Puck stormed through the service door into the kitchen, slamming it behind him. Gail barely looked up from her dinner prep.

"You know Vincente would tan your behind if he saw you letting the door slam like that," she said mildly.

"Fucking good thing he's off today, then. God dammit, Gail." He sat down at the kitchen counter and ran his hands over his face. "Why can't I get anybody to look at me?"

"Because there are thousands of applicants every year, and you're completely untrained -"

"That's not true! I had Lauren."

"- and you don't have any house to sponsor you," she went on, not pausing, "and you're uncouth and ungroomed. And you interrupt your elders all the -"

"I do not!"

"- time. And you have no qualifications, no skills, nothing to make you stand out in a crowd."

He glared at her across the counter. "I play guitar. I can sing. I can... clean your pool. Kind of."

She gave him a tolerant, amused smile over the chopped leeks. "Anything else?"

"I can play football," he said, more slowly. "And I never leave a woman unsatisfied."

"Hmm, a pleasure slave, eh?" Her smile broadened. "I might see that, for the right owner."

He tilted his head. "What's a pleasure slave? Sounds like my kind of thing."

"It's not all about sex, if that's what you're thinking. A pleasure slave has to be prepared to be not only appealing, skilled and ready to satisfy his owner's every whim, but also to be knowledgeable about his owner's interests. Pleasure slaves might dance, play sports, discuss politics, attend the theater or do any of a number of things."

Puck straightened up. "Hey, I can totally do that!"

"I wouldn't be so sure of that. Marketing yourself as a pleasure slave means you'd be opening yourself up to a much wider variety of requirements." She brandished the knife at him. "Are you really willing to do anything your owner wants you to do?"

He shivered. "Yeah."

She raised an eyebrow. "What if you find yourself owned by a man who likes nothing better than to play chess all day?"

"Yeah, right. Who'd bid on me, if they wanted to play chess? Poker, maybe." He sighed. "Who am I kidding, anyway. I've been to three auctions and nobody's looked twice at me."

"Cheer up. If you have anything going for you, it's your courage and enthusiasm. I think you've got more a chance of succeeding than just about anyone else fresh out of the soft world. Keep trying."

Puck smiled despite himself. "You're really too good to me."

Gail lifted the potatoes out of the rinse water in the sink and began peeling. "Most of the thanks go to my generous employer, who hasn't insisted I throw you out onto the street. You know how much a room in Brooklyn rents for these days?"

He knew her stern expression was just a front, and with a cheeky smirk, he snatched a piece of bread out of a bowl on the counter before darting out of the room.


The brisk knock at the door drew Kurt's attention. Moments later, Cassie's face appeared. "You're nearly ready?"

"Just finishing putting on my face," Kurt said. She gave him a derisive snort.

"You wear makeup, Hummel?"

"Just enough to make it look like I'm not wearing any," he said airily. "You're really surprised?"

She leaned against the door frame, grinning. "I'm surprised your roommate let me into your apartment. You know she hates me."

"Yes," he agreed. "She's also terrified of you. It's a complex combination."

"Nothing complex about fear, Hummel. It's the easiest tool. And, seriously, she passed my class. What does she have to worry about now?"

He grinned back at her in the mirror, smoothing his cheekbone with a makeup wedge. "If you're seriously asking me that question, you don't know Rachel very well."

"Rachel. That's her name." Cassie nodded solemnly. "I think I'd blocked it out after I started calling her Schwimmer."

Kurt stood, straightening invisible wrinkles from his shirt before donning his tuxedo jacket. "You're sure I can attend this... auction? I'm only a trainee."

"You're eligible to attend. I doubt you'd be able to outbid any serious Marketplace owner, if you really wanted to contract someone. It's not about money, it's about status, and who you know, and..."

"And I don't know anybody," Kurt finished. "Except you. And Carmen."

"Yeah, and she's lower than dirt when it comes to influence. But, hey." She put an arm around him. "A couple of my protegés will be making their big debuts. There will be plenty to learn, just by being there. Nobody's expecting you to participate. Just watch."

Cassie made an effort to be friendly to Rachel, but it could have just as easily have come across as intimidating, because that's the way Cassie always was. Kurt seemed to be immune to it, but he saw it work its magic on slaves every day, in his training to be an owner.

"You've got something on your shirt, there," Cassie said offhandedly, leaning over to take an apple from the bowl on the table. Rachel shrank back, avoiding contact with her, watching with enormous eyes. Then she glared at Kurt.

He gave Rachel an apologetic frown, part sorry about this, part come on, she's not that bad. But he knew better now. He'd learned a vast amount in six months of training, and he had two and a half years to go before he'd be done. He could only imagine how much there was remaining to learn about the care and handling of slaves.

"She really needs someone to put a collar on her," Cassie said, making Kurt choke. She flagged down a cab with one sharp whistle.

"I think Rachel would murder Finn in his sleep if he did that," he replied. "She hates being out of control."

Cassie's eyes glittered as they climbed into the cab. "Oh, honey. That girl doesn't need a man to collar her."

That put Rachel's frenimosity with Quinn in a whole new light, now that Kurt thought about it. "Huh." He took Cassie's unspoken cue, and leaned forward to tell the driver, "Time Warner Center, Columbus Circle, if you please."

The condo was big enough to hold every one of the two hundred guests on the list, their slaves, and the merchandise on sale, with plenty of space for mingling and eating hors d'oeuvres. Kurt smiled graciously at everybody Cassie introduced him to ("my new trainee, Kurt Hummel - it's his first auction, you know"), but he knew there was no way he would remember their names by the end of the night. He was already starting to feel overwhelmed. The amount of money displayed on people's necks alone was dumbfounding. He saw more diamond-studded collars than he'd ever expected would exist.

She leaned in, smiling. "Do you see anything you like?"

Kurt surveyed the room, trying to be cool. The slaves on auction were displayed naked on pedestals, mostly kneeling, though a few were demonstrating their talents or showing off particular attributes. Kurt felt sorry for one girl who'd clearly been corset-trained, her bust and hips exaggerated, though she didn't appear to be complaining.

Then his eyes stuttered over one slave, and paused. He blinked once, twice. "Fuck me," he breathed.

"Which one?" She tracked his gaze, focusing on the boy kneeling on the pedestal. "Him? Really?" She furrowed her brow. "Don't get me wrong, he's delicious, but not what I would have expected from you. I really thought you liked pretty boys."

He's pretty enough, Kurt thought, his mind reeling. He's also a complete idiot, and he used to throw me into dumpsters. "We used to go to school together," he said.

She sighed. "Oh, Hummel. You really don't want to deal with people from your life in the soft world here. It throws off your whole game."

"No, of course. You're right." He shook off the vision of Puck, there on the pedestal, his head bowed, the rough black leather collar completely clashing with his skin tones, and turned to Cassie, smiling. "Let's keep going. I want to see everything."

But later in the evening, his eyes were drawn a second time to look at Puck. It was not his unclothed beauty that distracted him this time. The room was full of naked, lovely, polished bodies. It was the man standing in front of him, staring at him like he was a dish on the buffet.

"Mr. Ryerson?" Kurt gasped, starting across the room with long strides. Ryerson was already reaching to stroke Puck's shoulder by the time he arrived.

"What an unexpected delight," Ryerson purred. Puck's face was red, and the expression on his face could have broken glass bottles from across a parking lot. "Noah Puckerman, in the flesh. All of it. What on God's green earth are you doing in New York? You're no slave."

"Not for you," Puck spat. Mr. Ryerson drew back, but the handler standing to Puck's right immediately took the heavy tawse from her belt and brought it down on Puck's backside. He made a low grunting noise, but he held his position, with just a mild stumble forward from the impact.

"Pleasure slaves are instructed to serve any owner, in any way they choose," the handler said in a monotone. Puck glared up at Ryerson, but he settled, gritting his teeth.

Ryerson was laughing. "A pleasure slave. Well, this is my lucky day. But, truly, Noah... you can't tell me you've been trained. Your behavior here proves that."

"I... can take instruction," Puck said, in a subdued voice. It made Kurt's heart hurt a little to hear him talk to Sandy Ryerson that way. Puck, the badass, had never been pleasant, but he was predictably strong-willed.

"You certainly can," Ryerson said fondly, stroking Puck's shaved head. "And you will." He took a slip of paper from his pocket and scribbled something on it, passing it to the handler. "Have him oiled before I come to collect him."

Kurt didn't hesitate. He didn't even think, past the visual of Ryerson's hand on Puck's head. He stepped forward, clearing his throat. "You might want to reconsider that, Sandy."

Puck hadn't noticed Kurt until that moment. His head whipped up, and his astonished eyes made contact with Kurt's. He opened his mouth, his lips making shapes that could have been words, if any sound had come out. Kurt just looked back as steadily as he could.

Ryerson considered Kurt. "Do I know you? Oh, wait... you're Burt Hummel's kid, aren't you? What an amazing coincidence." He looked like he'd tasted something unpleasant. "I was just speaking to my Marketplace contact in congress the other day. I wonder what he'd say if I mentioned I'd seen you here."

"I'm sure he'd say what every Marketplace participant would say," Kurt replied, hoping his pounding heart would not be heard through his tuxedo jacket. "We have a code of anonymity among softworlders."

"Even little boy's fathers?" Ryerson said, his voice dropping to a slippery whisper. "We have so much we keep from our families."

"You can't do that," Puck burst out. The handler's tawse came down on him without hesitation, two strikes this time, but he didn't even flinch. "Mr. Ryerson, Kurt never did anything to you. You can't tell his dad about the Marketplace. He's a great dad, but I'm pretty sure it would break him."

"Well, then, he'll stand back, won't he," Ryerson said, jerking his head at Kurt, "and let me take what's mine."

The worst part was, Kurt could see that Puck was going to let it happen. He knew enough about pleasure slaves to know that this was, unfortunately, appropriate protocol. Puck apparently knew this too. He bowed his head, his shoulder shaking only slightly. His voice was just a ghost of a whisper. "Yes... sir."

Kurt pitched his voice to carry. "Since you seem to stand on the importance of procedure so much, Sandy, I'm sure you've mentioned to your contacts here in the Marketplace that you were arrested."

Ryerson's hand, reaching for Puck's collar, paused in its path. "Those charges were dropped."

"Oh, not the pedophilia charge. Although I'm sure that would draw some attention, wouldn't it? No, I'm talking about the charges of you selling drugs to minors. Those were substantiated, I'm pretty certain. And we all know how kindly the Marketplace looks on owners who use drugs."

Ryerson's lips tightened, but his hand fell to his side. "There's no way you could make an accusation like that stick, my boy."

Kurt reached forward with one hand and tipped Puck's chin up to meet his gaze. Puck's eyes were wide with shock, but there wasn't any fear that Kurt could see, just an amazed willingness to follow Kurt's lead. He trusts me, Kurt thought, and that was almost more incredible than anything else that had happened that night.

"I'm never going to be your boy, Sandy," he said. "And neither is this one." He flicked his eyes at the handler. "Have a contract drawn up. I'm taking him home."


"What the fuck are you doing, Kurt?" Puck whispered for the fourth time in the last ten minutes.

This time, instead of ignoring him, Kurt took a firm hold of the leather lead he'd attached to the collar around his neck, steering him into the hallway. The bathroom was open, and Kurt pushed Puck in ahead of him, closing the door firmly. Then he grabbed Puck's collar and slammed him up against the wall, teeth bared in anger and frustration.

"I'm saving your sorry butt, that's what I'm doing," Kurt hissed. "Tell me you wanted Sandy Ryerson to take you home and keep you as a slave. For years. Because that's what you were offering here."

Puck glared right back at him. "I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew the risks. Trust me, I've been living in the Anderson's brownstone in Brooklyn for the past nine months. I get to see just what slaves do."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Pleasure slaves, Puck?"

Kurt didn't seem fazed by Puck's declaration. In fact, come to think of it, he hadn't looked at all surprised to see him at the auction, either. Puck, on the other hand, was still having trouble wrapping his brain around Kurt Hummel, here, in the Marketplace - as an Owner. And now Kurt was holding his lead, grabbing his collar, standing here mere inches from his face, and Kurt -

Holy shit, Kurt owned him.

"What?" Puck said faintly, staring at him. "Sorry, I think I missed that."

"You don't know what pleasure slaves do. Whatever slaves you've met at the Anderson's, they're not getting trained to do that, because that's specialized training. Always done in another city, always with a Master Trainer, and encompassing many years." Kurt shook his head. "I have no idea what you're pretending at here, Puck, but you might as well give it up."

Puck felt his throat close up on his retort, and he realized, to his horror, he was on the edge of tears. In front of fucking Kurt.

"I know I'm nothing but a miserable failure," he snapped, trying to push the wobble out of his voice, "and a goddamn fraud of a slave with no training, and all the other shit people have been telling me all month. I don't need you to remind me."

Kurt's brows lowered into perplexity for a moment. Then his hand relaxed, letting Puck go. He placed the leather lead in Puck's hand.

"I'm not calling you a failure," Kurt said, his voice more gentle. This made Puck want to cry even more. He stared at the lead, then gave Kurt a questioning look. Kurt sighed. "Puck, you're not my slave. I was just trying to get you out of Ryerson's clutches. You're free to go."

Puck felt a bizarre mix of relief and terror. "Not your slave," he repeated.

"No." Kurt put a hand on his bare shoulder. At that moment, Puck realized he was naked, and Kurt was standing right in front of him, close enough to touch. Or kiss. Or push out of the way and dodge, down the hall and -

And what? Where was he going to go? He didn't have any clothes. It wasn't like he could go flag down a cab. He couldn't go back to the Anderson's. He'd signed his freedom away already, and nobody there was going to accept him as a slave if they found out he'd skipped out on his contract. Not that they would have accepted me anyway. He gritted his teeth.

"Kurt, you have to take this contract," Puck said.

Kurt shook his head. "What?"

"You have to. It's like, a code, or something. You break your contract, you're a pariah. I can't do that to you. Or me." He pressed the lead firmly back into Kurt's hands.

It was Kurt's turn to stare at the lead. "Puck... I can't have a slave. I'm just a trainee. I have two and a half more years to go before I can even think about starting my own House."

"You wouldn't be here if it weren't allowed. You always do things by the book." Puck put a pleading hand on Kurt's chest. "Kurt, this is my third auction. Before today, nobody's hardly even looked at me, much less bid on me. I need you to help me. Help me learn how to be a slave. You're getting trained, right? So teach me what you know."

Kurt was shaking his head, looking uncertain. This wasn't the same guy Puck had seen at the auction, confidently holding his chin, gazing into his eyes. I would have followed that guy anywhere, thought Puck, and he felt himself blush.

"Please," he whispered. "I beg you."

Kurt let out a little gasp, and stumbled back. Puck was caught off balance, falling forward and landing heavily on Kurt's chest. Kurt dropped the lead and put up both hands to catch Puck as he fell onto him, wrapping his hands around both wrists and holding them fast. Puck was entirely mortified to find himself getting hard. He gazed at Kurt's mouth, feeling his breath uneven and shallow against his skin.

Then there was a heavy, sharp rap on the door. Kurt startled. "There's a line out here," said an annoyed voice.

Kurt lifted Puck off him, letting his wrists go. He made no mention of, nor even appeared to notice, Puck's semi-erection - but he did pick up his fallen lead. Puck felt the heavy weight fall away from his shoulders, and he sighed in relief.

Kurt took Puck's hand and looped it through his arm, patting it in a gesture that was quaint, ridiculous and completely Kurt.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go collect your clothes. And I'm going to take off that horrible collar."

Puck stumbled as he walked, the fear returning with raging force. "Kurt..."

His voice was brisk. "There's no way I'm letting you set foot in my apartment wearing something as gauche and cheap as that. Where did you pick that up? The Pink Pussycat? I have a Dior Grey collar waiting for you at home."

Puck felt a crazy grin spread over his face. He grabbed Kurt in a hug, nakedness be damned. "Thank you, Kurt, I -"

"You. Slave." Puck felt a stinging slap on his ass, and he was pulled off Kurt by hands that were none too kind. The beautiful blonde woman was glaring at him. "You will treat your new Owner with the respect he is due."

"Cassie," Kurt said with a sigh, "it's just Puck. He doesn't have to -"

"Yes," she said. "No matter what he was to you in the soft world, here, he really does. And he's yours now, for six months." She handed a sheaf of papers to Kurt. "Standard trainee slave contract, with the option to renew. You're not going to break him by requiring him to follow protocol, and it can only help his training." Cassie looked him up and down, sneering. "Such as it is. Who taught you how to obey, boy? Get down on your knees."

Puck dropped to one knee under the pressure of her hand. He looked quickly at Kurt, who appeared troubled - but then Kurt's face cleared, and he smiled calmly down at Puck.

"All the way down," Kurt whispered. He put a hand on Puck's head as he moved quickly to comply. "That's it. Back straight, feet under, hands on your thighs."

Puck held his breath, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. Don't let him down, he thought. Even if it's just a game, you're going to play the fuck out of it.

"Sir," he murmured, casting his eyes at the floor, and gazing back up at Kurt through lowered lashes.

"Better," said Cassie critically. But Kurt appeared frozen in shock, his mouth hanging open. Cassie reached over and closed it with a click. "Come on, Hummel, let's get you and your new toy home before you start drooling."


Kurt removed the offending collar before they'd left the condo. He'd just as soon have disposed of it, but he wanted to make sure it didn't mean anything significant to Puck before he did. There was so much he didn't understand about why Puck was even here. He had no idea what had happened to Puck to get him from Lima to the Anderson's training house in New York, but he was going to find out.

They went by the Anderson's house so Puck could pick up his suitcase. He gave some vague answer when Kurt asked him how he'd come to stay there, because the Andersons was one of the most prestigious training houses in the world. It was just one more empty space in a very complicated puzzle. Kurt directed the cab back to his apartment.

"Don't tell me you have your own apartment," Puck said, looking around the empty Bushwick district street as Kurt helped him out of the cab.

"No," said Kurt. He stared up the staircase with dismay. "I have a roommate. She's a softworlder, but she knows about the Marketplace. And trust me, she's going to have a field day with this."

Kurt wasn't wrong. Rachel's first reaction was confusion. "Puck!" she said, hugging him. "This is... a pleasant surprise. What brings you to New York?"

Puck hesitated, glancing at Kurt, his face scarlet. "Fuck, Kurt," he muttered. "You're not going to make me explain this to Rachel Berry, are you?"

"Bathroom's at the far end, clean towels on the shelf," Kurt said, giving him a nudge. "You get that disgusting oil washed off. I'll take care of it."

Rachel watched Puck retreat with suspicion. "What's going on here? I thought you were going to a Marketplace event tonight?"

"Rachel..." Kurt drew her over to the kitchenette and indicated her to sit. "You're really not going to believe this. I barely do, myself. Puck... he's a slave. My slave."

While Rachel slowly recovered from her shock, Kurt explained what had happened at the auction. "It's only a six month contract. He'll mostly be occupied while I'm in training anyway, so you won't see much of him. We have to keep up the front that he belongs to me, that we're honoring the terms of the contract, for my sake as much as his."

"Kurt..." Rachel shook her head, looking thoughtful. "You say he's been going to these auctions of his own free will, waiting to be... contracted? That he wants to be a slave?"

"Well, yeah," Kurt said, squirming a little at the idea. "Apparently, yes."

"So you need to do more than honor the terms of the contract. You actually need to keep him as your slave."

He stared at her. "Noah Puckerman? My slave?"

"I know you're not pretending here, Kurt. This is something you want as much as he does." She gave him a little smile. "And, honestly, I'm not all that surprised to find this out about Noah. He might really benefit from having somebody tell him what to do."

"Rachel!" Kurt protested. "I can't believe you're taking this seriously. Puck would never let me - he's not going to -"

"Hey, Kurt?" they heard Puck's voice call from the bathroom. "What do you want me to wear? Doubt Berry wants me to wander around the house in the buff."

Kurt closed his mouth, glaring at Rachel as she stifled a giggle. "Wear whatever you want," Kurt called back, trying not to sound hysterical. "God," he added to Rachel, "where is he going to sleep?"

"At the foot of your bed?" she suggested brightly. "Okay, okay, calm down. He can stay on the couch until we get him something better."

He looked hard at her. "You're taking this all very well."

"Kurt. I was the one who told you about the Marketplace, wasn't I?" He nodded. "So, maybe I did some reading of my own? I'm not a complete innocent, you know."

Kurt was not going to believe that of Rachel Berry without a good deal of alcohol in her, but he sighed, nodding.

She moved in close beside him, bringing her voice down to a whisper. "So, is he going to, like, do the dishes and clean the house, or what?"

"No, he's a - a pleasure slave." Kurt saw her eyes widen, and he hastened to explain. "He's supposed to do things with me, to anticipate my interests. To... keep me entertained."

"Damn," said Rachel, her smile widening. "Puck's a really good kisser. I bet he'd keep you entertained, all right."

"Shut up," Kurt hissed, as Puck emerged from the bathroom. "He's not going to do that with me."

"Not going to do what?" Puck asked, looking back and forth between the two of them expectantly. He'd changed into a t-shirt and jeans, and aside from the shaved head, he looked exactly the way he had in high school. Kurt felt the radical juxtaposition of his two worlds like a fist in his gut.

"Never mind," he said. "I'm guessing you haven't eaten anything since before the auction."

Puck looked inexplicably guilty. "I guess I could use something to eat. You want me to go pick up a pizza or something?"

"I didn't eat pizza in high school, Puck, and I'm not going to do it here." Kurt gestured into the kitchenette. "I'll throw something together."

Puck didn't balk at the foods Kurt put in front of him, not even the beet, fennel and leek salad. He didn't look any more at ease when they were done, though; if anything, he looked even more nervous, staring across the table at Kurt. He cleared his throat.

"Kurt... I'm sorry about all this."

"Don't worry about it," Kurt said. "It's unexpected. I doubt we ever figured we'd see each other again, much less like this, but... it's okay. We have room for one more here. I promise I'll try to make these next six months as painless as possible. Then you can get on with your life."

Puck stared at the table, shaking his head. "No, Kurt; you might be stuck feeding me and giving me a place to crash, but I'm no freeloader. I'll earn my keep. I'll do whatever you need. I'm not much of a cook, but I made dinner enough times for my Ma while she was working late."

Kurt nodded slowly. "All right. And your idea about learning what I learn, that's not a bad one. You could come with me, and - watch. See what other slaves do, while I'm handling them. Etiquette, comportment, that sort of thing."

Puck watched him, looking a little wary. "You really think that'd be okay? I - I wouldn't be in the way, and I'm a quick learner. I won't let you down, I swear."

Kurt had to smile. "I believe you," he said, and to his surprise, he realized he was telling the truth.

Puck yawned enormously, covering his mouth too late. "Uh, sorry. It's been a long day."

Kurt pointed. "You can sleep on the couch for now. I wasn't really prepared to have... other people spending the night."

"Yeah, that's fine. No problem." Puck stood, stretched, and walked toward the couch. "Thanks, Kurt." He sank down, wrapping his arm around himself, his head on the small cushion, and closed his eyes. He looked impossibly small and helpless.

Kurt hesitated, feeling completely off balance. Puck wasn't a house guest. He wasn't even a friend. But - Kurt thought, somehow, he needed someone to... what? Watch out for him? Wasn't that exactly what he'd contracted to do, after all?

He padded over to his bed and took one of the extra blankets from the cedar chest. After a moment, he also grabbed his second pillow. Then he returned to Puck. "Here," he said, lifting up his head. Puck's eyes flew open, and he looked up at Kurt in surprise. Kurt withdrew the scratchy cushion from under his head and dropped it on the floor, replacing it with the down pillow. He watched as Puck's eyes closed again, and he took a deep breath, rubbing his cheek against the fabric.

"Soft," he murmured. "Smells good."

Kurt swallowed his answer, and spread the blanket over Puck, smoothing the edges around his shoulders. Puck burrowed down inside, wrapping himself up into a little cocoon.

"I get up at six-thirty," Kurt said. "Shall I wake you after I'm done in the bathroom?"

"Yes, thank you, sir," Puck said, eyes closed, his voice already blurred with sleep.

Kurt sat there for longer than he would have admitted to anyone, watching Puck's breathing even out and his chest rise and fall. Then he returned to his bed, minus one pillow, turned out the light, and lay down to contemplate his next phone call to his father.

Well, Dad, it would go, I can't actually come home for Christmas this year. I have to take care of my slave.

But you could bring him along. After all, he's from Lima, too. Convenient, that.

It was a long time before he slept, and when he did, his dreams were convoluted and macabre, involving an evil Sandy Ryerson with long claws that clutched at Puck as he tried to escape. Kurt stepped between his charge and the oncoming threat, but Puck was too far away, he couldn't get to him, there was something in the way. Kurt could just barely hear him, calling his name.

"Kurt... Kurt, wake up."

Kurt heard the panic, and sat up in a hurry, knocking heads with the person leaning over him. He heard Puck's grunt, and put his hand out, trying to make sense of what was happening. Puck was hovering just next to his bed. "Puck? What's wrong?"

"You forgot... I need..." He heard Puck take a shuddering breath. "The collar. You said... you had a c-collar for me."

In the dim light of the room, Kurt could barely see the outline of Puck's face, the silhouette of his cheek. He reached to touch it, and felt wetness there. His heart gave a little twanging thump.

"Yes," he said softly. "I have it. Just a moment, I'll get it for you."

Kurt reached out and switched on the lamp beside his bed. Puck turned away, wiping his face on his arm, and watched Kurt with hopeful, haunted eyes.

Kurt thought of the last time he'd been in a room, shirtless, with Noah Puckerman. It had been at the end of West Side Story, backstage, taking off their makeup. None of the kids had cared what state of undress anybody else was in after the high of the performance. Kurt had hung his Krupke jacket and shirt neatly on the hanger while Puck struggled out of his own costume, and when he'd looked over, Puck had been watching him with admiration.

Nice guns, Hummel, he'd said, flexing his own, and Kurt had just grinned, floating on a cloud of endorphins. That had been it, and Kurt hadn't thought anything more about it, not even in his own secret fantasies.

But now, here was Puck, and he wasn't flexing anything. He was sitting on Kurt's bed, tense and tear-stained, waiting for Kurt to soothe his fears. He expected Kurt to make it better. Kurt wiped his wet hand on the blanket.

"Did you have a bad dream?" he asked.

Puck shook his head, staring at the floor. "Not exactly. Just -" He looked up at Kurt in desperation. He took a deep breath, and as he opened his mouth, words tumbled out, faster and more distorted with each phrase. "I need this. I need it, and please don't say I don't, because I do, and I haven't had it for so long, god, such a fucking long time, and I know it makes me weak but I can't apologize for it, I just -"

"No, no," Kurt said, keeping his voice calm, even as his mind was racing, "no, Puck, you're fine, you don't have to apologize. You're just fine." He reached out and took Puck's hand, holding it tight. "I told you I would give you my collar, and I will. You're my responsibility now."

Puck grasped Kurt's hand in both of his, like Puck was a drowning man and Kurt was the boat, towing him to shore. "I'm so sorry," he said. His face crumpled into confusion.

"Hush." Kurt gave his hands one more squeeze, then let go and turned to the drawer in his nightstand. There were things in there he never showed to anyone: some from his youth, some from high school, and some - like this one - that pointed the path to his future. He took it out now, held it in his hands. Then he unbuckled the silver clasp and put it around Puck's neck, fastening it securely. It didn't feel scary or wrong. Kurt left his hand on the collar for a long moment, stroking Puck's neck, feeling the strength there, knowing he could easily push Kurt's hand aside.

But he doesn't want to, Kurt marveled, watching Puck settle, seeing his shoulders drop and his breathing slow. Puck closed his eyes, and put up a hand to touch the collar, brushing his fingers against Kurt's. When he opened his eyes again, he was entirely calm.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Kurt licked dry lips. "You're welcome."

Puck rose, picking his way across the open warehouse room back to the couch. Kurt listened until he was sure Puck had made it there. Then he sighed at himself, shaking his head. As though there were dangerous, treacherous waters between his bed and Puck's. He made himself lie down and go back to sleep.