Eight days before Quinn Fabray was due, she knew something was wrong.
School was winding down, and the New Directions had been practicing as often as they could stomach Rachel's demands, and Finn's incompetence, and Puck's sexual innuendos, well a lot of things that were occurring that Quinn did not find comforting or wanted or needed or just plain annoying. She was in pain: her back bothered her, her feet were swollen, and she had a headache that refused to go away. Finals were stacking up, the baby was due, and while she was taking care of herself, things just came to head, and that was fine. She was Quinn Fabray; she would handle them by herself, because there was no one else.
Walking into third period, before she had time to place her book bag down on the floor and fall into her chair, when she felt her stomach tighten up and her groin felt as if she had pulled it or something, slowly building in pressure and pain. She had been uncomfortable all morning, and while she had found it difficult to get comfortable in the library during her gym period, Quinn was not worried. In fact, this was just normal, right? She told herself that over and over again, though her hand found its way into her pocket of her dress where her rosary sat, patiently waiting.
Pain tightened, grew so fast that she could not prepare herself. Quinn gasped and tried to stand up, but her feet were slightly behind her legs, and she fell to the floor, holding onto the desk with one hand, the other clutching her stomach, her womb, her child. People scattered around her, pushing desks aside and standing up, away from the fallen ex-cheerleader. This was not right, she told herself. She had time, was supposed to prepare herself. God had thrown so much at her, and even now, the birth would come as a surprise. And it would be painful, Lord, she felt it already. Quinn tried to remember her breathing exercises, but she could only take large gulps of air in, exhaling in a shaky breath. This was not right.
A teacher rushed over to her, panicking more than she was, asking if there was anything she needed. But phones were out and she heard a girl say something about 9-1-1, which she did not need. This was only Braxton-Hicks, right? False labor. She had read about this, and there was nothing abnormal about it. Quinn just had to ride it and get on with school. Everythi– Ever– Everything… oh Lord, please, do not hurt her baby.
She tried to stand up, but a hand on her shoulder helped her back to the floor. Quinn turned to see Mike Chang kneeling next to her, letting her head rest on his knees and smiling at her, brushing her hair. The pain slipped away, and she finally began to breathe normally. The teacher, Ms. Bletheim, just babbled, her words molding into the sound from Peanuts, but she could focus on her fellow Gleek, there attempting to comfort her. Why was her dress wet? Oh, Lord did her water break in the class? He was saying things too, but before Quinn could hear him, another contraction hit. She squeezed her hands and felt something in one, another hand.
Lord, it hurt. It burned now, this… this was wrong. She wanted her mother, where was her mom. Quinn knew she was crying, she could feel the tears on her cheek, but was not aware they had leaked out until Mike brushed them away. "It hurts," she said, her voice just a whimper between her uneven breathes.
"The paramedics are on their way," he replied and petted her hair. When had he become so kind?
"Please, my…oh god," she said, and arched slightly. It was worse; why was it getting worse? "Mi… Mi… Mi..."
"What do you need, Quinn?" He spoke so softly, like he rarely used it voice. It was a low timbre and seemed to resonant in a comforting way that did not quite reach Quinn.
"My…my..rosary," she stuttered. "Pocket, please." He reached over, oblivious to how she squeezed his hand and removed it, placing it with the reverence she held for it in her hand. "Th…th…tha…"
"Any time, just hold on," he said, and smiled at her. This was not right. Things were not right. Why was he smiling? It was not okay. Lord, please, make it stop. Keep her baby safe. Just let him be okay.
Quinn did not know how long it took for the ambulance to arrive, but it was three more contractions of some sort, she was aware of that much. Lord, did she want to push the child out, but the medics spoke to her, tried to calm her down, saying she needed to just be patient and wait for her doctor's okay, things were going to be fine, there was nothing to worry about, no need to panic. The words were a mantra that slide into white noise as they took her out of the room on a stretcher, Mike holding her hand the entire time, whispering encouraging things, her rosary in the other, attempting to keep her mind on her prayers as the silent ride to the hospital took place:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee;…
blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. …
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. …
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; …
blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed …
is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy …
Mary, Mother of God, ….
pray for us sinners, now and at the …
hour of our death. …
Hail Mary, full of grace ...
Puck paced the hospital waiting room. Five hours ago, Quinn, the mother of his child, was rushed to the hospital. Mike came running into science, where he had been sleeping, and pulled him out without a word. The expression told him enough to know: Quinn was going into labor. Something was wrong. The teacher yelled at him, but the words faded behind the want, no need, to be by her side. Now he was kept away, waiting with everyone else.
Something was wrong was an understatement, but he wouldn't learn how fucked up the situation really was until they got to the hospital, until much later, when the commotion was over.
His first call as he ran out of the school to his truck was to Judy Fabray, demanding that she come to her daughter's side. He fucked up this year, fucked up royally, and he could never take it back. He got a girl pregnant, when he and she were drunk. Mr. Berry, Hiram, sat him down and drank a beer with him, telling him just how much he had fucked things up. The term rapist may or may not have been thrown around. Puck didn't want to fucking talk about that, he couldn't at the moment. Right now, said girl was giving birth, and he was left to pace and worry. Her mother was with her at least.
His second call, speeding past a cop, who flipped his lights as soon as Puck saw him, was to his mother, telling her of the situation. He got out of the ticket, and an escort, but a warning not to speed again, all the while on the phone with his mother, trying to calm her down. They would meet her there. Sarah Puckerman worked in neonatal care at Lima Medical, where they were taking Quinn, where the mother of his child, not baby mama, not any more, he told himself, was headed.
Mr. Schue was his final call, though the man was panicking too, and at least Sue Sylvester, of all people, calmed him down (the crazy woman's voice carried) enough so Puck could tell his coach what was happening. The rest of Glee would know shortly. They arrived slowly, Santana and Brittany, followed by Rachel, then Mercedes and Kurt, Mike, Tina and Matt with Artie and Mr. Schue. Finn was last, coming with his mom, having picked up her and Kurt's dad (good for them).
Mom approached him and told him what she could, given doctor-patient privilege, fucking rules. Judy ran up when she saw them, asking so many questions, but most importantly to see her daughter, to know if she was okay. Mom took the mother away, but looked over her shoulder. Puck knew that look; he saw it one before, when his father up and abandoned him and his family, leaving him to take care of his mom and five year old sister. Things were not good. They couldn't be.
Brittany must have noticed it, or at least how it affected him, because she tackled him hard when she arrived, hugging him tightly and crying into his arms. Santana walked over to them, slowly, each step a chore, but Puck opened his arms for her, holding two of his favorite girls tightly, holding the pair silently, but no tears escaped. He whispered over and over again. "I don't know. I don't know." He didn't know anything, because he wasn't family. The mother of his child was giving birth, and he fucked up so much that he couldn't be there with her. He shouldn't be there with her.
Rachel came with her dads, twenty minutes later, tears in her eyes as she ran into his arms, letting him pick her up and hold her tight, swinging her around as though they were in middle school again, when they were friends. She held her small, worn book of Psalms, and whispered that she'd start as soon as he let go. Puck held her for another minute, breathing in her lavender shampoo, trying to calm himself. She rushed over and sat next to Santana, who held her own rosary and Bible, and began to pray with her. The two held hands. Any other time, it would have brought a smile to his face, but Puck didn't feel like smiling.
Hiram approached him, smiled weakly and asked what he could do. Nothing. There was nothing anyone could do. Prayer was the most they had right now, prayer and faith that the doctors could do whatever they had to save Quinn. To save his child. To save both of them. God, please save both of them.
No one told him that her life was in danger. No one spoke a word. Once Judy disappeared, it was the last anyone of them heard anything, even if he was the father and had a right to know about his child, Puck didn't push it. But he knew. He knew what was going on, at least, some part of him did.
Everyone else arrived and asked the same questions: what's going on, is Quinn okay, how are you holding up, is there anything I can do. It would have been too much, Puck would have lashed out and punched something, Lord knows he wanted to. All of the people and questions should have been too much had Hiram not been there.
The man stepped up and offered him words of wisdom and kindness and strength that no one else ever had, words his father was supposed to give him but never did because he was a Lima Loser. Puck knew he had a long road, and many acts he would have to atone for, but Hiram at least had helped him find that path. Rachel knew nothing about that, or their weekly conversations after Temple at his house.
Puck was okay with that.
Five hours. Five hours of pacing, waiting, cups of coffee shoved into his hand, pleas for him to sit down and just relax, they are doing everything they can, calm down. Puck ignored them all, well most of them. Artie talked music with him; the conversation wasn't long. Mike and Matt talked about football and the upcoming season: maybe two minutes. Rachel asked if would join them, Santana, Mercedes and Rachel, in prayer: maybe later. God wouldn't want to hear from him now, not the way he was feeling.
He paced because he couldn't stay still. Puck felt his hands shake and his feet move, but the movement was just lost as he tried to hold himself together. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, but it wasn't going to help. Anger at the fact that Quinn was hurting, because of him, would not make the situation. No form of physical action could make her feel better. He couldn't punch someone or something, throw it into a dumpster, or a slushie at it, to make sure his child, his baby, okay. If he stood still, Puck was afraid he wouldn't get up again.
Brittany walked up and took his hand, guided him to a seat next to her, away from everyone, and curled up next to him. Puck expected a glare from Santana, but no one said a word at the actions of the blonde; it was just accepted as truth, as it should be.
Five hours past, and finally, a doctor walked through the doors, his apron, bloody. Lord, please. No. Puck stood, but sat down again. Brittany and Hiram made sure he sat in the seat. "Noah Puckerman?" he said. The voice was soft and still, and the waiting room followed suit. "
"Me," Puck said, scratching out the words from his throat.
"If you can?" He motioned behind them.
"Yeah sure," he pushed up to his feet and rushed over, the man guiding him through the doors. He didn't say anything; that was the worst part of it all, because Puck knew something had happened that he could not take back. That no one could. Twenty feet from the closed doors, he asked what he didn't want to know. "Is she alive?"
"She's stable at the moment, awake," the doctor said.
"Our…our…what about…" The answer was one he knew, deep down inside of him, somewhere he hadn't felt anything in a long time. But he needed to hear it. He need to say it. "What about our baby, is everything okay?"
The doctor paused and turned to look at him. The same look his Mom gave him when his Nonnie died and she had to deliver the news. "God, no, please no," He pushed against the wall, using it to hold him up as his feet, legs, body shook. He hadn't cried all day, held it together, but now, seeing the expression, the one of sorrow and loss and pity, Puck couldn't deal.
"Oh, Noah." His mom came from nowhere and wrapped her arms around his chest, her head resting just below his shoulder blades. Why was the floor so close and so blurry? He cried as he had taught himself so long ago: without a sound. His shoulders hitched up and down, body quaking and shivering. But he remained standing. He flexed his hands, trying to grab and squeeze whatever he could, nothing to hurt or break, and just keep it in. Hold the anger and pain and loss and sadness. Puck could say that at least. "I…I…" His mother didn't have the words. He didn't have the words. There were no words.
"Quinn's okay though?" he asked, struggling to speak through the tears, trying to keep his voice steady. "Right?" She needed to be okay, his fuck-up couldn't have cost two people their lives. It… he couldn't live with himself if it did.
"Yes," the doctor said, "Like I said, she's stable and awake. Asking for you, in fact. Said the father of her… the father was outside and needed to be here."
"I want to see her, then." Puck wiped the tears from his face, snot from his nose, with the back of his hand. "Please."
"Of course," The doctor replied. Mom let him go, and they led him to a private room, down a really quite hallway. Puck was so thankful for the silence for once. Usually it meant he had to think and reflect, and that never brought up good things. But he didn't know if he could deal with a crying baby, not when he couldn't hear his own. Not when he could never hear his own.
Quinn was in the bed, eyes closed, sleeping, maybe. Her blonde hair was scattered around her head, arms stretched out to the side and hands hanging off the bed. If it weren't for the heart monitor, he wouldn't know if she was alive. Lord saved one of them, at least. It wasn't much consolation. He wanted both. But he would settle; why was he settling, for one? Puck should have both.
"Noah," Judy said. He turned and looked at the woman standing just beside the door, arms in front and hand over her mouth keep the sobs in. "I…This…It shouldn't have been this way." No it shouldn't have, they should have met under better pretenses, for better reasons.
He shook his head, his words failing him. He didn't have any for her, or anyone really.
"Puck?" Quinn said, raising her head and looking around, her eyes locking onto his. Did she see the same puffiness, the same redness, the wet rolling down the cheeks as he did? Tired, exhausted, and broken through a means that no woman, no one, should ever have to go through, Quinn Fabray was still the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. She was so pale, and the blonde had the audacity to glisten, not look sweaty. The hospital gown looked so elegant on her, a formal dress for her coming of age ball, really. She… she was an angel who had lost her wings, torn from her. He did that. "I'm…I'm so sorry."
"Shh," He said, kneeling down next to her. "Shhh, I know. It's…" But it wasn't okay. "I don't blame you."
"Liar," she said with a smile, cupping his cheek. It was weak and tired and so very empty. There was no joy left in her, no happiness and laughter. All gone in a matter of five hours. Life was hell before this, he would have thought, but now… now it was worse.
"You know when I lie," he replied, and wiped her forehead clean of her bangs. "Am I lying now?" She shook her head. The makeup she wore, eyeliner and shadow, blush, and lipstick, was mostly gone, though streaks of it was left a reminder that she had a life before then, before he had destroy her so thoroughly. "I don't blame you." And he didn't. The only person Puck would ever blame, could ever blame, was the one who started all of this.
"But I killed our son." Lord, he had a son. Would have had. No longer did. He held his own tears back. Puck wanted to be strong. "I'm... Puck, I didn't mean to, I swear it; I wanted him so badly."
"Quinn," he said, moving forward until his face was inches from hers. "You did nothing wrong. Nothing you hear. I do not blame you." He swallowed and closed his eyes. "Did you see him?"
Quinn shook her head. "They took him away, tried to revive him, or at least give him a shot." Puck didn't want to know how his son had died in her womb. He wouldn't ask that of her, to relive five hours of pain she suffered through. "A chance. They tried. But he never had one. I killed him. I killed our son. Me. It was-"
Puck covered her lips with a finger, shaking his head. "Quinn, no, you can't think that." The tears started to fall. "Never, never should you think that. You carried our son for nine months, treated so wonderfully, protected him, cared for him. You did more than some people ever could. God decided that it wasn't his time yet." The words hurt him to speak, to try to accept that God couldn't let their son go. "He loved our baby boy so much that he couldn't part with him."
"I don't…. I don't understand," she said, through her sobs. "Please, tell me, make me understand. Why… why would He do such a thing? Why would He put me through so much, make me love him so much and take him away, before I could ever have him? Puck…I… please, just….I don't want this, wake me up. Just wake me up." In tears, the angel broke his heart. Puck leaned up and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, holding her tightly. He stood up and quickly sat down on the bed next to her, pulling her with him. She was so limp and small; God, what had he put this girl, no, this woman through. He cried with her, holding her to him, and using what little strength he had to support them. She had walked this far, he would carry them the rest of the way, especially since he didn't before.
He didn't say anything, couldn't. There were no words for what they, what she had been through. Judy must have left at some point, because when a knock came from the door, Puck looked around and found they were alone. A nurse opened it slowly and peeked inside. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said, the words rout and empty. "We've found that it's sometimes best for the parents if they can say…" she trailed off. "Goodbye as soon as possible, hold him and see him. Would you like to see him?"
Puck looked down at the girl cradled in his arms. She nodded against him. "Sure, right away, please." He squeezed her tightly, offering only that he was there now, with her the entire process. He would support her weight, the weight of the world, without her wanting or asking.
There wasn't love between them. Puck learned that early on, when she had denied him from helping her, when he didn't press hard enough, that she didn't care for him, not in the way he wanted, not in the way he did for her. The feeling disappeared, but not really, replaced or faded into something else. He fucked up, royally, and he wanted to make it right. She, she was a friend, one of his few, even if she didn't view him the same way. He couldn't take back what had happened, but maybe he could at least do whatever she needed him to now.
"Are you sure?" he asked. She nodded again. Puck kissed her forehead.
They didn't move for a while, other than Puck starting to rock her, singing a lullaby that he used to his sister when their father was screaming and yelling in a drunken rage. "Hush a bye, don't you cry, Go to sleep my little baby. When you wake, you shall have all pretty little ponies." Quinn stilled a bit, singing along when she could, but both of their words were broken with sobs and tears.
Two lullabies later, and no restlessness settled, the door opened again, the nurse bringing a small cart in, the baby basset with a small pale figure wrapped in a blue blanket. Quinn pulled away, pushing him towards their son. Puck stood up slowly, wiping his face and steadying his breath. "Can you," he said and shook off the stutter, "can you get our moms?"
"Sure, honey," she said, with just a hint of warmth. "Take your time." He nodded and the nurse left the room, door closed behind her.
Everything was well lit in the room, and there were so many sounds of machines and fluorescent lights. Puck every seemed dim, and the sounds were muffled. Just Quinn's breathing and the light around his dead son. Sixteen years old and he had already lost a son. No parent should bury a child, especially one they never got to see. How many things would he miss out on? First steps, words, days of school, loves, heartbreaks? How many things were stolen from them?
Puck picked up his son, careful to hold his head and cradled him close to him as his mother taught him one late night, when he was so distraught with worry over Quinn and his own responsibilities, just to ease him. His arms rocked slowly, swaying to a music of a hymn of loss.
"Did…did you have a name?" Puck asked.
"Gabriel Michael Puckerman," she said. "I thought between us he'd need all the angels looking out for him he could get." He didn't look up. He didn't want her to see how he had started to cry again, she didn't want him to see her tears.
"You were right," he said. "God, you were right. Just look at his parents, well, me especially."
"Noah," Quinn replied.
He walked slowly over to her, holding Gabe close to his body, offering worthless warmth to a son that no longer needed it. "Let's be honest, his father is a Lima Loser. The worst of the worst, got a cheerleader pregnant just because she was having a fat day."
"Please."
Puck laughed hollowly. "In fact, never was there for his mother, letting her be alone for nine months, hurt when she lied about it, but never tried, not really, to make it better. Gabe, I'm sorry I wasn't a better dad, at least to your mom."
Quinn touched his arm. Somehow he had made his way over to the bed, standing right next to her. "Can….can I…"
"Hold him?" Puck answered. "Of course." He moved slowly, letting Quinn take Gabe from him. He looked like he was sleeping. Why wasn't he just sleeping? This... this day could have been so much better. "He has his mother's nose." Quinn laughed. "And cheekbones, and chin, and mouth, and – God is there any of me in him."
"I don't think so," Quinn replied, the smile wasn't forced, maybe a little. Puck sat down next to her in the space she made.
"Probably better that," Puck said. "I was a bit of a hellion when I was young, just ask my mom."
"He wouldn't have let us sleep a night."
"So many dirty diapers."
"Thrown food."
"And toys."
"How many of shirts would he have thrown up on."
"Too many," Quinn laughed. Their moms walked into the room as the pair of sat, looking over their dead son, thinking of things that would never happen. They couldn't cry any more, and sometimes only laughter was left.
"Hey," Judy said, she took a seat next to Quinn on the other side of the bed. Mom stepped behind him, a hand on his shoulder, looking over them. The pair surrounded them, protecting them, at least for the moment, letting the illusion exist a little longer.
"Mom?" Quinn said. "I want you to meet your son: Gabriel Michael Puckerman."
"Fabray-Puckerman. Can't have his mom out of his life," he added.
"He's beautiful," Judy said. She didn't ask to hold him. Quinn needed Gabe more than anyone else. "Looks like you did, Quinnie, when you were born, except you know, more boyish."
"Right?" Quinn smirked. "We were just saying it's probably better that way. No Puck to get in his way."
"He'd have been so spoiled," Mom said.
"Yeah…yeah he would have. Have his daddy wrapped around his finger," Quinn replied.
"But would have ran to Mommy to fix all his problems, because she would have been scarier than his Dad ever could be." The family laughed. He didn't want this. A family together over a child that never had a chance. But Quinn would be part of him now, a sister, and him her younger brother, forever trying to make up the one mistake he never could.
"Noah?" Mom said, finally breaking a silence. "We're gonna take care of all the details, don't worry about it, kay?" God the funeral. That's what she was talking about, the wake and funeral and burial and- So much that he, the father should do. Could he even handle talking about a plot of dirt for his son, to be buried in the cold ground where no one would hold him and cherish him.
"But-" he tried, but she shook her head.
"You and Quinn, you two take care of each other."
"I don't want to bury him," Quinn said. "I want….he needs to be cremated then planted with a tree." Puck nodded. Something that would grow and live in place of him. Something that was alive when Gabe could not be.
"Sure, sweetie," Judy replied. "We'll make it happen."
"Are the others still out there?" Puck asked.
"Still waiting," Mom answered.
"They don't know?" He didn't need to look at her to feel the shake of her head. She didn't have the words. Puck didn't either. But he could do this. HE would. "I'll take care of it."
"Puck…Noah," Quinn looked up to him, tears in her eyes.
"Just don't let him go until I get back," he said, wiping his wet cheeks. When did he start crying? "I want my turn again."
"Never," Quinn said. "He'll always be with us." Puck nodded and left the room.
He stepped into the waiting room, unnoticed as he did. There was soft chatter, people finally conversing since he had left the room. "Oh, Noah," Rachel said. She must have been the first to see him. "Please, no."
"I…" he tried to speak. "Quinn's okay. She's tired, but the doc says she's stable and doing good. Probably gonna keep her a couple of days, just to be sure, tough…." He wiped his face and tried to look up.
Rachel was pale, holding her psalms to her chest. Brittany curled into Santana, shoulders hitching up and down. Hiram just gave him a look of pity and sorrow, LeRoy close and holding his hand. Artie tried to be a figure of steel, but every once in a while, the visage broken. Kurt was opening weeping with Mercedes. Matt didn't move, Puck wasn't sure he was breathing. Tina looked away, as though it wouldn't be real if she didn't see him, hear him. Mike was sitting, his strong legs giving out. Finn looked lost, as though the whole thing were just a dream. Puck wished it was. Mr. Schue was torn between stepping forward and staying where he was: Puck was glad his teacher didn't move. When did Sylvester get there?
"Tough birth," he finished, breathing out. "It was a stillbirth."
Santana wailed. He hadn't expected that, and he watched as her best friend had to hold her up, her body collapsing. Rachel stiffened. Hiram closed his eyes. There was no one else in the room for him anymore that he could see. "Gabriel Michael Fabray-Puckerman. That was his name. He… God, he's so beautiful. It's like a boy Quinn, perfect and soft and just…just angelic." No one asked to see him. He could barely look at his son without crying. Maybe later, alone in his room, when everyone had left and this was over, he'd grieve, but for now, Quinn needed someone to remain strong and hold it together.
"Puck," Mr. Schue said. Course his teacher would have something to say. He didn't want to hear it.
"So, yeah, I just wanted you to know," Puck ignored him, "I'm gonna head back and-"
"Is there anything we can do?" Hiram asked.
"Please, let us help," Rachel added. Puck shrugged. They couldn't bring him back, and Puck wasn't feeling like an asshole for saying that out loud. "There must be something."
"Just…" He didn't have the words. He wanted them to make this day disappear, start over like in television. Everything to rewind and maybe they could save Gabe. He turned to walk back to Quinn, to his dead son.
"It's probably better," Finn said softly, "This way I mean."
Puck stopped. His body refused to listen. Maybe because it knew that he wanted to kill Finn. He turned on a heel and stomped over to him, just to pull him out of his seat. The quarterback stood almost six inches over Puck. He didn't care. A single punch could have knocked him flat on his ass, maybe kill him. It would be so-
"Because it's my son's birthday," Puck said, breathing out slowly and letting the tension slip away, "and his deathday, I'm letting that go. Because I swore on his life that I would be the bigger man, a better man, and step up where I failed to do, I'm letting that go. Because I'd break Quinn if I went to jail and left her alone right now, when she needs the father of our child to grieve with, I'm letting that go. If our friendship ever meant anything to you, even with how much I fucked things up, don't you fucking dare say that again.
"My son is dead, Finn. Dead. He will never walk. Never talk. Never throw a ball with his old man, or dance with his mom. He won't get to go to school, have friends, and attend birthday parties, petting zoos or museums. He won't get to experience vacations, see new sights or old ones. He won't get to fall in and out of love, or marry, or have kids of his own. My son is fucking dead. So don't you fucking belittle that by saying it's fucking better this fucking God-damn worthless way. My son is dead." He stepped back, but kept a glare on Finn.
He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. The room stilled, but it wasn't quiet. This wasn't supposed to happen. His friends were there to comfort him, but all the life and joy and sounds was too much. Puck needed to get out. Finn sputtered, trying to force words to form. Santana was still sobbing, crying even harder now, with Brittany and Rachel of all people, when did they become friends, please tell him that Gabe wasn't the catalyst, trying to comfort her. Maybe something good came out of this, but not for Puck. Never for him. The one good thing, the one thing that he had finally realized he wanted and worked hard to earn, fixing himself up and preparing as much as possible for, he couldn't have.
"I…I didn't mean… Puck you've got to believe that-"
"I know," he said, looking away, releasing just how much of a child his best friend still was. "I know." He turned and looked around. "Go home, please, I'll call when we can handle visitors." Puck waved behind him. "Just…Just go, please." He walked through the doors, leaving a crowd of people staring at him, grieving for the mother and father who would bury their child in a few days. Puck wanted to ease their suffering, to let someone ease his, to make this all okay.
He didn't have the words.
******
When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
******
So… yeah… I wrote this late last night, or at least started to, when I was thinking about just things. I have a cousin who this happened to, their daughter being born dead, I can only imagine how horrible the pain of loss and blame is. I wanted to write about a Puck who actually understood that he basically raped a girl, even when both were drunk. Drunken consent is not consent folks. It's one of things that still gets me about Glee. No one calls him on this, no one says hey, what the fuck did you just do?
I'm not sure I can add anything else. I honestly don't have the words for this, for this kind of loss. This is the best stopping point, maybe I'll continue it later. I wanted to do more, really, have a scene of Faberry and Puck w/ Brittanna, but I couldn't. I just didn't know where it was going. So this ended up with no ship, despite me tagging it as Rachel, Quinn, Puck and Santana.
I'm debating whether or not this should be a collections of shorts or what not. I have a few things I want to write and am unsure of constantly posting a new story.
I don't own glee, cause if I did, at least Puck would have been shown how truly he fucked everything up. As always, read and review.
Because I can,
SurrealSteamPuckk(WeOffendedShadows)