Disclaimer: I don't claim jack-diddly.
You just had to shimmy your hips and smile at Puck, didn't you Rory? As if I didn't ship enough random pairings as it was. Argh.
1: Spoilers up to episode 3x05, The First Time. Warnings for language and implied underage drinking.
2: Centers around Puck and Rory (Puckory? Ruck? Puckagan?) friendship. Appearances from Artie, Tina and Santana. This is my first time really writing for Puck, so I apologize if I don't have him down pat. Also, you may have to break out some sort of Irish slang dictionary. (Apologies if my characterization of Rory offends anyone – he is really stereotypical in canon though. Love him.)
Puck wholly regretted ever agreeing to be a part of the mess of a musical named West Side Story. Admittedly, he'd only heard the 'rival gangs' part of the storyline before he agreed – he was pretty sure Mr. Schuester tricked him with that.
He didn't regret it because of the auditorium full of people that would watch him prance around during 'knife fights' – seriously, who the hell danced when they were about to get shanked in the gut? If he had tried anything like that in juvenile hall, he would have deserved the beatings.
He didn't regret it because he had to work closely with Rachel Everything Must Be Abso-Fucking-lutely Perfect Berry and have her breathe down his neck for every single thing he did wrong with her long-winded speeches and shrill nagging, seeing as the musical had to be "magically enchanting", as she had put it.
He didn't even regret it for the ridicule he received after rehearsal for his authentic Hispanic accent – he could admit to himself that he was embarrassed when he heard himself speak like a drunken Speedy Gonzalez.
The part of working in the musical that he did regret was male, Irish, and currently following him down the hallway like a lost puppy.
When Puck first saw him in glee practice, he hadn't given him a second glance. He was just another student on the bottom rung of the social ladder with aspirations of show-choir somehow making him less of a loser, or something like that. He'd initially felt sorry for him, because glee club was not going to make him cool anytime soon, so he'd made a conscious effort not to make any comments about his clothes or his voice or his hair.
Now, he wished he had.
They'd only just left their first morning rehearsal for the musical and already the boy seemed attached to Puck like dog shit on a shoe bottom and he couldn't figure out why.
"Dude, what the hell do you want?" Puck barked over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the pale boy's Pompadour in his peripherals. It was like looking at a male version of Kurt Hummel, only less colorful and more annoying – not that he didn't like Kurt, but the boy was sparkly and bitchy.
"The name's Rory!" the kid informed merrily, though it was barely understood with his heavy accent. "I was wondering if you'd be my friend. It'd be something swell. Haven't got many friends. It's pretty lonely."
Puck almost missed a step, wondering if he'd heard right. Did guys still ask each other to be friends? No, you just became friends after a few punches were thrown, or when you both bitched about being in detention, or while making fun of each other, or when you both passed gas at the same time. Asking was just plain weird.
"No," Puck responded and tightened his hold on his backpack strap. "Now get lost before I beat your ass."
Of course he wouldn't actually hurt the kid; not only did have no wish to have everyone in glee club glare at him when the kid ran to them in tears with a broken nose, but he had no real desire to harm anyone since his relationship with Lauren – well, Jacob Ben Israel didn't really count as a person, more like a sniveling ferret if anything.
He blamed Lauren for his pussy attitude.
"But me locker – uh, my locker is right next to yours!" the cheery voice said, making Puck's eyebrow twitch with irritation. The locker next to his hadn't been occupied since the beginning of the year, of course that's where they'd put the new student, who was neither a hot redheaded chick or someone to bum booze off of – Puck's preferred Irish neighbors.
Just a happy-go-lucky green brat. Right next to him.
Fucking excellent.
Puck stopped at his locker and sure enough, seconds later Rory was next to him, all sunny grins and boundless energy. Rory's gaze stayed glued to Puck while they twisted and turned their locks, managing to open both doors at the exact same time, and things were getting exceedingly freaky.
Puck scowled at him and shoved some books and papers messily into his locker, ones that he probably needed for his first period class, not that he cared much. "Listen, kid, we're not friends. We'll never be friends. It's not going to happen, so scram," he slammed the door shut, hoping to instill some fear so the boy would get the hint.
"Why not?" Rory asked with a furrowed brow while he took supplies from his locker, completely unaffected by the aggressive display, to Puck's displeasure.
"Because Puckzilla ain't friends with freaky foreign weirdos who look like they came straight from that Small World ride at Disneyland. Get it, kid?" he hissed with a cruel smirk, figuring that it was time for the affair to end. Puck found that he could solve most of his problems with some form of offense, be it physical or verbal.
Sure, that philosophy frequently landed him in hot water, but at least shit got done.
At least, that's what he'd hoped. Rory pursed his lips but looked otherwise unaware of Puck's ire. "Why do you refer to yourself in third-person? Is that an American thing? That…," he looked around warily before continuing, "…that scary cheerleading coach does it too, a brutal one she is! Is Puckzilla really your first name? Does that mean you're part Japanese? Do Americans still keep in touch with Japan? I hear they're a sight smarter, ya know."
Puck could hear the sound of his own teeth grinding, both from the ineffectiveness of his insults and the constant stream of inane questions spewing from Rory's mouth. What the hell was going on? Why wasn't this kid afraid of him? Wasn't he still the top badass in all of Lima, Noah 'The Puck' Puckerman?
Just to make sure, Puck pulled up the short-sleeve of his t-shirt and flexed his bicep.
Yep, everything was in check.
But that couldn't be right, because Rory was still in front of, yammering and firing off questions that he'd probably been raring to ask ever since he first set foot on American soil, and Puck didn't want to hear any of it.
Experimentally, Puck jumped at Rory, his fist poised to sock the other boy in the jaw. The most he got for his effort was a startled blink from Rory. Startled, not scared. "That's quite the little tick you've got there, boyo!" the Irishman said with a toothy grin.
Feeling his machismo drain by the second, Puck let out a frustrated groan and stalked away from the scene, ignoring Rory's call of "Where ya goin', hardchaw?", half because he was annoyed, half because he didn't understand what the hell a 'hardchaw' was.
Halfway on his path to class, he decided not to bother with the situation anymore. Somewhere along the way, the kid would get the hint that no, Puck did not want to be friends or discuss America or do whatever the hell it was that the kid wanted to do, and he would scurry away to find someone new to pester.
Things like that tended to solve themselves, right?
To Puck's terrible fortune, no, it didn't solve itself. Right after he left his first period class, Rory somehow managed to find him again, even though they had no classes in common. The kid came running up to him with a friendly smile and an enthusiastic wave, calling out "Puckzilla!" loudly so everyone could hear and stare and formulate vicious rumors in their heads. He could already see Ben Israel's next headline – Neutered Bad-Boy Noah Puckerman Falls for Fresh Foreign Man Meat.
Puck idly cracked his knuckles, knowing he was going to have to utilize his fists after he got rid of his present issue.
Seconds later, Rory was beside him, slightly out of breath from having to jog to catch up with Puck's strides. "So, what class do you have next, buddy? Me, I've got English. Pretty sure I'm gonna fail it, as if ya didn't know, ha! My teacher can't even understand me, 'tis a real riot," Rory cracked up at his own joke, holding his stomach.
"Didn't I tell you to get lost?" Puck growled without looking at the other boy, intent on keeping any interaction between them so there would be nothing to read between. He cast everyone who stared at them the most intimidating eye he could and was pleased when most of the public glanced elsewhere. He still had some influence, just not enough to get rid of the main person he wanted to disappear.
Rory shrugged and grinned – again, "I know you were just acting the maggot, uh…bro. Not a problem with me," Puck narrowed his eyes, unsure if he had just been insulted and called bro at the same time, but unhappy about it and Rory's flagrant disregard of his toughness.
"If you don't start speaking English, I swear I'm gonna punch you in the stomach," Puck threatened and brandished a fist, because the last time had obviously been a fluke. There was no way Puckerone couldn't scare off a shrimpy junior like this one. He hadn't lost that much power; it was just an off moment for him. This time it would work. This time it had to work.
"You're great craic, buddy!"
There wasn't a sliver of fear in the shorter boy's reaction. In fact, not only did his smile widen, but he had the audacity to lay a hand on his shoulder – on Noah Puckerman's shoulder! The same Puck who use to toss losers into dumpsters just for looking at him funny, or not looking at him when they were suppose to…or for just generally being losers, whatever, it didn't matter.
Yet this kid was touching him like they were the best of friends, and he still wasn't getting the unfriendly vibe that Puck was sure he was putting out, and it made zero sense to him. Was there some sort of cultural barrier that made Puck's mannerisms inviting to Rory? Did he have to look up how to properly intimidate someone from Ireland? When did being a badass turn into work?
Briefly, Puck ran a hand over his head and yes, his Mohawk was still there, which meant the power should still be there.
Then what the actual fuck?
"Get off me!" he shrugged the hand off roughly and tightened his hold in his backpack strap. "And stop following me everywhere," he warned and practically ran to his next class, even though he was a minute early – not that he was scared or anything, but he really needed to get away. Things were so very wrong at the moment, and his head was starting to ache.
"Alrighty then, see you later, Puckzilla!" Rory called out from somewhere behind him, trying hard to enunciate the L's correctly and failing, and people were starting to stare again, and Puck didn't want to know what they were thinking, most likely terrible things that he'd end up hearing about later
All throughout Physics – or maybe it was Spanish? – Puck couldn't concentrate even if he wanted to because Rory was constantly on his mind. Well, not Rory specifically. That was gay and Puck wasn't gay, but the fact that he couldn't seem to shake the boy bugged him immensely. As of recent, physical violence wasn't an answer, seeing as his mind had suddenly started thinking of the consequences of his actions and what would happen if he did this or kicked that and what the fuck was that?
He yearned for the days where he could cause someone pain and not feel bad for it afterward. Guilt was a son of a bitch.
He still blamed Lauren.
Instead of doing any calculations – or writing a paper? – in class, Puck used the time to formulate a strategy for avoiding his stalker. He told himself once more that he wasn't scared, just cautionary, and that was a smart thing to be, so it was a good thing.
If he left class first, maybe he would be able to avoid Rory and zoom away to his next class or ditch or something, but there was the possibility of Rory getting out first as well, and the hall would be less crowded than normal, making him easy to spot. If he left class last, the halls would be packed and even if Rory did find him, he would have a difficult time catching up.
It occurred to Puck that he hadn't something out this thoroughly in quite a while.
Deciding to take the later route, Puck waited until every other student left the room before he did, sneering at the ones who gave him suspicious looks as they exited. He poked his head out of the class room to make sure the coast was clear, aware that he might have looked like a schizophrenic. After a minute of no Rory in sight, Puck figured his plan had worked and strutted out into the hall, smirk in place.
Then, he saw his stalker, dressed all in green and standing in the intersection of the hallways, eyes scanning around for something, someone – him! Panicked, Puck made a desperate dash to hide behind one of the columns along the wall, hoping Rory hadn't seen him. He wasn't sure how much he could take before he gave in and did something terrible.
Like talked to him. Wasn't that the only other option besides punching him?
"Are you hiding from your new best friend?"
Puck jumped – literally jumped! – at the voice and looked around, then down to see Artie, sitting in front of him with a teasing smirk. "What? Best friend? What the hell are you talking about?" he glowered at the seated boy, shifting his backpack uncomfortably.
Artie's lips curled a little more, "Word around is that the school's resident bad boy has a new green sidekick."
It had made it around school that quickly? Fuck.
"He's gone, you know," Artie informed, smirk never leaving his face. Puck wondered if he could punch him instead, but decided against it. He didn't want another mess of guilt plaguing his mind for hurting his friend or some sissy shit.
Instead, Puck groaned and stepped from behind the column, moving behind Artie and pushing the chair along with him since they were in the same mathematics class. "That kid won't go away, and he never shuts up. What's his deal?"
"Maybe he wants to be friends with you? It's very common for new students to idolize someone popular, mostly to have somewhere to branch their own reputations and school social lives from," Artie explained in his typical perfunctory tone.
Puck nodded, glad for the comprehensible logic. "Okay, whatever, but why me?"
"You're dope, yo," Artie threw up a hand gesture with his words that Puck didn't understand – not that he ever understood most of the ghetto things that his friend did.
"Isn't he supposed to be all over Finn? Did they break up or something?"
Artie craned his head so his eyes met the larger boy's. "Finn told him he needed to make more friends on his own, and you are popular…sometimes."
The expression on Puck's face darkened. Of course it was Finn's fault, he should have known earlier. The freakishly tall boy had successfully pawned his problems off on someone else. Luckily, Finn was someone that he could punch – he was big, he could take it.
For the rest of the school day, Puck ducked and hid and managed to avoid Rory, with some disapproving aid from Artie. The only obstacle left in the way of his weekend was after school rehearsal, which meant the unavoidable encounter with his newfound Celtic bane.
After changing into his stuffy costume, Puck strode confidently through the doors of the auditorium. They were practicing for the America number that afternoon, which required only Artie, the glee members participating on the Sharks side in the number – Rory included – and random members of the cheerleading squad and football team that had been forced into the production by Coach Beiste, all decked out in their costumes as well and chattering around.
As soon as Rory's eyes found him, another smile lit up on his face and he waved enthusiastically. Puck ignored him and climbed onto the stage, straightening out his suit and glaring at the football players who smirked derisively at him. They weren't small; he could kick their asses too.
"Hey, Puck," Rory started as he approached, though it sounded closer to Pook than anything, "I wanted to apologize. I know I can, uh, come on a bit strong and blather on much and…junk." He shuffled his feet awkwardly for a moment before offering a bright smile. "I'm working on it, ya know."
Puck didn't acknowledge his words, only cast a sour frown in Artie's direction in the stands. Artie in turn made no effort to hide his scheming countenance.
Rory took the silence as a sign to continue. "So, I was thinkin', you come to Brittany's this weekend and we get a bit shlossed, eh?" he leaned in close to nudge Puck's arm with a smile that was probably meant to be secretive. "Got a little of the black stuff from back home, if ya know what I mean."
Puck grimaced, because no, he didn't know what the kid meant and whatever he wanted to do didn't sound pleasant at all. This time, there was blatant laughter from some of the others, and Puck really needed all of this to end.
So he acted; he cursed his guilt and conscience and moral code and everything that told him not to be an asshole and acted. He grabbed the front of Rory's shirt with a hand, noticing the startled look on his face, and shoved him back hard, as hard he could, until the lanky boy fell on his back roughly with a grunt, sliding a little on the smooth surface of the stage.
"I told you to stop fucking talking to me, kid," he growled out at him, uncaring for the hush that had fallen over the others of the cast. Rory blinked up at him fearfully – the expression that Puck sought after so much and now, didn't want – and nodded solemnly. With a noticeable wince, he stood, dusted off his black trousers, and trudged off to find a seat on the fake scaffolding in the scenery.
Puck didn't want to look around – he really didn't, because if the guilt in his chest was telling him anything, it was that he wouldn't like what he saw.
He did anyway, and was proven correct.
The members of the football team and the cheerleaders avoided his gaze, most showing signs of amusement at the scene. Artie was shaking his and making the sassy noise of disappointment that he'd adopted from Mercedes. Tina was glaring at him like he was a horrid beast. Even Santana – Santana, of all people! – had an eyebrow quirked and lips pursed at him.
Luckily, Artie took that time to diffuse the drama, yelling for everyone to get into place to practice the number.
Rory went out of his way to avoid Puck for the rest of rehearsal. When their characters were suppose to converse, Rory refused to meet his eyes, despite Artie's complaints. During the dance sequence, Rory literally tripped over his feet to stay as far away from Puck as he could without throwing anyone else's rhythm off. The one time he bumped into Puck on accident, he immediately stuttered out an apology and left the auditorium in a hurry, muttering something unintelligible that was probably a false excuse.
Artie, Tina and Santana were still shooting him varying but equally disappointed looks, as if they expected him to apologize or something.
Fat chance.
Why would he apologize when this was something he'd wanted since the beginning; to spark fear into anyone he wanted. It was what Noah Puckerman fed off of, knowing he ruled over anyone weaker with an iron fist and wouldn't hesitate to show force if the need arose. He had proved himself, and now he had gotten rid of his problem. It didn't matter if the kid was just trying to make a friend, a loser was a loser, and losers were bullied. Everything was fine now. Everyone would get over the show of violence after a while. There was nothing to worry about. He was Puck, and he wasn't going soft.
He didn't feel guilty.
He didn't feel guilty.
He felt so guilty.
Again, he blamed Lauren.
As soon as rehearsal ended, he fled the auditorium. It was only to get his weekend started as quickly as possible, he told himself, that way he could go home and kill things on Xbox until all of his aggression was gone, or he could go to a random party and drink until he forgot what guilt even meant, never mind what it felt like when it gripped his chest.
After changing out of costume, Puck shuffled his way out of the building. It was pouring rain heavily, despite what season it was, but that was Lima. He sprinted to his old pick-up truck, pulling open the rickety door with more force than needed, half because of his foul mood, half because he was in a rush to get out of the rain.
It only took half a block of driving before he saw a figure walking down the sidewalk in his peripheral vision, already fully soaked from the down pour. He didn't even have to get a full look at the person; he automatically knew who it was. It was just how his life worked out most of the time.
The fact that the person was wearing all green was a huge hint as well.
With a sigh, he pulled over beside the figure and stopped the car, reaching over to push open the door since his truck had no automatic windows. There Rory stood, looking particularly pathetic with his clothes dripping wet and his previously poofy hair deflated and framing his face in wet clumps. "What the hell are you doing walking in the rain, man?" Puck asked gruffly.
Rory blinked in confusion and plastered on a fake grin, "I, uh, I usually catch a ride with Brittany after school, but my phone was…accidentally broken, so I can't call her." Puck deciphered easily that 'accidentally' meant on purpose, most likely to do mullet-headed hockey jocks. "Thought I could catch her before she left cheerleading practice if I left rehearsal, but she was gone already, sooo…yah," he shrugged.
Puck continued drilling into his brain that he wasn't about to do what he was about to do because of guilt. He wasn't. He was doing it because he wasn't heartless, that was all. Badasses gave people rides. "Get in," he ordered before reaching under his seat to grab a greasy towel to lie on the passenger seat, not wanting the upholstery soaked.
Obstinately, Rory shook his head, "Don't worry ab–"
"Get in!" He wouldn't have his kindness ignored. It came so very rarely.
The lanky boy flinched at the volume, but hopped into the truck anyway, shutting the door behind him. The vehicle continued down the road in silence, Puck already knowing the route to Brittany's house by heart.
"Really bucketing out there, isn't it?" the Irishman commented idly, eyes curiously scanning the scenery outside the window.
Puck grunted in agreement, even though he could only assume what he was agreeing about. He was too busy focusing on how to get rid of the feeling in his chest, which apparently wasn't satisfied with him giving the other boy a ride. "Listen, kid, about earlier…" he trailed off, seeing as he couldn't remember how to apologize with sincerity.
"Ah, don't worry about it, boyo. Was my fault for thinkin' everyone wants to get hammered all the time," Rory shrugged, wiping sopping wet hair out of his face. "It's a habit."
Puck had to stop himself from slamming on the brakes – that was definitely slang that he understood clearly. "Hammered? Like, hammered hammered?" Puck cast the other boy small glares in between paying attention to the road.
Rory's forehead wrinkled and he nodded slowly. "Right, uh, shlossed means getting hammered, which is…," the boy attempted to find the correct translation, "…getting drunk? I think? I dunno."
"You mean you were talking about getting drunk the whole time? Why the hell didn't you just say that in the first place?" Puck gave him a playful punch in the arm that wasn't really all playful. All this time, Rory was the friend he'd been looking for – one to get booze from, of course – and he hadn't even known it.
All of the shit they could've avoided if he just spoke English and offered him alcohol. Alcohol was a great road to friendship. Of this, Puck was certain.
Rory winced and rubbed the spot where he'd been hit, but grinned through the pain – a real grin. "So then you want to, eh?"
"Hell yeah! It's beer, ain't it?"
"…does this mean we're boy friends now?"
"Dude, never say that again."
–
Monday at school, Lauren was busy putting up a flyer for the AV club when Puck approached her. Well, not so much approached as whizzed by.
"This is your goddamn fault," he grumbled with a scowl before continuing down the hall. Trailing after him was the new student, mouth moving a mile a minute in an accent that Lauren couldn't understand for the life of her. She regarded the peculiar scene for a moment before shrugging it off.
"Still heartbroken, poor thing," she said with a pitying sigh.