A/N: This one has been lingering in my mind ever since they passed the law for gay marriage in California. I have no idea where it's going. The plan is definitely for Puckurt though. I'm still working on my other fic, The District, so for anyone following that one, I haven't abandoned it - just got smacked in the face by this plot bunny and for the first time in my history of writing, am juggling two stories at once. I have a demanding job so that conflicts with my ability to update often, but I'll try to get things up at least every few weeks. But the higher the interest in the story, the more I'll honestly be invested in getting chaps up sooner. Just being honest.

Warnings: Knowing me, I'm sure there will be some sexy time and homo eroticness; meaning some man on man sex. Derogatory and/or graphic language... probably both. Maybe some physical violence. Possibly. This one deals directly with illness (cancer), but I'm hoping for it to be lighter on the conscience rather than sad, and full of death. Maybe a first for one of my fics, lol. Kidding... mostly. Cause it's sort of true - I do tend to dabble in death.

Disclaimer: Don't own Glee or its charming, loveable characters. I don't own any of the products or companies I mention. If I did, I probably wouldn't be here writing fanfiction cause I'd be busy taking money baths. I do own the OC's in the story. I don't have a beta - though I should probably start using one - I just want to get the chaps up post haste. But all grammar, spelling mistakes are mine, I do declare.

Blessed Benefits

Puck

"I - what, now?"

"Cancer, Mr. Puckerman. Pancreatic. Luckily it's in its early stages. Stage 2, or 2A to be exact. The survival rate for treating it early on is significantly higher when caught in its beginning stages."

Nope. He didn't just say that. Cancer? Not him. He was Noah fucking Puckerman. The Puckasaurus. Didn't this gray haired, book snorting, college goer, know anything? Cancer didn't happen to guys like him. There's got to be some karmic law, or some bible thumping philosophy; some crap about the strong surviving and the weak... well, getting cancer. 'Cause they're weak. Which he isn't.

"The survival rate?"

"Yes. The chance for you to fight this off and be in remission is looking well. So we'll have to start with running some more tests. Then from there we'll have to discuss starting you on chemo therapy, along with an aggressive radiation and medication regiment."

This was making no fucking sense. Like - at all.

"I - I have cancer? Like, actual cancer. Where people die and shit?"

"You do."

"I could - I could die?"

"Like I said. Your chances of survival are looking promising at this point. We'll need to begin with..."

And it's all white noise from there. Like a static filled radio station buzzing in his ear. Tuned out, and oblivious, the rest of the doc's words were completely lost on him. Wasted rather. He just couldn't hear or make sense of shit beyond the fucking noise crowding his brain.

Puck just thought that maybe he'd pulled something in his back. It wasn't exactly a crazy thought. He did a lot of heavy lifting at the music shop. He figured after a few days, his muscles would eventually heal themselves and quit aching. That maybe he'd been having issues with feeling tired cause of the long days at the shop. How the hell could he have known that this would be the outcome of wanting to score some 800 mg ibuprofen to finally kick the shit out of the lingering stomach and back pains?

He didn't notice the awkward smile perched at some place battling both sympathy and encouragement in between Doctor Fiennes' sentences. Or the tilt of the doc's glasses as they sat unevenly on his slightly crooked nose. The gleaming white-gold band sitting on his hair knuckled ring finger that signified a likely healthy, stable commitment to some other person; a woman who probably bore exactly 2.5 of his highly privileged, genius children who were already predispositioned for greatness. Not to mention his too old staff picture on the hospital badge pinned to his thin lab coat, that contained a noticable mustard stain on the edge of the collar.

He see's it all. But doesn't really see it.

The only thing that he can make sense of are the same words replaying constantly in his mind, drowning out anything remotely optimistic: You. Cancer. Die.

He barely registered the nurse entering the room. Didn't even catch the doc's sudden frown as he glanced down at the paperwork currently clutched in his hand that the nurse had delivered.

"Ah, Jesus," Doctor Fiennes whispers aloud to himself. Finally the doc looks up from the slight stack of forms, and addresses him again. "Um - Mr. Puckerman."

You. Cancer. Die. You. Cancer. Die.

"Mr. Puckerman?"

"Uh huh?"

Puck looks up, a mere blink away from being re-caged by his dazed state of disbelief.

"I - I don't know how to tell you this," Doctor Fiennes voices solemnly.

"I don't think it could get any worse doc. You already told me I got cancer. Unless you're gonna tell me I got some disease that makes my dick useless and fall off, I think that pretty much takes the cake. Just... y'know, give it to me straight."

Doctor Fiennes appears reluctant, an almost sad look on his face as he removes his rectangular glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"There was a - um - mistake in your paperwork. I was under the impression that you had full insurance that would cover your projected treatment. I'm sorry, but - this changes everything."

This is like that acid trip movie he saw as a kid. Alice in Neverland, or something. He was the rabbit falling down the hole with no end in sight.

"What do you mean doc? You said you were gonna help me. Chemo and radioactivity and all that type of shit. Right? So what are you saying?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Puckerman. But we won't be able to move forward with treatment. Not under the current financial circumstances. You would likely be in need of a combination of surgery, chemo and radiation therapy. Which are well into the range of hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"So what? You drop this huge fucking bomb on me and then send me on my way? Good luck with dying dude. Thanks but we can't actually help you?!"

"There are alternative treatments Mr. Puckerman. Some people have found that holistic remedies can be beneficial. Change in diet. Exercise. There are other ways to deal with -"

"But none of them work. Not like radio rays or chemo. Right?"

Doctor Fiennes remains silent, avoiding Puck's eye.

"Right?!"

"It's true that chemo and radiation are the best forms of evidence based treatment, yes."

"Please man. What can I do? There's gotta be something. Like a program - or something like that. Something that helps people without insurance or who can't afford it."

"There are some government assistance programs. But usually those programs are specifically for unemployed persons or people living extremely below the poverty level due to some incapacity - a mental health issue, or some disability that keeps them from working. You can speak with one of the hospital social workers to further assist you. Maybe they can find something."

"But I know a guy who knows a guy, whose cousin got diagnosed with cancer in jail. They put him through all the treatments you were just talking about. Chemo and everything. He didn't have to come out of pocket a cent."

"Federal funding for inmates can cover hospital expenses. Sometimes even extreme cases such as cancer treatment."

Where was the ground again? Was it ever gonna come back?

"You mean to tell me some fuckwad in jail - some asshole who fucking stole his way through his own kid's college fund, robbed liquor stores for petty cash, and put some guy in the hospital by running him over with his shitty little Yaris - the gayest clown car on the planet - is able to get help. But I can't?"

"I'm sincerely sorry. I wish there was more I could do."

He feels it then. The numbness give way to a surging anger that engulfs him like the dude from Fantastic Four. Just on the inside instead.

"Okay. Right. Fine."

Puck jumps down from the examination table, quickly snatching up his pile of clothes from the nearby chair angrily. Keeping his hands full of something was the key to getting out of here without choking the ever loving shit out of the doc.

"Yeah. I see how it is. Fucking American government and our backwards ass health care system that fucking spoils murderers and child molesters, and treats them like fucking royalty. But fucking makes hard working people who live pay to pay check, and are just trying to make a decent living die slowly while they count their pennies. Oh no - not quarters. 'Cause quarters means you make too much money, and you have to be living out a god damn cardboard box to qualify for any sort of care! And you wonder why Canadians are so fucking nice all the time. 'Cause they live longer! And they have a fucking maple leaf on their national flag! That's fucking amazing! Who wouldn't be happy about that?! Maple syrup and hockey and free health care. A combination that apparently makes for a country full of fucking happy, nice people who according to South Park, say 'eh' a lot. But you know what - that's fine! I'm just gonna be taking this with me," He hisses while grabbing a jar of long q-tips from the countertop, spilling several in his haste.

"Mr. Puckerman -"

"And this," a pamphlet on STD's and safe sex practices. Another pamphlet entitled, How to Deal With Pain: The Mysteries of Fibromyalgia.

"Mr. Puckerman, please."

Puck pauses momentarily to scope out the rest of the office. "And this too." He then rips a poster from the wall; an illustration diagram of a woman's internal organs, including her birth canal.

Doctor Fiennes is now covering his face with his hand, gently shaking his head at the outburst, but says nothing.

"It's the least you fuckers can do. Give me a god damn parting gift - Ha! A parting gift. That's not fucking ironic at all!"

"Mr. Puckerman at least -"

"Have a nice life, doc," Puck spat indignantly, wrenching the door open and closing it with a heavy slam.

"Tie the draw string to your gown," Doctor Fiennes finishes aloud to the now empty exam room. "The pediatrics department is down the hall."

Sure enough, not more than a handful of seconds later, he overhears several female cries and protests regarding indecent exposure reverberate down the hallway.

Kurt

"God bless you, you swanky, well dressed little bastard you."

"I don't believe in God," He blinks.

"But I believe in you. And I'm like God - so, just go with it," she trills merrily.

Lorraine Warrenson. A middle aged, divorcee, and over ten year acting CEO of High Rise Fashion Incorporated, pinched his cheek with entirely too much gusto. He was sure that his normally flawless skin was marred by an angry blotch of red from the gesture. But he couldn't bring himself to care as he rubbed over the spot with his fingertips, rolling his glasz eyes with a pleased grin.

He couldn't exactly begrudge her the self appointed title. The woman was like God. Or a Goddess rather. Who swore a lot. And wore sinfully stylish high heels to compensate for her short stature. But was undeniably someone to be reckoned with in the fashion industry.

He idolized her. She was one of the main driving forces behind his current position as the agency's senior designer; the youngest one to date.

Kurt Hummel was only twenty four years old and was by all intents and purposes, living his dream.

The kid who always saw himself in April O'Neil's white booted feet as opposed to being any of the Ninja Turtle's like the other boys during recess time.

The one who literally was made to eat dirt by some kid in the third grade for thinking that Dragon Ball Z was ridiculous and that My Little Pony had a quaint sophistication bordering royalty that all kids, boy or girl should appreciate.

The kid who took a face full of slushies from overzealous, hateful, meathead jocks nearly the entirety of his high school career...

He was now sitting atop a fashionable pedastal made of gold chifon and lace. Looking down on the them like the poorly dressed, muted peasants that they were with their beer bellies, trailer homes full of screaming illegitimate children, and broken dreams.

Well, at least that's how he imagined it.

"I want the finalized proposal in writing on my desk by Monday. Till then, go celebrate with a side of some hot, exotic Puerto Rican ass, and a Sex and the City type martini made from a guava melon, or some absurd type of fruit that we get imported from a third world country."

"Have you been watching gay porn again?"

"Every night for two weeks straight. By Monday Hummel."

"Yeah, yeah."

The rest of the meeting's occupants had already vacated, slipping him appreciative smiles and blurts of congratulations as they trounced from the board room and left him in the afterglow of his latest accomplishment.

He was on cloud nine. He literally had to suppress himself from twirling and clapping. He almost gave into the desire until a familiar voice put the kibosh on the urge.

"Um - hey, Kurt."

"Oh. Mickey. Hi, how are you?"

The nineteen year old intern swallowed, adjusting his glasses to sit more sturdily across his sharp nose.

"Um - fine. Really Good. Just wanted to say that you were r-really good. I mean - not that you haven't been good before. Y-you're always awesome. You just - it - it was brilliant. The way you meshed the checkered patterns to bring out the subtle monochromatic backdrop? I just - wow, you know."

Kurt couldn't help but beam at the praise coupled with the shy, yet earnest delivery.

"Why thank you. I was honestly a little nervous. I wasn't sure that the changes wouldn't be a seen as little too extreme at first glance. But it seemed to go over pretty well."

"You didn't seem it. I can tell how passionate you are about the line. Obviously Miss Warrenson could too."

"Well I appreciate it. That means a lot, Mickey."

There was a moment where they both stood stock still, a nervous Mickey looking a bit lost as if wanting to say something else, but unable to make his mouth move.

"Well. O-okay then. Good night Kurt."

"Good night, Mickey."

Mickey had managed several steps before turning on his heel.

"Hey - uh, Kurt?"

"Yes?"

"You - you really should celebrate or something. You deserve it."

"That's a good suggestion. Maybe."

"Um - would you, maybe want to go out? I mean - just for a drink or something. My treat. A totally professional, celebratory outing. It's the least I can do. I - I really do learn a lot from just watching you - work, watching you work."

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut and huffed out a strangled sigh. Kurt's smile widened at the display.

"And it would be my pleasure - er - honor. If you'd let me," Mickey concluded after his rambling admission.

Kurt was flattered. Truly. Mickey was admittedly attractive, and a genuinely nice guy. But his big head immediately took over, dragging him away from his thoughts often created by his little head regarding Mickey's attractiveness, and plunked him smack, dab, right back into his preconceived safe zone where fashion overruled the flesh. The place where his heart resigned itself to an impenetrable cage that blocked out thoughts of love, dating, and relationships.

"That sounds really nice. But I have some paperwork to get done. The earlier I start, the better."

"Of course. I understand." Mickey uttered quietly.

"But another time maybe? I'm always up for an early morning coffee."

The brunette shot Kurt a wide smile. Kurt nearly giggled at the abrupt change in expression.

"Sure, Kurt. G'night."

He waved as Mickey disappeared out the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts, in a barren atmosphere that without people, felt like a weird void-induced backdrop after all the excited energy had dissipated.

Suddenly he felt as empty as the room. Deflated, and unequivocally alone.

A/N: So? You like? Let me know with some reviews so that way I will feel inspired to continue this journey. Side note: I am not a medical expert. I'm going based on very mild research and what sounds good to me. That also goes for the whole fashion thing. Not my expertise, what so ever. I made up the company name so any resemblance to an actual fashion agency is pure coincidence. As for Puck's predicament, I'm pretty sure it's not really true. Maybe possible, but I don't really know. Good news, we are all in the world of fiction so let's imagine together shall we? Lol. Thanks guys! Much love to you!