Luckily, when Quinn stumbles into the clearing, there's a blanket and a t-shirt waiting for her. She would've hoped for a bit more clothes. Even as a child, Puck is very aware of breasts and what's between a woman's legs. She can only hope that, whenever she is, Puck is maybe not old enough to try to look up her shirt.

She spreads the blanket out on the grass and it turns out that there's a sandwich rolled up in the flannel. He's being thoughtful. She sits and starts to eat, trying to determine what year it is. Turns out the sandwich is peanut butter marshmallow fluff, which is seven year old Puck's favorite, and she's halfway through the sandwich when he comes walking into the field. She was right. Noah Puckerman is seven years old, maybe almost eight. He's hunched over and tense with energy and angst, hands shoved forcefully into his pockets, the hood of his light fall jacket pulled over his head. He walks right over to the blanket and sits down, not looking at her. This doesn't surprise her. Second grade is hard for Puck. He's mean and a bully. He has no one to come in for career day because his mom is too busy. He tries to cover it up, says he doesn't care because his dad is a rock star and better than everyone else and their stupid parents. He pushes the small blonde girl away at recess when she tries to hug him. He pulls her pig tails. Quinn watches him look down at his lap with a frown. She finishes her sandwich.

"Puck?"

The small, olive skinned, already-mohawked seven-year-old doesn't look up at her. His hands are still shoved in his pockets and his face is tight and pursed. He's walked all the way out here, but he's not going to be happy about it.

"Puck, do you want to talk to me?"

He twitches a little, his head turning away from her to look at the grass that surrounds the blanket. She's almost surprised when he opens his mouth.

"Did people make fun of you when you were my age?"

Quinn can't help but smile. Puck is… always Puck. No matter what age. She sighs, shifting a little closer to him on the blanket.

"Sure. Everyone gets made fun of, Puck." He stares off into the grass for another long moment before he looks up at her. It takes everything inside her to not reach out and cup his tiny little face in her hands. This is what Beth would've looked like at seven, all endlessly dark eyes and full lips.

"Why would anyone make fun of you?"

This makes Quinn frown. He looks genuinely curious.

"What do you mean?"

"You're the prettiest grown-up I've ever seen and you have tits."

"I told you not that use that word. That's a bad word, Puck." He grins at her and it's dark and menacing already, the grin she's used to when he's about to ask her to do something dirty. He already has this grin at seven years old.

"So? You're not the boss of me." He stands up but doesn't walk away, just kicks at the grass and the dirt, standing a bit away from the blanket. She watches him intently, careful to keep her knees together. She's sure he only gave her a t-shirt on purpose.

"Do you use that word in front of your mom? Or Sarah?"

When he speaks, it comes out as a grumble. He resents her for knowing so much stuff that he's never told her. Sarah is only one right now and he's learning to be the overly protective big brother. "No…"

"Then you shouldn't use it in front of me." He kicks at the dirt again and there's a long silence until she's sure he's ready to talk about something else. "Who was making fun of you, Puck?"

"Quinn Fabray."

Quinn swallows thickly, trying to keep her face neutral. Later in his life, Puck will look at his wife one day and realize who she is. But that's years and years from the time the two of them sit in right now. Puck keeps talking.

"She yelled at me again today. She's so mean and she thinks she's better than everyone else."

Quinn wants to cry. She wants to cry every time she's here and they have to talk about this. She wants to grab him and tell him it's not her fault, it's not her fault her father was all she knew when she was little, that she was such a scared kid that did whatever she thought was cool. Even hurting the weird kid with the Mohawk who got in trouble for setting the swing set on fire with matches he brought from home. Instead she looks down at her lap, unable to look at him anymore. He keeps talking.

"So I pulled her braid. And at lunch I poured her milk all over her head when she made fun of me for only having a sandwich." Quinn looks up at him sharply and at his words she vividly remembers the feeling of the milk streaming down her face, Santana laughing in her ear as she looked up at him, his face hurt and sad. The way her heart looked.

"Puck…" Her voice is soft enough that she's not sure if she even wants him to hear her but he looks up at her all the same, his eyebrows knitted together and his gaze intense. At seven, Puck is trying to figure out what he's going to be. "Puck, what's the date?" He thinks for a second before he checks his Incredible Hulk watch, his favorite thing in the whole world besides his mom and Sarah.

"October 29th, 2000." She nods as he looks up at her.

"Thank you." In two days, at Santana Lopez's Halloween party, seven year old Noah Puckerman will walk in on seven year old Quinn Fabray changing into her Belle costume in the bathroom. It'll be the first time he sees boobs. He won't tell her that until ten years later. She was thoroughly convinced he never saw anything.

"Are you really from the future, Q?" It's the first time he's addressed her by that name, the name she told him to call her in a effort to not confuse him. He doesn't know who she is, not really.

"I told you I was, didn't I?" He kicks at the dirt one more time before he lays down on the blanket, arms spread out. One of them almost reaches her knee.

"Yeah. But you could be lying. People lie all the time."

"I'm not lying, Puck. I would never lie to you, okay?" He turns his head, looking up at her.

"Do you know me in the future?" He's never asked her a question like that before. Usually he's so content with knowing that she's from the future and that is that.

"Maybe."

He grins at her, wide and toothy. "You totally do!"

She laughs, rubbing her hand over her forehead. He continues. "Tell me shit."

"Don't use words like that, Puck."

"Tell me stuff."

She sighs, giving him a look. "I can't do that."

"Why not? That's so unfair."

"I can't just tell you things. What about everyone else? That's unfair to them." He licks his lips, his face concentrated as he watches her.

"Am I married? I hope not. Do I have a girlfriend? I bet I have three girlfriends. I bet they're all hot." He nods as if this is fact and turns to look up at the sky. "I bet I've done dirty things with you like I saw Mrs. Langford doing with the principal."

"Puck." Her voice is sharp enough to make him look back at her, his expression scared. He doesn't like it when grownups talk to him like that.

"Jesus, what?"

"Don't talk about me like that. I'm a grown up. You can't talk about me like that."

He frowns at her, sitting up. "But you're not just a grown up. You're my friend." Her breath catches in her throat a little. This is a word she's never heard him use at this age. He stares at her seriously. "You're my friend, Q." Her eyes start to water and she looks down at her lap. Her eyes close as she takes a deep breath but she starts to cry anyways. In the future, Puck is mad at her.

She doesn't know how long she sits there crying but before she realizes it, he's crawled into her lap and is wrapping his skinny arms around her. And Quinn wraps her own arms around his tiny frame and squeezes him tightly, crying into the crook of his neck. One of his hands smoothes her hair awkwardly, something his mom does to him when he's upset.

"Don't cry, Q." And she laughs, pulling away to take his small face between her hands tightly. He blinks back at her and he's everything she knows he is and everything that he's going to be. He's hers.

"I have to go now, Puck." He nods, climbing off of her lap as she stands, her head buzzing. Impulsively, he reaches up, grabbing her hand and she looks down at him. "I'll be back. I promise." He nods up at her.

"Say hi to me in the future. Okay? Do you promise?" She laughs again, squeezing his hand before she leans down to kiss the top of his Mohawk.

"I promise." When she pulls away, he's looking at her seriously.

"Are you happy in the future?" She tries to make herself stay, but it's hard. She feels dizzy.

"Don't worry about me."

"Whoever you're with… in the future… you're probably married since you're a grown up, but I hope he's nice and not mean and doesn't leave you like my dad left my mom." She wants to cry again but her head is swimming.

"Okay, Puck."

"Tell him I'll beat him up if he hurts you. Tell him that." He balls up his tiny fist and shakes it at her, making a growling noise. She's laughing as she falls back onto the living room carpet, her head bouncing. Her leg knocks the coffee table over. She's still laughing as Puck appears, thirty and Mohawk-less, in the doorway.

"Shit! Quinn, are you okay?" And he's kneeling beside her, pulling her upper body into his lap. He's used to her appearing, injured and cold and bleeding and naked in various rooms of their house. She shakes her head at him, her body still shaking with laughter. He looks down at her, confused and worried. After a minute, when the laughter subsides, she catches her breath, looking up at him. Her hand grabs at the collar of his shirt absentmindedly.

"Still mad at me?"

He blinks down at her before he shakes his head. "Nah." She nods. "When were you?"

"October 29th, 2000."

He grins slowly, trying to calculate this in his head. She attempts to jog his memory.

"You told me you were going to beat up whoever I was married to if he ever left me." And it's his turn to laugh, holding her tightly to him.

"That's a promise." He kisses her forehead. Quinn reaches up, putting her hand on his cheek.

"I'm sorry… about when we were kids—"

"Quinn, stop it." And she does. Because it's in the past. They are here and now. And Puck may have to do a lot of waiting around for her, but every time she returns and he's still here, still waiting, she becomes surer of the fact that this was inevitable.