Puck figured this whole thing would be kind of a pain in the ass. Get a bunch of loser brats to sing so that Rachel and Kurt don't have their hearts crushed, yeah yeah. He's really only doing it out of loyalty. And maybe the desire to crush the Tea Party Patriots Club under the sole of his polished military-issue shoe.

But the kid in the library…

Puck's not the guy he was. He doesn't need to dump his shit on the people below him anymore; he's a man now, a man who deals with things and stands tall. Some old habits die hard, and so he sees every detail that would once have been fodder for harassment – the isolation, the nerdy glasses and awkward clothing choices that seem to speak to a lack of self-awareness, the toneless extra weight the kid carries like a hump on his back – but now it doesn't grate against the worst parts of himself, and instead of seeing a big fat target he sees a lonely teenager who just needs a little help. Besides, the kid kind of is precious. All Puck can think of at the sight of him curling up on the floor is a scared puppy that's been kicked once too often but still hopes for its master's love.

Don't tell anyone , but Puck's always kind of admired people who don't hide their vulnerability.

He pinches the kid's cheek as they leave the library and manages to get a bit of a confused laugh out of him. "Quinn, can we adopt him?"

"Oh, leave him alone," says Quinn with a laugh. The kid looks at his shoes and smiles.

Still, he thinks the audition will probably be painful to watch - beautiful voice, great potential, but totally lacking in stage presence and physical coordination and all-too-likely to sing something angsty about being alone.

And then the kid turns up onstage in jeans and a pretty tight fade/side-combed pompadour (Puck can appreciate a good fade), picks an old-school rock'n'roll gem, and fucking murders it.

He's like… baby Puck in reverse. Puck was badass on the surface and hiding a good heart. This kid's the opposite of that. He's a precious fucking cupcake with a badass hidden inside him. And Puck thinks he's the man to bring it out.

He talks to the kid. Terrifies the shit out of the jocks he catches pushing him around. Sneaks him out for McDick's one day when he finds out about the whole 'kale' thing (it's pretty funny to watch the kid try to pretend not to be overcome with blissful relief at the first bite of a bacon cheeseburger). Learns that the kid works at a stable and is good at it, but is insanely passionate about the music industry. Learns that like him, the kid has no father worth mentioning.

"Who needs 'em," says Puck, carelessly, far more carelessly than he feels.

The kid shrugs. "Mom did the best she could," he says, contemplating a french fry. "But I think I would have turned out less of a mess if he hadn't left-"

"Shut up," says Puck, very suddenly.

The kid flinches very slightly.

"My dad was a dirtbag. Best thing he ever did was leave. Did I need him to get into the Air Force? Fuck no. We don't need them."

The kid's quiet for a moment. "You… deserved better."

Too right I fucking did, thinks Puck. It feels good.

"We deserved better," says the kid, and it's as if the word 'we' is a novelty to him, as if he's never had a chance to use it before.

"And if you say you're a mess again I'll kick your ass. You're adorable." Puck punches him in the shoulder. It's a brotherly punch. The kid smiles into his fries until it looks like his face is going to split in two.

Two days later they're wrapping up rehearsal and Puck casually drops that he's getting his Air Force unit slogan tattooed onto his bicep. For Quinn's benefit. And also because it's nice to see a twinge of attraction on the face of what Puck fancies must be every woman in the room. Nothing hotter than a man in uniform.

He's surprised when the kid sidles up to him as everyone's packing up and asks, quietly, "Would it be okay if I came with you?"

Puck stares at him.

The kid shrinks into himself a bit, but not completely. "I've wanted one forever, I just… wasn't sure where to start."

"You're coming with me," says Puck, firmly. No way in hell is he going to let the kid get ripped off and possibly injured at some shitty, skeezy place on the wrong end of town. Puck knows a place where it's clean and cheap and you don't need your momma's say-so.

The tattoo artist's name is Johnny and he's the size of a house. He knows Puck, and gives him an impressed little nod. But he's obviously not impressed by the kid, who's looking up at him with wide, scared eyes.

"You sure about this one, Puckerman?"

"He's with me."

"He looks like he'd pass out."

Puck gets up in Johnny's space. A warning. "I said he's with me. If I say he's with me it means he can handle it."

"O-kayy, if you're sure."

He pinches the kid's cheek again. "He may look like an adorkable twelve-year-old who's scared of his own shadow but actually, he's seventeen."

The kid flushes and looks at the ground. Puck knows he should probably stop teasing him like that, but he can't help it.

"You doing okay?" asks Puck, his teeth gritted. He's facing away from the kid, while Johnny works on his bicep and a hot chick named Tezi works on the kid. Puck's kinda pissed about that, but he's got Quinn waiting at home.

"Yeah," the kid grunts. "You?"

"This's nothing," Puck lies. They don't show pain. They're men.

Later that evening they're sitting in another fast-food place across the street from the tattoo parlor with their sleeves rolled up.

Puck's got a bandage over a narrow strip of his bicep, taut against military-sculpted muscle. The kid, to Puck's shock, has one around his entire forearm. Puck's a little guilty, a little concerned. He should have checked the design beforehand. Made sure the kid didn't pick something stupid. But at that point he was already having his own done and that shit hurt. He's impressed with how much pain the kid can take. Of course, if his reaction in the library was anything to go by (Puck's never seen anyone react to an incoming beating as if it were so totally normal, and he would know), the kid has some experience with pain.

His fingers drum impatiently across the table. "Think it's been two hours yet?"

The kid checks his phone. "Just about."

"Let's see it."

Gingerly, the kid takes off the bandage. Around his wrist - worked in black ink against inflamed pink skin - there's a rope, tied in a thick knot as if to tether the kid's hand to something. One frayed end sits just below his thumb. The other end – the tether – goes all the way down his forearm and ends at the elbow. It's simple and it's striking and Puck would have gone for something more badass, but he approves. "Tezi does good work."

"It's a clove hitch knot," says the kid.

"Why?"

"We use them at work to tie up the horses. The harder you fight against it, the stronger it gets."

Puck thinks he gets it.

"It's what I want to be," says the kid. "It's like you."

People never looked up to him before. People never called him 'strong'. A sad-sack kid would never have looked at him with such gratitude in his eyes. That's what sinks it - the realization that he really has become a man now, the man his father never believed he could be.

Puck can't help himself - he reaches over and gives the kid a noogie.