AN: Okay, this is essentially a Puckleberry story (which is why it's filed under "Rachel B." and "Puck") but it's pretty much just Finn and Puck for the whole thing. I think the title speaks for itself. Enjoy!
There is frenzied banging on the door and if Finn didn't know his best friend the way he does, he'd totally feel guilty mouthing 'Five minutes' to his girlfriend sitting half naked on his bed. As it is, he hurries to answer the door, knowing that if Puck is acting this way, there's a pretty important reason. He's greeted to the sight of the man himself frantically pacing the length of his porch when he opens the door.
"Dude, you've gotta fucking help me!"
"What's the matter?" He looks at Puck's pale face and starts panicking. "Oh my God, is someone dead? Did you kill someone? Do I have to be the guy who becomes an accessory to murder because he helped bury the body in the woods at the edge of town? Damn it, Puck, why'd you have to be like that?"
Puck just looks at him like he's crazy. Right, like Finn's the one ranting and raving on someone else's front door on a Friday night. "What? No! No one's dead, you idiot." He pauses dramatically. "Although I might as well be."
"Well then, shit, what's going on?"
"I've lost my mojo, man."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The Puckzilla," another dramatic pause (man, dude really was spending way too much time with Rachel), "is no more."
Finn scratches his head. "Okay, hold up. You're gonna have to gimme some details here."
"Well, you know how tonight's supposed to be date numero siete with Berry, right?"
"Right…"
"And she has this timeline of the stages of dating and what each stage of dating is supposed to be worth—"
"Yeaaah…" He's not liking where this is going. The horrible thing about having your best friend date your ex-girlfriend was…the fact that your best friend is dating your ex-girlfriend. Shit was weird.
"So tonight was supposed to be the night when I'd finally get to second base. Her dads aren't home, we're totally on schedule…"
"And?"
"And I choked, man! I couldn't do it! I couldn't even get her fucking bra open!" Puck stands up and starts pacing and gesticulating madly. "I had my hand under there and I was so close to those fucking perfect handfuls and my fingers are legit shaking. My fucking fingers are shaking and my hand gets tangled in the straps! It's like I'm this pussified 9th grade loser and it got so bad, I had to make an excuse and get the fuck outta there."
Puck ends up leaning on the railing with his head in his hands. "Shit," he groans, finally realizing something. "Rachel's gonna be pissed at me for running off."
Finn manages to get up and give him a few awkward pats on the back. "Come on, man, it's not that bad."
"Not that bad?" There is an edge to Puck's voice that's on this side of hysterical. "I'm an expert at taking off bras. I've probably taken bras off a hundred girls. I'm like the LeBron of bras. I can do it with one hand. I can do it with my eyes closed. One time, I just looked at this Cheerio's bra and it literally popped open."
"Wait, is that why you were staring at Rachel's chest all day yesterday?"
"Not the point," he moans. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
Finn considers things for a minute. A long minute where the only sounds on the porch is Finn drumming his fingers against the wood and Puck muttering random things like 'mangina', 'virgin' and 'probably explode'. "Okay, first thing," Finn finally says. "Don't ever talk to me about this again because dude, TMI much? Second – nothing's wrong with you."
"Hello? Haven't you been listening to anything I've said?"
"Look, you may have done this with a hundred girls but the fact of the matter is," he says, smiling benevolently at his best friend. "None of those girls were Rachel. You weren't in love then and now…now you kinda are."
He watches Puck's face and he can pinpoint the exact moment when he gets it. It's like a revelation worthy of a grilled cheese sandwich and a few hallelujahs. "…Fuck."
"I know."
"So what do I do now?" For the normally brash and over-confident Puckerone, he sounds almost lost.
"Now you get off my porch, get some flowers, apologize and tell her you love her. Get back to your girl and lemme get back to mine."
Puck rolls his eyes but gives him a grateful grin. "Thanks, man." He moves to leave but not before one last thing. "Not a—"
"—word to anyone, I know. Oh, believe me, I'm definitely not telling anyone about this."
With fist bump and a nod, he is gone and Finn breathes a sigh of relief. Any longer and he'd have had his own girl throwing a fit.
Hours later, Finn has Santana's head pillowed on his chest when his phone beeps with a new text. Brow furrowed, he reads the message from Puck:
Two words, man: Front. Clasp.