Disclaimer: I still don't own Glee.

A/N: Well, it's pretty tough times right now if you're a Quick shipper. Their storyline has been largely shunted to the side, but even so, we seem to be getting completely opposite messages: Puck and Quinn are a couple/Puck's a player on the hunt. So here's my attempt to provide some kind of coherent storyline for them, which I'm hoping to continue through the back 9. For now, it follows canon, but it might well go AU, depending on where the next few episodes take us.

In any case, hope you enjoy!

The Time After

Power of Madonna, Part One

If Labor Pains hadn't been so awful, things might have turned out differently.

It was Saturday night. Quinn came home from work at 5:00 to find Puck in her room, arranging pizza and salad on the tiny table. "Wait!" he called as she reached for the light switch. A small flame flickered into life…had he actually brought a candle?

"I swiped it from my mom's bathroom," he shrugged, as the too-sweet scent of candy apple filled the room. "Ugh—that totally reeks!" Blowing it out, he turned on the lamp. "So much for atmosphere."

Quinn repressed a giggle at his romantic attempt…then proceeded to inhale two helpings of salad and three slices of pizza, before sinking back into the futon in exhaustion.

Puck looked at her, hands crossed over her swollen stomach. "Impressive."

She rolled her eyes. "Give me a break. Before I got pregnant, I hadn't eaten pizza since I was ten. It's not exactly on the Sue Sylvester Approved Diet." Wiping her greasy fingers on a napkin, she mused, "I had forgotten how incredible junk food really is."

"Hey, watch yourself, Blimpette—this isn't junk! Rigali's makes the best pizza in Lima. Not low-fat, though, that's for damn sure."

Quinn opened her mouth to retort when a yawn overtook her. Putting her feet up on the table, she closed her eyes. "Whatever."

He held up a DVD case. "Wanna christen your TV?"

Over the past few weeks, Quinn had often come home to find a new (or somewhat used) creature comfort adorning her room: a clock radio, a fan, even a dorm-sized refrigerator, into which Puck snuck a seemingly endless supply of beer. Then there was the TV (white, with a 13-inch screen)—but until he could figure out how to steal cable for her, they had to rely on the built-in DVD player for entertainment.

(Quinn had no idea where any of these items came from, and she was, frankly, too afraid of the answer to inquire. In truth, Puck had only "borrowed" the clock radio, from the delivery platform at Best Buy. The other things he had found cruising various garage sales while she was at work.)

They settled in, her head pillowed on his shoulder, as the opening credits rolled. Thirty minutes of bad jokes and even worse acting later, Puck's shoulder nudged her cheek. "You awake?"

"Mmmm…"

"Wanna make out, or just go to sleep?" His careless tone made her laugh in spite of her fatigue. She gave him a shove, and he ended up flat on the futon, her head on his chest.

"Make out, then?" He pulled her along his body so their faces were inches apart and she fit snugly along the back of the futon.

Up to now, Quinn had been insistent that they confine their makeout sessions—which were rare anyway, since she was so tired—to kissing. She wasn't completely comfortable in her burgeoning body; and every time they started something the baby kicked—it was too weird, thinking of her rolling around in there while the two of them…well.

But tonight was somehow different. Maybe it was his thoughtfulness, gross candle and all. Maybe it was the bracelet, hanging lightly on her wrist, that he had given her a few days before. Or maybe it was just that, suddenly, kissing him felt so damn good…and feeling so damn good had been pretty rare in the last five months.

Whatever the reason, tonight they crossed one line…then another…and another. Their shirts were tangled in a heap on the floor, her bra was undone, and Puck was trailing his tongue down her shoulder. She was hot, liquid, breathless; she could feel him straining against the thin cotton of her Capri pants; she wrapped one leg around him, needing something, needing him…

Then his hands went to her hips, tugging at her elastic waistband. She laced her fingers through his, which diverted him for a minute; but then he was back on the offensive and she knew they had to stop.

"Wait!" she gasped.

He didn't seem to hear. "God, you taste so—"

"Puck—" she breathed. Then, more urgently, "PUCK!"

"What?" He bent his head to nuzzle one breast. She pushed him away, and he finally caught on. "What?"

"We can't—" She straggled up on one elbow, clasping her bra.

"Why? What is it? Did I hurt you? The baby—"

"No—I just—we have to stop."

Puck brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and pulled her back down to him. "We don't," he murmured against her lips. "We don't have to stop."

"We do. I don't want—"

"You don't want to?" He glanced down at their hips, still locked together. His voice was low, teasing. "I think you do…c'mon, babe—what's the problem?" He ran his hand up her bare arm, teased kisses along her neck. "We're already in trouble…might as well enjoy it."

Quinn wasn't used to this kind of pressure. When she said no, she meant no, and guys always backed off. (That one night with him? She hadn't said no. She hadn't said anything at all…just offered herself, silently.) Even Puck had been respectful up to now…of course, she hadn't let things go this far before; she could still feel the heat of him, still see the wanting that darkened his eyes.

And the worst of it was—she loved it. She loved knowing he wanted her, loved the feel of his bare chest under her fingers, loved hearing the low moan in his throat when she moved against him.

But she hadn't thought this through the first time around, and look where it had gotten her. No. Next time—if there was a next time—it would be because it was right, not because she was insecure or fed up or slightly (not really) drunk. She deserved better.

They both did.

Grabbing her tunic off the floor, she put it on. He heaved a frustrated sigh and followed suit.

"Let's call it a night. I'm really tired," she said softly.

Puck was not happy. "I never knew a pregnant girl could be such a tease."

"Don't be a jackass!"

"Fine." But he stalked to the door.

The aggravated look he gave her as he turned to go smote her heart. "This isn't still about that Jesus-freak, Celibacy Club bullshit, is it? I mean, they kicked you out, Quinn—they abandoned you. Why the hell d'you still want to live by their rules?"

"It isn't that—"

But he had already slammed the door behind him.

It wasn't that, really. She could see the hypocrisy in it, in her father's religious life: raising money for schools in Mexico, and making bigoted comments about Latinos at the dinner table; preaching about your body being a temple, and drinking yourself into a stupor; trumpeting "Christian charity" while you kicked your daughter out of the house.

But she still wore her cross. She still prayed. She believed those stories in the Bible, about Jesus healing the lepers and calling the little children to Him. Her God saw what she had done, knew she made a mistake…but He still loved her, still had a place for her, still believed she could make things right again.

Making things right meant being true to herself. And true to what she and Puck could, maybe, be together.

She just needed Puck to understand that.

TO BE CONTINUED

Thanks for reading...reviews and suggestions are VERY much appreciated!