is concerned. And,” he said, getting a good look at Kurt’s tired eyes, “you in bed, as of five minutes ago. Move it, Kurt. I’ll be down in a few,” he ordered.
His son clung to him a moment longer, then slipped off to the basement. Burt sighed, and fished a spare magnet out of the drawer, pinning the offending credit statement to the fridge, a walk of shame in the Hummel-Hudson family - the statement was smack next to Finn’s last report card, and Puck’s was pinned right along beside Finn’s. Burt wrote the check, sealed it into the statement envelope, and doused the kitchen lights, heading down to tuck his teenager into bed the same way he had when the boy was a toddler.
After all, Burt needed the reassurance.