The steady pelting of rain wakes him from an alcohol induced slumber. It takes him several minutes to weed through the fuzzy web in his head in order to take note of his surroundings. He's definitely no longer at Sasha Kellerman's birthday party but luckily he's somehow managed to make it home in one piece. He pushes himself up into a sitting position in the bed of his pickup truck and cracks open the cooler that holds the two or three beers left over from the two cases he'd scammed some douche into buying him at the Seven-Eleven. He pulls one out and pops the tab before taking a long pull of the warm liquid.
"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall," he belts out, against the rhythmic drum of rain against metal, "ninety-nine bottles of beer, take one down and pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall!"
He lets out a loud belch that echoes in the stillness of the night. The street's quiet, the houses lining either side dark, except for a pale bedroom light shining through his next door neighbor's window; Brittany's window. He chugs the rest of his beer, tossing the empty can back into the cooler before climbing over the tailgate. His feet get tangled and he falls but luckily manages to land on his feet. He starts humming the beer song again as he makes his way across the wet lawn, stopping occasionally to collect small pebbles.
When he steps into the small circle of light that's been cast across the ground, he takes aim, and lets one of the small rocks fly towards the lit window. He misses, hitting vinyl, and has to duck when the pebble is cast back towards him. "Fuck," he mumbles, before trying again.
His second toss hits glass so he waits several seconds for Brittany's face to appear on the other side. When it doesn't he tosses a third rock, this time with a little more force than necessary. The light ping is more of a loud tap and manages to catch the blonde's attention. The window slides up and Brittany's head pops outside.
"Puck...is that you?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder at the alarm clock on her dresser. When she speaks again her voice is lower, barely above a whisper, "What are you doing out this late?"
"Taking a shower," he jokes, making a motion with his arm that beckons her to come down.
"But it's raining," she grumbles, lips pushing into a petulant pout.
"You used to like playing in the rain," he tosses back, voice rising in annoyance.
"Shhh, you're going to wake my parents."
"Are you coming or not?"
Brittany sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. She shuts the window against the cold November rain and a second later her bedroom light blinks off. She joins him in the backyard shortly after with a bright yellow umbrella twirling above her head.
"Are you okay?" she asks, taking a seat next to him on the rickety old swing set that had, once upon a youth, been a pirate's ship, a space shuttle, a cabin in the center of the Amazon; a million dreams that would never be achieved.
"I'm fine," he grunts, but there's a quiver in his voice he can't seem to control.
Brittany lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "There was once a time when we didn't have any secrets between us, remember?"
He does, fondly. It's what had propelled him to her window. He sighs and shakes away the urge to spill his guts to his once best friend, to tell her all the horrible things he's done to his current best friend but his image hangs in the balance and he's not sure he's ready to lose that on top of everything else.
He opens his mouth to tell her to fuck off but it comes out as, "Quinn's pregnant."
Her laugh is light and airy and it chills him more than the cold rain. "I know, silly," Brittany replies.
He shakes his head because she's not getting it. When he speaks it's so low he's not sure he's actually said it out loud, "I'm the father."
The squeak of her swing stops abruptly, but she squeezes his shoulder in reassurance. "I know that too," she adds, surprising him.
"What?" he asks, meeting her gaze with a questioning arch of his brow, "How?"
Brittany grimaces and he knows she's debating whether or not to tell him her source. "Britt," he encourages, "no secrets remember."
She nods, lightly biting her lip. "Mercedes told Tina who told Artie who told Kurt who maybe let it slip to me. I only told Santana, I swear."
He rolls his eyes. Great the whole entire Glee club knows his business which means it won't be long before Finn finds out. He sighs. His buzz has evaporated and suddenly the weight of his exhaustion is weighing heavy on him.
"I'm tired," he says.
"It's late...or early, depending on how you look at it."
"Yeah," he adds, pushing himself off the swing.
"Wait," Brittany says, standing up.
Her umbrella gets caught on the chain of the swing and she nearly loses it. When she's untangled herself she reaches into the pocket of her Cheerio's jacket and pulls out Puck's car keys.
"Here," she offers, handing them to him.
"You drove me home?" he asks in return, taking the keys from her hand.
She smiles, eyes sparkling in the pale moonlight. "Of course, you were really drunk; I couldn't exactly let you drive yourself home."
"Thanks," he replies, and he's pretty sure it's the most sincere thing he's said in a really long time. "Do me a favor, let's keep tonight's little confessional between us?"
She throws her free arm around his neck pulling him into a dry hug beneath the umbrella. "Just like when we were little," she adds against his ear, "and we broke Mr. Wyman's window with the Frisbee."
"Exactly," he chuckles, pulling out of her embrace. "Night, Britt."
"Goodnight, Puck. Sweet dreams."
He makes his way towards the back door of his house, letting himself in as quietly as possible. The only sound aside from the rain is the faint sound of his voice singing, "Ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-seven bottles of beer…"