Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. Period.

A/N: This was a triple prompt fill over on LJ. Just some Puckleberry goodness because I couldn't resist and to stretch those old writing muscles.

I hope you enjoy!

He's an idiot.

It's not a fact that anyone would ever deny, he thinks (except Rachel, who's constantly telling him that his 'lack of self-confidence is worrisome' or some shit like that), but its times like these that he's certain he is; times where even Rachel wouldn't contest the fact.

He's an idiot, but he's not completely stupid. He knows that the worst thing he could do is go home and let her stew overnight; (let her think things over and come to an even firmer conclusion that she's right and he's in the wrong, which he almost always is). And that the best thing he can do is stay right here, on her porch, for as long as it takes for her to run out of steam and agree to come and talk to him. She'll come around eventually, he knows … or at least, he hopes.

There's a tap on the front window, and his head snaps up. His shoulders dip disappointedly when he sees that it's not Rachel, but he gives a sheepish smile to Alan Berry who shakes his head sympathetically and tilts his head, an invitation to come inside, like he always does. Puck shakes his head no, like he always does (because as awesome as Rachel's dads really are, he isn't comfortable sitting with them and talking for the hour minimum it's going to be before his favorite little psycho comes down).

Alan's raised eyebrow poses a silent question, and Puck shrugs (like he usually does) because he honestly doesn't have a fucking clue what they were fighting about this time. Sometimes he really does, sometimes he kind of does, and this he does not at all. Something stupid, probably (read: definitely), yet something Rachel certainly remembers quite clearly. Does that chick ever forget anything, he wonders, even though he knows the answer is no. He loves that about her, too, just like every other thing about her, but at times like these it doesn't do him much good; only a whole lot of bad.

It's cold outside. Not surprising, because it's Ohio and the end of November, but he didn't notice until now. He's not used to it being cold. Not only in general, but when he sits here and waits (which is probably far more often than most people would say is healthy for a relationship; to which he'd argue is a hell of a lot healthier than running away, like a certain father of his always did). They've been dating since March now, and even then it was warmer outside than it is now. And of course he doesn't have a jacket, but there's no way he's leaving to get one now. That would seem like giving up, which wouldn't look good. (He knows Rachel watches him when he sits here. He's caught her out of the corner of his eye before, just sitting at her window, but he pretends that he hasn't because he knows it makes her feel kind of 'stealthy'.)

He doesn't know exactly what he's going to say this time. Along the same lines as every other time, of course (why not go with stuff he knows works?), but at the same time different (because of her damn memory). He's found that it's a lot easier to say 'I'm sorry' and mean it than he'd ever thought it would be … Maybe because he loves her.

He can admit that shit; (to himself). He's known for a while. And yeah, it scares the hell out of him, but he thinks it really isn't so bad. It's easier, actually. He can kiss her in between classes, and hold her hand in glee, and open fucking doors for her without worrying that he's whipped; he knows he is. But what's so wrong with being whipped, anyway, he wonders.

She doesn't know yet. Or maybe she does; she's smart like that (a whole lot smarter than him). But he hasn't told her yet, even though she's probably waiting to hear it. Waiting patiently, at least; he'll give her credit for that. She told him a month ago, and didn't even seem surprised or upset really when he just kissed her on the cheek and didn't say anything. He can admit it to himself, but not out loud; and he isn't going to be a douche and fucking write it down for her or some shit, because that would be lame and he'd disappoint her when he couldn't say the words out loud to go along with it. So he'll wait until he can actually manage to get the words out of his lips without nearly fainting like a fucking pansy.

"God, I'm an idiot," he mumbles to himself, glancing up at her empty window for a moment before dropping his head and rubbing his hands across his face.

"No, you're not."

His head snaps up almost comically (or at least it would be if he hadn't fucking jerked it hard enough to almost give himself whiplash), turning around as Rachel gently pulls the front door shut behind her. "Yeah, I am," he argues as she lowers herself down to sit beside him, arms wrapping around herself and clutching at the think sweater she draws tighter to her. He wants to reach out and put his arms around her, try to warm her up somehow, but he doesn't.

There are boundaries after a fight, ones that even he's not going to cross.

"No, you're not." Her jaw sets, her lips forming a firm line, and damn, he's not going to argue. (And not only because she's scary intense – which is still something he loves about her – when she's determined; which she obviously is now.) "You're worth so much more than that – I don't get how you can't see it."

And wow … he doesn't know what to say to that at all. But his chest is tight all of a sudden, and he knows he's never going to let her go. Because this girl right here, his girl – the kind that refuses to let him talk badly about himself, even when they're (kind of, sort of) having a fight … she's the kind of girl you fight for. Fight for tooth and nail, to the bone, and beyond the grave. Because the kind that makes you feel like you're worth it … that's the kind that really is.

"I'm sorry." (Just like he said, easy; and he means it.) It's for more than one thing, and she seems to get that.

"What for?" She's got that look on her face that tells him that there's only one right answer she's accepting here, and he'd better get it right. But he knows her better than that, and he knows that his answer – while not the one she's searching for – is one she'll be hard pressed to reject.

"For acting like an idiot." Before she can interrupt him, he ploughs on. "For making you upset; for fighting about something stupid, and upsetting you in a way I don't even remember. But mostly, I'm sorry for taking this fucking long to tell you that I love you."

He licks his lips anxiously, because fuck. Yeah, he means that, but he thinks that maybe this was a really crappy time to tell her. She's pissed at him, after all (or at least he thought she was, before she came down and started arguing that he was a good person), and he was totally going to make the big moment a whole lot more special that fucking this. Seriously, what the hell? He thought word vomit was her thing, but lately it's like he can't control a thing he says, and …

And shit; now she's fucking crying.

He opens his mouth to apologize for this too, but he doesn't get the chance. She swallows heavily before flinging her arms around him. He wraps his arms around her reflexively, resting his chin on the top of her head as she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

Her breathing calms and she actually giggles a little bit, still contentedly surrounded – by his warmth, and his scent, and just by him. When she finally does lean back (and he has to refrain from protesting a bit at the loss of contact), one corner of her mouth tilts up slightly and she asks, "So, you love me?"

He tries to glare – because she actually has the nerve to smirk at him after he's just fucking bared his heart and soul for her – but he doesn't manage. He just blushes a little bit, grinning and looking down. You might be my last chance at a good thing, he thinks, and I'm not going to fuck this up; no way, no how. "Yeah, I love you."

Her smirk fades into one of the brightest smiles he's ever seen. It's different from any of her other smiles. More tame that her I'm-Rachel-Berry-and-I'm-going-to-be-on-Broadway-one-day-just-you-wait-and-see smile in a way, but still more vibrant. A million times more genuine than her you-just-insulted-me-or-threw-something-on-me-but-I'm-Rachel-Berry-and-I'll-be-damned-if-I-let-you-see-me-cry smile (more of a showface, really); he dislikes that smile, as much as he can dislike any smile of hers.

(He thinks he might have to name this her I-love-you smile, because that's the strongest vibe he's picking up on right now as her eyes stay locked on his.)

She leans forward, lids falling closed as her lips press ever-so-softly against his own; just a gentle brush, because they both know that her fathers are watching the scene at least semi-attentively from the living room. And yeah, it's not like Alan and David don't know what happens between the two teens behind closed doors – and seriously, Puck thinks, her dads are the coolest dads on the planet because they let him hang out with their daughter behind closed doors, period – but they try not to remind the Misters Berry of that fact too much; just to be safe.

She shivers a little bit, and it has nothing to do with his hot bod against hers. He almost exclaims that it's fucking cold out here, which it is, before he realizes that it would definitely ruin the moment. So instead he stands up, pulling her up with him a little clumsily, and wraps an arm around her waist. She giggles, rolling her eyes, and he lets her lead him inside, the fight forgotten (mostly; seriously, damn her memory).

And if his poorly planned exclamation of love ends up leading to some activities behind aforementioned closed doors … well, he doesn't know why he didn't have the guts to tell her he loves her sooner.

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