AN: A tumblr fic! It was a practically a challenge; I was asked to write some St. Puckerman. So here it is!
Warnings/spoilers: teeny spoiler for Funeral. No curses, I think. Not beta:ed at all and written in, like, an hour. Maybe a bit out of character.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.
It's one of those days when Puck just really loves his job.
Admittedly, there aren't many such days - he doesn't hate his job, but saying he loves it, is being a bit too enthusiastic; it's okay, passable and he could have done a lot worse, considering - because between the whiny regulars and the new customers who complain because their order is taking too long or he didn't get their drink exactly right and barkeep, this Martini isn't dry enough, working at the bar is very exhausting.
There are nights when the bar is crammed, everyone are drunk and the musician of the night sucks ass - there has seriously been quite a few guys and girls that may have a bit of an inclination for music deep, deep down, but aren't worth a penny in front of an real, breathing audience that's had a drink or three and are not afraid to voice their opinions - when Puck can just glance longingly at his guitar, tucked underneath his jacket in the back room and sigh. Because whether he likes it or not, he's not paid to sing, he's paid to fill glasses with alcoholic beverages and clean the bar disk.
Some customers are idiots. Some are asses. Some are hot, some are not, some hit on him and some just let their eyes flicker from his mohawk to his tattoos and decide that he's not worth their attention, unless he's refilling their glasses.
There are nice customers, too. Not all the regulars are whiny - mostly just the trio of old, angry men in the corner that basically live there and a pair of very chatty ladies with very red lipstick who seem to do nothing but gossip all day, every day - and not all of the aspiring musicians are bad. Really.
Today is one of those days when Puck just really loves his job.
The summer is just over and it's raining outside; it's late Thursday afternoon and there aren't many people here yet. His favourite station on the radio is having a "classic rock marathon" and Jaime, one of his colleagues, gave him her tip, smiling, when she caught him singing along with one of the songs.
The door opens - the smattering of the rain gets louder for a few seconds, before it's muted by the door again - and in comes a familiar face.
Puck smiles inwardly - they still haven't reached the stage where they greet each other with wide, genuine smiles (and he doesn't know if he wants to reach that stage at all or not) - and studies the newcomer subtly as he cleans a glass.
The years have been kind to Jesse St. James; twenty-six and still looks twenty, with the sort of features that don't seem like they'll ever look really old. He looks more tired nowadays, though, but Puck supposes that teaching a bunch of twelve year old girls ballet for hours every day will do that to a guy.
His face is softer now than it ever was in high school, and so are his words. He's still the same narcissistic Jesse St. Jerkface that made scrambled eggs on Rachel Berry's head and told Finn Hudson that he kind of sings and dances like a zombie that has to poop, but Jesse's not quite as arrogant these days.
Puck's still sort of surprised that he and Jesse both ended up in the same parts of San Francisco, neither with the future they imagined themselves to have. Jesse has actually pretty much given up on singing - which doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't take every chance he gets to show off and throw an impromptu musical wherever he is - but he's more grown up now and is focusing on dancing instead. Which is how ended up teaching classes, as well, as a side job.
Puck got out of Lima, for starters. Out of Ohio. After high school, he drove around a lot, saw more of the world than he ever thought he would, stayed here and there; a week with Finn in his football scholarship-paid dorm every now and then, a few days at geek-camp with Artie, two weeks with Brittany and Santana at Santana's dad's summer house, returned there a few times.
He spent a few months on Rachel's couch in New York, hung out with her, Kurt and Blaine, saw NYC again and fell in love with the city some more. Then he realized that he couldn't stay there forever, because Gay, Gayer and Hot Jew were probably his best friends, but they were meant to make it big. He wasn't.
So he drove on, tried Los Angeles and Chicago before he settled down in San Francisco. He actually lived there for about a year and a half before he met Jesse again.
It's not like he knows Jesse well. They're not friends, not really, but they're more than acquaintances. They mostly meet at the bar like this - Puck's working and Jesse comes in, because he has a gap between the classes he teaches in the afternoon, and his own, late night classes - but Jesse did come over to Puck's flat, once. They drank black coffee and whiskey and threw popcorn at each other, while a bad action-comedy with the appropriate amount of romance (to quench Jesse's thirst for drama, mostly) played on the screen.
"Once" was a lie. Jesse actually comes over to Puck's flat at least once a week. Sometimes
Puck drives to Jesse instead, but he's only done that, like, twice.
He did spend the night both of the times, though, because Puck and Jesse mysteriously ended up making out vertically the fourth time Jesse visited Puck's flat. It sort of evolved from there and now Jesse has a toothbrush in Puck's bathroom.
That doesn't mean that they're friends, though. Well, they are. Sort of. Neither is gay, though. They just sort of… happened, out of nowhere. It's all very confusing.
What Puck does know, though, is that his lovely day got even better when Jesse stepped into the bar, even if he wouldn't admit it in a thousand years. (Or two. But he doesn't know that yet).
He knows that he's not gay, and neither is Jesse, but that doesn't mean that whatever they have isn't awesome. Puck's never really taken it seriously before, but the "no labels"-thing is fantastic.
He also knows Jesse's exact afternoon-order - which is different from his night-order or his home-order, Puck knows that as well - so he's already preparing it when Jesse takes a seat in front of him, on the other side of the counter.
"Hello, Noah," Jesse greets, smirking, but with that soft, sparkly look in his eyes. His smirks melts into a small smile, before it widens into a grin as Puck places his usual order in front of him. "Thank you, Noah. Never took you for a gentleman."
Puck just raises an eyebrow and grins; he knows it's cheesy, but he can't help his reply; "I'll be whatever you want me to be, baby."
Jesse just snorts and shakes his head. Puck catches the way the corner of Jesse's mouth almost twists up again, though, and grins again.
It's is one of those days when Puck just really loves his job.
Shitty as it may be from time to time, if he didn't have it, he'd never have settled down in San Francisco, which may not be NYC, but it's still his home now. And - home is where the heart is… or something.