A/N: Alright so this one kind of sprung up on me. A bit of a different flavor to play with

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Glee. All rights go to Ryan Murphy

He can't help but sigh as his Spanish teacher hands him a slip of paper in what she thinks is the most discrete way possible. There's nothing secretive about it. Or maybe there is. All he knows is that he might as well get a tattoo of the damn thing right across his forehead. There's no hiding it. At this point practically the whole school knows what he is. Trouble. There's nothing he hasn't touched, hasn't tampered with, hasn't said that's kept him away from the hell that is after school detention.

Alright so maybe he gave a kid some kind of record breaking wedgy. But really, he was sort of asking for it. He's never come across anyone who enjoyed the sound of his own ear-splitting screech as much as this kid seems to. The chatter was almost as constant as his fifteen minute bathroom breaks. No, Puck didn't actually spend fifteen minutes in there. Any longer than five and someone thinks you've ditched. Ten and you might as well be declared dead. And some days, he can't help but think it might just be better that way.

No idiot teachers breathing down his neck. He definitely doesn't have to lose at least five percent of his hearing five days a week in Spanish, watching the squeaker raise his hand after every question was asked, only to open his mouth and swallow about three different pitches in his auditory system. As often as he rolls his eyes; as many times as he slips the most subtle of growls, the idiot hardly seems to care. He seemed to make an armature career of being a smartass. He certainly wouldn't have to serve detention every day. He's done it so often in the last three years that he's etched his name in one of the desks, hard enough to break any person's back. Whatever. By now it's been broken in and kind of molds to his body. He's enough a "citizen" that no one bothers him anymore. Apparently he's a good enough threat. At least he's doing that much right.

He barely hears his name as Mrs…Something calls out to him. He's smart enough to know that's not her actual name but can't be bothered to actually know what it is. To learn someone's name was too much commitment for his taste. She can't even get it through her head that the name she uses is one he'll never answer to. You give a little, you take a little and clearly she wasn't willing to do her share. He shrugs. Whatever. It's not like he'll need any of this crap in the next five years.

Sure, he could travel the world or something after graduation but that requires motivation and cash, both of which he's learned to generate sparingly. High school student and stuff. Lack of motivation was kind of part of the biological make up or something. Kids his age couldn't keep a decent job even if they wanted to. McDonald's was the best he would get at this point and even Puck knows he's better than that.

"Noah!" His name hollered across the room startles him, an obvious grunt settled in his throat in frustration. Knowing he's suspended between consciousness and some kind of well-deserved sleep makes him hate this class just a little bit more. It's not his fault he spent most of if not all of his days like this. Six hours a week, five days a week. The same shit falling on the same five days. He doesn't even know why he throws in that extra hour anymore. maybe because it's the least painful option, even if he understands a grand total of ten percent of it. The pure sense of routine makes the idea of shooting himself in the face seem slightly less painful than having to listen to another minute of this.

"Huh?" he mumbles rubbing along his eyes, sitting up just a little bit straighter.

"Care to tell the rest of the class what you did last weekend. In esponal, por favor." The smile on her lips was so tight he couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with how loose and droopy the rest of her face always was.

"I uhhhh… Yo jugué un poco de futebol, dormí, y comí un par de tacos," he shrugged. He almost laughed at the sheer surprise that registered in her old and haggy face.

"Well, not exactly the most riveting of adventures but…very good, Mr. Puckerman. It seems you've finally shown some interest in this course." Puck nodded trying but not really trying to keep from rolling his eyes, a satisfied snort slipping out of his mouth.

"Hey, I got it right, didn't I?" he shot back. The woman nodded slowly. It was clear she had no idea what to do about this sudden burst of intelligence but that was her problem, not his. Take that, old bitch he smirked.

"I hope this is the beginning of a promising academic future for you," she smiled. The expression hardly meant anything. Not that he cared. He was just here. Six hours a freaking day, five hours a freaking week in this class alone. An endless cycle of pointless crap. Might as well enjoy it now and again, even if the high lasts mere seconds. Making her feel stupid was going to be the best thing he did all day.

"Yeah okay, sure," he mumbled. Promising. Nothing about his future seemed so. Not when he was stuck doing this stuff.

"Maybe you'll finally make some use of your time in detention." He slowly nods. Sure, okay. Anything to get her off his back. As the bell sounds for the end of class, it's was music to his freaking ears. He shoots up gathering books he had yet to read a word of and slips out the door before the teacher can offer him anymore "words of wisdom."

Detention has never more inviting than it is now. Perching on the desk etched with his initials, he sighs. Two more hour of this hell hole and all is well again. Until tomorrow. But what could he do about it? He effectively blocks out the drone of the student teacher, stuck here as some kind of punishment to keep kids from jumping out the window. A nice two hour nap uninterrupted by idiots waits for him. Sliding back in his chair, a tired sigh rattles his entire body. The curtain swept over his eyes comes down as quickly as it was brought up only moments before. Puck doesn't have to look to know that spitballs and eraser heads are flying in every direction. They're just as bored as he is, if not more so. At this point, he's too accustomed to all of this to even care anymore. He doesn't even flinch as a pencil comes flying at his face, effortlessly catching it in midflight before it gets the chance.

A disgruntled sigh he's never heard in here before peeks his interest, coming closer now. He assumes it's the owner of the flying object and isn't disappointed to know that he's right again. At least, somewhat anyway All he has to hear is the pencil being picked up off the floor. Two points for the Puckster.

"Sorry," she whispers, distracted. The single word carries a tone much too "good" to be seen in a shithole like detention. One word. That's it. She probably thinks he's asleep or something. He looks the part anyway; only able to see anything out of the slit he's made of his eyes, still hardly open.

"S'fine," he mutters. Puck has to hold back a chuckle when he watches her shuffle back, almost surprised enough to play the part of a girl who's woken the sleeping giant. "It's always kind of a mess in here. Turn your back for just a second and you might lose an eye," he teased. The smirk that paints the girl's lips is enough to produce a hint of a smile. It's just a quirk of his mouth but really, he's too drained for much else.

"Sorry I woke you," she managed. Puck just shrugs. He can't help but think that this chick is all about apologies. If it continues like this, it'll get boring real fast.

"I said it's whatever," he repeats, more sharply now with the hope that she gets the point. If he wasn't already so done with this place, the way she bit her lip might fascinate him for a minute. As it is, he just rolls his eyes.

"Alright then," she whispers. Puck just sighed with a hardy shrug. Not like he was going to see her again. Back to sleep. Ten minutes pass before he finally sits up again. He can actually taste the fruit slipping off her hair the shit's so strong. Not that there's much he can do about it. She's sitting directly in front of him. Sure, why not? New inmates and their stories was always kind of fun to drop in on anyway. Kicking her gently, he waits. He waits another beat as she spins on him, her high pony as painful looking as the expression the small action has put on her face.

"So….What's your shit?" he mumbles. His select words bring about a raised brow and the oh so common look of disgust. He gets it so much, he's hardly bothered by it anymore.

"Excuse me?" Leaning forward in his seat, offered her the lightest of crooked smiles.

"Punishment," he clarified. "You miss your turn for the bake sale or something? They're holding that over by the gym."

"Yes I….No. No I'm not 'lost' as you so quaintly put it."

"Gotta give it to you, you're a pretty good liar," he said quietly.

"I'm not lying," she said. Why she's even talking to him, she hardly has a clue. She figures the more effectively she distracts herself, the faster she'll get out of this place. It's too cold and grey, certainly too wild for her taste.

"Hard to believe a girl like you got yourself stuck in here," he said crossing his arms over his chest. Looking at him carefully, she bobbed her shoulder.

"The world is full of surprises, Puckerman," she mutters offering a smirk of her own. It sits well on her mouth. Not that he's paying attention. The expression seems to be one she wears a lot, he decides seeing how easily she falls into it, how comfortable it looks there. "Your cute little stunt in Spanish was a real winner," she said rolling her eyes.

His muscles tense as he tries to be discrete about looking her over, trying to place her. He wonders just how long she's been there, in his class. He already gets his answer, simply by looking at her. The girl wouldn't skip out on a single thing, even if it killed her. She was probably one of those perfectionist people. The clothes she wore today looked spotless enough to at least provide evidence for his suspicions. Then, it clicks. She's the one who sits at front of the class closest to the door he's always racing for. His spot in the back of the room makes it impossible to even catch a whiff of what he knows will already be some kind of identifier. Even if he walked in blindfolded he wouldn't miss her. Not when she reeked like that.

"I said it right, didn't I? Or were my l's not pronounced enough for you?" he shoots back, the familiar edge of anger crawling back up again. She barely knew him and already she had an opinion.

"Oh no, it was perfect," she said. And really, Quinn can't deny that it pretty much was. At least for a guy who never seemed to care enough about the class to pay even a moment's attention. But she's not going to tell him that. His head already seems big enough without the praise that sits unspoken in her throat.

"Got the bitch off my back," he points out.

"Gomez," she provides.

"Huh?"

"Gomez. It's her name," she said simply, a pen dancing across a page in her notebook while she does.

"Oh, yeah…She's got a few too many trees up her ass," he mutters. Quinn just shakes her head.

"Hardly."

"Hates me or something, I don't know." The sigh she manages makes her tied up hair barely kiss her shoulders. That shit looks fucking painful. He doesn't know if it's more for her relief or his but his fingers are suddenly itching to set free the innocent. "What?" he bites.

"What she hates are people who don't care," she said. Well then. Clearly there was no reconciliation or truce to be had with this relationship.

"I pay attention," he countered, his face growing hard again as the accusation came out.

"So you're saying she grinds against the chalkboard for fun?" she asked. Puck cringed. Why she did that he was almost certain he knew.

"She does it 'cause she's a bitch," he whispered.

"Oh I'm sure."

"What are you even talking about? You're freaking pet or whatever."

"I'm not," she says. As if that's supposed to provide him some peace of mind.

"You are. But whatever," he shrugged. "You still haven't told me what made you take a wrong turn." The degree at which she turns to face him surprises him for a split second before he relaxes again.

"It wasn't a turn," she repeats sharply. Well alright then. She was obviously the sensitive type.

"Touchy," he whispered.

"Mind your own business."

"Digging for dirt is my business. Ask anybody here, they'll tell you."

"I'd rather not…"

"Good, makes my job just a little bit easier." The sigh that drops her shoulders makes Puck aware of one of two things. She's either about to give in or just sick of him. Either was plausible and he couldn't help but root for the first. The conversation they were engaged in was civil enough and curiosity wasn't going to go away anytime soon.

"If you must know," she sighed, clearly exasperated. "I kicked him," she said. It came out in boredom, almost as if saying so wasn't going to mean anything. At face value it really didn't. All the same, the idea that someone as put together as she was had committed even the smallest act of violence made him chuckle.

"How'd a few toes in the shin get you stuck in here? Math ain't my specialty or anything but that doesn't add up, even for me."

"'Isn't,'" she muttered.

"Isn't what?"

"Nevermind," she grumbled shaking her head. "He told senora what I did. Claims I went much higher than his shin." Puck let himself feel a flicker of pride for the girl. Sure they'd never once crossed paths but the idea that she'd taken out frustration on what he now assumed was a common enemy, he couldn't keep from being at least a little bit proud. Especially when looking at her, one would never think she'd actually…do something like that.

"So I guess it's not just me," he smirked. He barely notices the shake of her head and offers her a thumbs up in congratulations. "Rebel with a cause."

"Telling Frankie to shut up is hardly classified as 'rebellious'," she drawled using little finger quotes for some kind of emphasis. So that was his name. There was no hope in Puck actually remembering it but who knew? Maybe he'd have another one of those "flashes of genius" all of his teachers were so keen on and actually remember it.

"Props, man. You honestly don't look the type. At all. No offense or anything."

"You do realize that when you say things like that it becomes offensive, right?"

"No. When I say 'no offense' I literally mean, I don't want you like…crying over it or nothing."

"Anything," she mumbled.

"Huh?"

"Forget it, Puckerman." In just these few short moments of interaction, the blonde could only hope that he wasn't considering a profession in editing. Easily brushing it off, Puck leaned back again, feet propped on the desk, fingers laced behind his head. "Is that really necessary?"

"Nobody cares," he said with an easy wave of his hand. As seemed to be her thing now (or maybe it always sort of was) her eyes rolled again.

"And I doubt it would make a speck of difference if I told you that I did," she added deadpanned. She was right about that much. Puck didn't answer to her. Or to anyone really.

"Not really, no."

"Shame," she almost sang. "You were kind of human for a minute." That was putting it loosely in a lot of ways but she figured it didn't really matter too much.

"You say that like I'm some wild, untamable beast or something. Which, I kind of am. I could….show you sometime," he winked. Quinn's face once again twists in disgust.

"No thank you," she whispers.

"Alright, don't say I didn't ask." Odd that the silence that falls between them for the rest of detention is some kind of comfortable. Neither will ever admit to it which is probably why it hardly matters anyway. The stupid egg timer goes off in the front of the room indicating dismissal of the inmates. Puck stays seated as he watches her collect her books and swing her backpack over her shoulder with some kind of effortless poise.

"Guess I'll see you around," he grunts. The roll of the girl'00s lip and slight shake of her head tells him otherwise. But it's common courtesy to say shit like that. Detention for someone like her was one of those things that just never happened.

"I wouldn't count on it," she says quietly and with that, slips out of the room. Puck waits a few moments before ducking into the hall himself. Fair distance, personal bubble, whatever. Either way, he finds himself following the trail her perfume has left. Where it leads, he hardly knows. Why he's doing it at all is even more of a mystery. Maybe because it's there and as much as he tries to fend it off there's no winning.

There's something about the girl that fascinates him. He wonders for a minute if it has anything to do with the fact that she managed—though likely with nothing but reluctance—to hold a semi decent conversation with him. Contributing factors could also include the swift kick she delivered to Squeaker. Though he can't place it and probably never will (Girls like that just never made sense to any guy), he can't help but think that Ms….Gomez might actually be right for once. It's a realization that he hates but he's learned early on that everything comes with a degree of give and take. What he does know is that his time in Spanish just got a little bit more interesting.

A/N: I've got a decent sketch of where I plan on taking this but as I've learned in the past, a story always seems to just write itself. Thoughts? Leave them if you like.