A/N: So it was meant to be about aubade - that is, a conversation between a watchman and a lover, the watchman telling the lovers that dawn is coming...except that I then started wondering along the way what Burt Hummel would've been like as a security guard. So now you get 'O'Malley'. Enjoy.
Watchman
The jingle-jangle of keys stopped when he stopped. Puck had grown used to the sound, so much so that he paced on the spot just to keep the keys going. The corridors were much too silent without it.
His black, polished boots made clomping sounds on the cold, hard concrete as he paced toward that one room.
Patting his ever-growing belly (from all the cheap donuts and beer), Puck's eyes softened.
"Kurt, Blaine," he called. "It's almost five in the morning. Get going."
"Wha?" Kurt Hummel said, stumbling out of Blaine's office. "What? Shit, already?" He adjusted his clothing, doing up the top buttons. Puck waited for him, hand toying with the ring of keys tucked into his belt.
Jingle-jangle-jingle-jangle.
"Ah," Kurt said. "Alright. Thank you...Noah."
"Puck," Puck said. He tapped his name-badge. It even said 'Puck' - he'd made special request; and the lady at the front office had seemed so sufficiently scared of his tats, eyebrow piercing, and his scowl, that she agreed.
"Puck," Kurt said. He straightened his tie and tucked in his shirt, took a deep breath and walked into his own office, sitting behind his desk and sprawling out the papers, falling asleep right on his desk.
Another late night, huh, Hummel? Puck thought, and yawned himself. He pulled Kurt's door shut, closed Blaine's door behind him, and continued on his merry way, whistling.
When O'Malley had retired, three years ago, he'd come back specially to teach Puck the ways of the security guard.
"Security guards," O'Malley'd said, "Can either be one of two types: the strong, professional poseur, or the jolly old babysitter of everyone in the building. Guess who is liked more."
Puck'd crossed his arms back then (God, he was such a kid) and declared that he'd rather just pull his hours and go back to crash. Maybe go out drinking some nights.
O'Malley'd taken a look at him, shaken his head, and left him alone for a week.
Puck had never realised how Boring security guards' lives were. Class-A boring. Even flipping burgers was more exciting.
And every so often he'd catch a glimpse of two girls at a watercooler, gossiping, but if he so much as turned toward them they'd flitter away, scared.
Yet when O'Malley came back (just to sit here and watch the people pass by, he'd said) he'd noticed Puck's attention on the girls and just walked up and over to them.
"Hi," the blonde one said, dimpling. "Hi, Mr. O'Malley!"
"Hi, Brittany," the older security guard's face softened and lines appeared on his forehead as he smiled. "How's your sister doing?"
"Good!" Brittany said. She bounced in place.
Puck watched her bounce. Blondes were interesting when they bounced. Regardless of tit size.
The latino girl sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "She's recovering, Mr. O'Malley. The car didn't hit her that hard - she just landed wrong."
"Still in a coma?" Mr O'Malley asked, the concern suffusing his voice.
"Waking up," the brunette said. "But she's got a bit of amnesia."
O'Malley winced. "I hope you two are coping well with it."
"We're managing," the brunette said. "Thanks for the concern, Mr. O'Malley." She kissed him on the cheek.
O'Malley smiled and flushed a little, clearing his throat. "You take care of yourselves now, y'hear?"
"Sure!" Brittany chirped, and the two women walked away.
O'Malley cleared his throat, and turned around.
Puck shrank back inwardly. The look in O'Malley's eyes was...formidable.
"That," O'Malley said, "Is the other type of security guard."
Puck smiled softly. It'd been hard to crack smiles instead of scowling, but after seeing that shit that O'Malley'd pulled with those girls...they were lookers, the both of them.
His smile turned into something of a smirk. Hell, he still had muscle, and even if O'Malley was too old for them...that was a nice night.
"Ahem," the boss of the building said. "Puckerman. Any stragglers?"
"No, Mr. Figgins," Puck said. "Blaine and Kurt took another night over, though."
"Good men, those two," Mr. Figgins said, mumbling to himself.
Puck suppressed a smirk.
"Very well," Mr Figgins said. "Carry on. Do your duty, security guard Puckerman!"
"Understood," Puck said, and actually stiffened until Figgins had walked by.
"Well, I wasn't quite right," O'Malley'd said. "There are really three types of security guards. One, the walk-up-and-down-look-at-me security guard-"
Puck looked down at the ground, and O'Malley laid a hand on his shoulder.
"-the sit-out-front-and-grow-fat kind of security guard-"
Puck shared a laugh with O'Malley as the older man poked his own rather large paunch.
"-and the matchmaker, babysitter, security guard that keeps the workers happy with each other. Keeps the peace. I've only met one other guard who does like I do. Will Schuester - he works in the Robinna Theatre, downtown. Man's a genius, I tell you. 'Course, he has to work with theatrics." O'Malley rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. "Dear God. I went over there to have a cuppa with him and he had to rush out two, three times, to keep their star diva from getting caught by the boss sucking off two of the audience members."
Puck choked on his beer.
"Wouldn't want to have his job. I'm happy with the one I had." He raised his ale high and toasted Puck. "Now you've got mine. They're good kids, I tell ya."
"Now," O'Malley said, "Here's the latest. And here's what I've been doing. Maybe you've got better ideas, maybe you don't."
'Number One: Brittany and Santana are dating. Figgins does not like homosexual relationships. Keep Figgins away from them.'
"Brit-ta-ny!" Mr. Figgins called. "Where are my figures for the next quarter!"
Puck's ears pricked up as he heard a tell-tale burst of giggles from Santana's office.
He moved as fast as he could to rap on Santana's door.
"Yes?" Santana said, her face turning into a grimace as she saw who was at the door. "What do you want?"
"Figgins," he hissed. "Looking for Brittany."
Santana shot him a look that was less than three-quarters glare, which was...progress.
"Thank you," she said, and the door clicked shut.
Puck made haste away.
'Number Two: Artie is in a wheelchair. Do not mock him. Do not offer aid. He can take care of himself and prefers to. However, some of the workers in Marketing are jackasses. If you can head them off, do it.'
"Oops," Azimio said, smirking as he kicked a bucket of bleach over the floor. "My bad."
Artie rolled his eyes, and turned his chair around just as the door to the small cupboard slammed shut. The smell of ammonia was already getting pretty strong.
"...Fuck."
Seconds later, the door opened again.
"Ah," Puck said. "I was looking for a mop."
Artie rolled his eyes, but seized the chance. As he rolled out of the door, he reached up and clapped Puck on the shoulder. "Thanks."
"I was only looking for a mop," Puck protested.
Artie laughed. "That's what Mr. O'Malley used to say, too."
'Number Three: Blaine and Kurt are the in-office romantic relationship. Once again, homosexual and Figgins. Don't go together. However...because of the jackasses in Marketing who think lesbians are hot and that gays should be burned alive, they tend to 'work late'. Warn them when dawn approaches, when you've got night-shift.'
It had been over three months of nearly daily warnings, and Puck was honestly getting quite fond of the Little Dude. Blaine could take care of himself; the man was positively...dapper... in- or out of the office. Kurt, though, seemed unsure of himself at times. At other times, of course, he was a complete primadonna, but that probably came with the gay.
Mr. Figgins didn't seem to notice. Of course, he rarely left his office, either.
Puck clutched at the jingle-jangle of his keys as he walked down the empty corridors. He checked his watch.
"Blaine," he called. "You should probably let Kurt go now. It's almost dawn."
"Really?" Kurt called through the door. "It all seems so fast."
The sound of clothes rustling came through the door, and Blaine's voice, smooth undertones, talking quietly. Kurt laughed, and Puck paced their corridor, in case someone else decided to come walking by.
'Number Four: Rachel, from Accounting, is in love with one of the company's advertising models, Finn. Of course, he's a doofus and doesn't realise it, and she's...formidable. They're one of my pet projects. You can do whatever you like.'
Damn right she was formidable. Puck sighed a breath and knocked his head against the wall. He'd just had another conversation with Hurricane Rachel. Or was it Tsunami Rachel? Earthquake Rachel? Some kind of natural disaster, anyway. She. Just. Would. Not. Stop. Talking.
He'd gotten to know Finn, a little. They were a pretty good match. Finn didn't talk much, but at least he could listen and act as something of a natural buffer between Eco-Catastrophe Rachel and the rest of the world.
Puck could see why O'Malley wanted to encourage them to get together. The more time Natural-Disaster Rachel spent babbling at Finn, the saner the world would be.
'Number Five: Quinn and Sam.'
Puck'd said: "It seems like you're playing matchmaker for half the people in this building!"
And O'Malley'd said: "Of course."
O'Malley'd fixed him with a look. "You need a partner yourself, boyo. I've got my wife...my new wife, and she's a beauty, she is. It gets lonely, sometimes, being a security guard."
He coughed quietly for a second. "But the permanent receptionist? She's also a lawyer on her off-time. Mercedes, she is. Powerful woman. You'd best make good with her."
O'Malley looked away. From his posture, Puck thought, he was probably hiding a smile.
She was a powerful woman, alright. Puck bit his lip and looked away from her glare, until Mercedes sighed and relented.
"Awright, awright," she said, holding up a finger to press into his face. "ONE dinner. That's it, no more. And you don't bug me so often, y'hear?"
Puck found himself smiling. "I won't."
The jingle-jangle-jingle of keys stopped when he stopped. He rapped on Blaine's door.
"Kurt," he called. "Sun's coming up."
"He's not in right now," Blaine said. "He went back to his office about ten minutes ago. Mercedes came by and made him."
"Oh? Why's she still here?"
"God only knows," Blaine said, opening his door. "I'm going to go get some coffee. You coming?"
"Could use a cup," Puck said, smiling.
They walked in companionable silence for a bit.
"You know," Blaine said, looking straight ahead. "Mr. O'Malley was loved pretty well by everyone in the building. We were all kind of wary of you at first, but...you're a pretty stand-up guy."
"Thanks," Puck said.
He stopped. Mercedes smirked at him, jiggling a half-empty coffee cup.
"Noah," she said. "You're running a bit late, aren't you? How do you even stay awake the whole night?"
Behind him, Blaine had vanished.
"Number Fourteen," O'Malley said to the empty room, after Puck had gone to begin his rounds. "Number Fourteen: As much as you matchmake, cajole, babysit, and watch over everyone, everyone in the building matchmakes, cajoles, babysits, and watches over you."
O'Malley took a deep drink from his ale, setting it down with a clink. His phone buzzed.
"Hello, Carole? Yes, I've seen Finn today..."
Omake:
Kurt rapped on the camera room's door.
"Uh, Puck?" he called. "It's 7am. Mr. Figgins is coming."
"Shit," Puck muttered. "Ah, hell, where's my keys?"
"Somewhere on the other side of the room?" Mercedes said, and Kurt covered his ears and fled. Mercedes was his best friend and he didn't need to know, dammit!
...I don't know how it became Puck/Mercedes. I really don't.