I need to meet up with you- covertly, because I need your help with something. Do you think we can do that?
Puck had replied that this was probably doable, and to meet him by his truck by the local park. Currently, he was half-asleep in said truck, Bob Dylan playing from his stereo and cold air blasting from the vents.
His sort-of slumber was interrupted by a light tapping on his window. Groggily, his eyes flew open to a pair of inquisitive brown ones peering up at him.
After he gave his nod of consent, Rachel skirted around the truck to the other side, opened the door to the passenger seat, and sat down promptly.
As she bent down to get something from her bag, Puck's gaze swept up and over the long, tanned legs peeking out of a pair of tiny white shorts, the upper body covered in a thin black tank top that revealed the outline of a sports bra, and a sleek ponytail that stuck to the back of her neck.
"Now," she said after pulling some thick, bound script thing, "I wanted to talk to you because-"
She stopped short when Puck leaned over to tease the strap of her tank top back and forth.
"What are you doing?"
"When do the clothes come off?" he asked lowly.
"Excuse me?"
He withdrew his hand and blinked at her sleepily, as if coming out of a trance.
"You said covert, right?"
"Yes…"
"Which means, like, secret, spy-stuff, yes?"
Puck had watched enough action movies that used the word that he had guessed to its meaning. But maybe he was way off-base…
"It does…but I wanted to see if you could help me with a role I'm studying. Not…that."
"I just thought…helping you with something, secretly-"
"No."
"No clothes are coming off?"
"No!"
God. Why did his life have to suck, like, all the time?
"That is so not kosher."
"It's not my fault that that was the first conclusion your hormone-addled brain reached!"
Puck scowled and leaned back into his seat.
"This should've been a hint, anyway," Rachel said, flapping the book in his face.
Disgruntled, Puck flipped the book away. He smiled when it made a satisfying thud on the floor of his car.
"Now, that's just rude," she huffed, bending down to pick it up and smoothing it out.
It probably was, but it also revealed part of her back when she leaned down. So, you know. Points.
They sat there for a few moments in huffy silence.
"Well," she snapped, "aren't you going to ask me what I needed help with?"
"No."
"Right. Well, if you insist, I need to study for the role of Lucy in Across the Universe. Some theater majors at OSU are showcasing it."
"Well, damn, Rachel, you could've asked me to bring my guitar!" he grumbled, turning the key in the ignition, "NOW I have to drive all the fucking way to my house and get it, and if you wanted to 'covertly' meet there, you should've just-"
"I don't have any problems with the musical aspects!"
Exasperated, she turned the ignition all the way off.
"You shouldn't have this on anyway, even if it is hot. Try to conserve energy. It'll be good for-
"My fucking soul, right? Whatever. Can you just tell me what you want?"
Honestly, he wasn't usually this bratty, or not that Rachel could recall…not since we was seven years old and they were both going to the same bar mitzvahs, anyway.
"Well, the musical is set in the 60s'. It's about-"
"I've seen the movie."
...about 100,000 times with a crying, hormonal Quinn. She had watched it with a tub of Ben & Jerry's on her pregnant belly, and forced him to watch it with her. He had also been forced to listen to her commentary about how "gorgeous" Jim Sturgess was, and that the look at the end was just the most perfect ending ever, because the look Lucy and Jude exchanged during All You Need Is Love was more intense than any kiss could ever be.
Actually, he probably had the entire thing memorized.
"Okay. Well, I need help with relating to certain aspects of my character's life…and this is where the covert part comes in."
"'Kay."
"I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer with complete honesty."
"Alright then. Como se llamos."
"You keep SAYING that. I don't think you realize what it means, which is actually a travesty, given that you've taken two years of Spanish-"
"-taking Spanish I twice is not the same as two-"
"not to mention the fact-"
"-but you probably will anyway-"
"-that you dated Santana for a substantial amount of time, and you'd think you would've picked something up-"
"JESUS EFFING CHRIST!"
Puck yanked his keys out of the ignition, opened his door, and flung himself onto the grassy field near where he parked.
He opened his eyes when he felt two small knees rest on his legs.
"I swear to God," he said, "you are going to actually talk me to death. It's gonna happen."
"I'm sorry," she said, genuine contrition in her voice, "I'm just rather nervous because what I'm going to ask you to help me with is rather…scandalous."
"It's can't be that scandalous if you're not going to be naked."
"It is, though."
"Well, can you just ask before I keel over?"
"Alright," she said, gingerly taking her knees off his legs and sitting on the grass beside him.
"I need you to help me with method acting, and to do that…I need to do something that was very popular in the 60s."
After reassuring her for the millionth time that yes, his ma and Hannah are at Girl Scout Camp and no, she doesn't come down to the basement (or, as she so lovingly calls it, his "cave") ever and that there's absolutely no way they'll get caught, he lays down the ground rules.
"So," he said while coring the inside of an apple, "there are only a few rules, but they're like, important, so you actually need to listen to me for once."
"I listen to-"
"Listening starts now."
She glared and crossed her arms across her chest petulantly.
"So. One: turn your cell phone off."
"But-"
"No. Just…answering it always ends up bad, because it seems like a perfectly fine idea at the time, but then it becomes obvious to whoever the hell is calling that you're stoned. We're just not gonna go there."
"Fine," she sighed dramatically, pulling out her cell phone and pressing the "end" button in accordance.
"Two: don't drop the apple. Weed's not cheap."
"We're smoking out of that?"
"Yup. Bongs are more expensive than you'd think, princess."
"Anything else?"
"Three: Relax. Have fun with it."
Rachel bit her lip and nodded.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Um…you can put a record on. They're over there."
She followed the direction he had gestured towards, to a shelf full of DVDs, video games, and, on the very bottom shelf, vinyl.
The choices didn't really surprise her. There was Aerosmith, Black Sabbath, Billy Joel…
"The Beatles should be more towards the front, if you want to use those for your method whatever. It's organized by year."
She slid out Abbey Road and carefully placed it on the record player.
"How do you make that?" Rachel asked as she settled into the beanbag chair next to him.
"Well…you gotta core out the apple and make sure you don't hit the bottom," he said, pointing out the inside of it, "which I just did. Then you stick this-" he pulled out a straw-looking object from his pocket , "into the side."
"What is that?"
"It used to be a pen."
"Is there, like, a filter, or do you just-"
"Well, yeah, there's a filter. I don't want you to choke."
He pulled out a piece of aluminum foil with a few tiny holes on it and placed it on the top.
"Then we have the primary ingredient."
Puck poured a decent-sized portion of the herb from a plastic on top and handed it to her. She cradled it in her hands like it was a baby bird.
He leaned over and lit the top for her.
"Are you sure you don't want me to go first?"
"Yes!"
Hesitantly, she put her mouth around the pipe and sucked in.
"Hold it in until it starts to get uncomfortable. Then just blow it in the ceiling. Not my face."
She complied, coughing a few times as she did so.
Come together, right now: over me
They passed it back and forth for a few minutes, letting the music of the Beatles wash over them.
"Your ceiling is fantastic."
"Mmhmm."
"There are constellations on it."
"I know."
"I wanna touch it."
"Not the first time I've heard that…"
"What?"
"Nothing, babe. Need some help over there?"
Rachel had her arms stretched upwards and was on the tips of her toes, straining the ceiling.
"That looks like it hurts."
"After 12 years of ballet, I don't notice."
Puck walked behind her and lifted her up to touch the ceiling. Her face, unbeknownst to him, flushed at remembrance of how Jessie had done the same move during her ballet class.
"It feels normal," she said upon inspection, pouting.
"They're just stickers. C'mon."
And she did…directly onto his feet.
"Mother-"
He collapsed to the ground, her splayed on top of him, with a grunt.
"Sorry," she said quietly.
"'S ok."
"Your flannel is comfy. So are you."
"…thanks."
"This is just wrong."
"All of the other stations have commercials."
"Well, why can't we listen to the records?"
"They had radios back then. This is just as authentic."
"Except…not."
"It's pretty. Shush."
"We're Jewish."
"Be still, there is a river: that flows, from cavalries true. Your Grace, that washed over me. Let faith ariiiiise," she crooned along.
"And this is a Christian radio station. You do know this is blasphemy or some shit, right?"
"You are faithful God, forever!"
"Cookie Monster is such a stoner."
"Noah! He's a cartoon character! Just because he eats a lot doesn't mean-"
The Cookie Monster suddenly zoomed in on the screen, his mouth closed and neck taut.
Rachel dissolved into giggles so intense that she ended up rolling off the bean bag chair.
"Join me," Rachel requested, suddenly solemn, patting the place on the floor next to her.
After an eye roll, Puck complied, hands behind his head.
"I feel like I'm forgetting something…"
"Who cares?" Puck interjected, "The Cookie Monster's on drugs."
The duo burst into laughter (it wasn't the first time, and it definitely wouldn't be the last) yet again. They were so involved, in fact, that they didn't notice the door opening, or the throat clearing of their visitor.
"What are you guys doing?"
Rachel shot up abruptly, eyes squinting at the boy who had entered.
"You…" she said, pointing at him, "are judging us."
"What?"
"No, don't say another word," she protested, lifting her hand up, "I can feel your judgment radiating out-"
"Dude, is that food?"
"I brought stuff…" Finn said, his forehead crinkling, as Puck ran over to him "I came over here to play Super Mario with you…"
"Mmm," Puck said around the two Chips Ahoy he shoved in his mouth, "I luff you, man."
"Join us! Turn your frown upside down!" Rachel insisted, waving him over.
Finn obliged and sat down next to her. Puck joined him on the other side, opening a can of Fanta and chugging it in contentment.
"Rachel…are you drunk?"
"No, Finn," she said, grabbing a cookie and looking at it in fascination, "I am high. High as the Statue of Liberty. And this," she said, shoving it in his face, "has so many chocolate chips. So. Many."
"Oh," he said in an easier tone, "well, that's…weird. But okay, I guess. Is there any left over?"
"There's some in the piggy bank. Help yourself, man," Puck offered with an affectionate noogie.
"She's never going to love you!"
"Would you shut up?"
"She's not!" Rachel protested, "not until he gets rid of that mustache."
"It does make him look like a pedo," Puck agreed with a thoughtful pout.
"Yeah, well, Peach is a bitch, anyway."
"She is not!" Rachel screeched, hitting Finn on the shoulder.
"She is so."
"I WON! SUCK ON THAT!"
Finn supplied his war cry with a victorious fist-pump. Puck pouted and threw his controller on the ground.
"I never win anything."
"That's not true!" she cried, leaning into his shoulder, "you won that one basketball game!"
"Yeah," Puck snorted, "like, a year ago."
"You're comfy. You're both comfy. You should just stop arguing, in my opinion."
"What are you doing?" Finn asked cautiously.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Rachel asked, crawling over Finn, snuggling into Puck's chest, and laying her legs on Finn's.
"You're the best friends ever," she sighed, "and I'm gonna take a nap on you now. Because that's what friends do."
Puck quirked an eyebrow at Finn, who glared in response.
The look they shared contained a mutual understanding that Noah Puckerman, had, in fact, won what was most important.