A/N: I've had this story in mind since I wrote my first Glee Fan Fic. Its sort of a sequel to "Time to Get up", although you don't really have to read the first one to understand this. It was originally a one shot, but who am I kidding? I never manage one-shots.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Glee. If I did, I wouldn't be writing Fanfic, or sharing an apartment with large black beetles.

When no one's watching, I like to pull out my wallet and look inside. Sandwiched between my drivers license, the condom I keep for emergencies, and the empty pockets for money, are two photographs. They're a lot a like. In both, a young man holds a baby carefully in his arms. He looks scared shitless, and a little bit nervous that he's doing something wrong. Each is crossed with white lines, like little scars. They have been balled up and smoothed out a thousand times. Then, there are differences. The older snapshot is an actual photograph. The man has bleached blond hair, and a little boy leans against his leg. In the new one, a print out from a cell phone camera, the father and daughter are alone in the nursery. When I look at them, I wonder where the man in the older picture is… and how the baby is in the newer one.

Normally, I can slip the pictures back into the wallet, and shove it down into my back pocket. Then, I can saunter off like the Badass everyone knows I am. But, today, I can't tear my eyes away from the pictures. I am mesmerized by the similarities between the two men. Both are undeniably handsome with their dark hair and brown eyes. Both have been described as intelligent if they'd apply themselves, passionate, and charismatic, what ever the fuck that means. Both are about to abandon their baby daughters…

The pictures crumple again in my hand. I have to keep from throwing them away. I stand in the corner behind the stairwell and battle to stay in control. Then, I see him. How can he sit there, with that half smile playing across his lips? How dare he smirk at me that way? It almost makes me want to throw a slushie in his face… which is strange, since I haven't had that particular urge since I took my own cup of grape gunk to my face. Throwing people in dumpsters? Taking their lunch money? Sure, but not slushie facials.

"Puck, What up?" He asks, his voice loud in the little space. God, have I suck so low that the Geeks feel they can acknowledge me in the hallways?

"Nothing!" I say, angrily. I move to leave the alcove, but he blocks my path. I can't climb over a kid in a fucking wheelchair. It would be so… gay, and I am NOT Kurt Hummel. I am NOT gay. No matter how good Mike Chang looks in his football pads, or how much I sometimes want to kiss Kurt Hummel's lips. I've fucked half the cougars in Lima, and most of the girls in school. I've got the president of the fucking celibacy club pregnant. And, I can't move him out of the way. I remember how much I hated it when someone tried to move me when I was in my wheelchair for that stupid Glee assignment.

"Puck, you're not a good liar," he tells me. He's trying to bait me, and somehow, its working. I feel the pressure rising inside me. "I sometimes wonder how Finn didn't figure out Beth was yours sooner." The mention of my daughter's name hits a nerve.

I loose my cool, completely. If I'd had an egg, I would have thrown it in his face. If I'd had a knife, I would have slashed his tires. But, my hands are empty except for the ball of photographs. So, I do the next best thing. I slam my fist into his glasses, feeling the metal give way under my knuckles. He tilts backward, and I run.

Running isn't cowardice, not when you have a good reason, I tell myself as hurry out of the school. William McKinley High can go to hell. The worst Figgins can do is add time to my suspension. You can't get expelled for beating up another student, only a teacher. I know this from personal experience.

"Stop." The command is so unexpected, and so authoritative that I do. The person issuing it is one of the only people in the world I can bring myself to listen to. I turn to see Quinn Fabray walking toward me. She is back to her pre-pregnancy weight. She wears a Cheerio's uniform, but this year, she no longer has that steely glint in her eye. Even though the weight is gone, the glow that came from pregnancy has not. My baby mama is not only hot enough to make me want to tap her ass again, she is beautiful.

"Damn it, Puck, why did you punch Artie?" She demands, her hands on her slim hips.

I shrug. "I didn't like his fucking glasses."

"Liar." Her eyes cut into me like a leather belt. For some reason, the look hurts more.

"Nobody fuckin' respects me around here. I'm the Puck-fuckin'-saurus."

She crosses her arms. She is clearly not buying my bull.

"He made me angry." I finally give an honest answer.

But this is not enough. Not for Quinn Fabray. "What's in your hand, Noah?" Her voice is gentle. I clench my fist tighter around the photographs. "Show me what you have." Über bitch is back.

I slowly let my fingers fall away from the small pieces of paper. Quinn takes them from my hands, and smoothes them. She's staring at the back of the photographs. I don't have to look to see what she's seeing. On the older one, someone used a cheap, blue ballpoint pen to scrawl, "Eli, Ruthie and Noah. September 8th, 2001." She turns them over slowly, studying the photos.

My eyes dare her to make the connection. She does. She hands my photos back, and I shove them into my wallet. I turn to leave, to start running again. I see the question in her eyes. It's a question that haunts me as well. I've abandoned my baby daughter. I've hurt my friends, everyone who comes into my life. I can't control myself when I get anger. Am I my father?