A playlist for this entire work can be found at http www (dot) youtube (dot) com (slash)playlist?list=PL4DF9D0F1901A6394

Part I, Chapter ii

Sometimes, Puck is still surprised by the depths Coach Sylvester will stoop to. They had a perfectly great song for Regionals, something that was definitely an anthem, one that Puck thought gave them an excellent chance at winning. Of going to Nationals in New York City.

And Sylvester has to fuck that up?

It pisses Puck off, maybe especially because there's not a damn thing any of them, even Mr. Schuester, can do to change it. They can't stop her now, and they can't stop her in the future. She is always going to be trying to ruin them. Always throwing a monkey wrench in their plans, in their hopes. And none of them can fix it and it makes Puck want to punch something.

Actually, it makes him want to punch her, but he's plenty aware that that would be a really stupid idea. Knowing Sue Sylvester, he'd end up in jail. Which is exactly where he never, ever intends to be again, so he just glowers a bit and folds his arms across his chest.

When Rachel mentions writing original songs, he doesn't say anything. Most of the club seems to think it's a stupid idea, but Puck thinks it could be fun. Okay, he knows that writing the music is fun; lyrics, probably not so much, for him, but there are twelve of them, after all, so they will no doubt manage.

Most of the others raise their hands to not do original songs, and Puck wonders briefly if he's gonna have to stick up for Rachel's idea this time. Then Quinn speaks up in support of it, and yeah, that's weird. He narrows his eyes in her direction a little. She looks perfectly innocent, but Puck of all people should know what lies beneath that facade.

Finn gets behind the idea, then, and rapidly, opinion in the room shifts towards writing original songs. Okay. Puck suppresses a smile. His abilities as a lyricist are not exactly stellar and he's not going to pretend otherwise, but he's kind of hoping he can come up with something decent, because his music is pretty good.

Plus, he'd kinda like to make it up to Lauren for when he sang "Fat Bottomed Girls" since clearly that didn't go over very well. He'd thought it was kind of awesome, but since she didn't, he owes her one. And he wasn't lying, he kind of digs trying to woo her, and music's one of the best things he's got going for him.

Especially since he hasn't decided what to do about the application still on his desk, which means he's still essentially broke. No one realizes how much he's mooching, because he's careful not to do it in an obvious way.

The day Brittany pays for his coffee, though, he feels like scum.

The thing is, he's spent awhile looking up stuff online about working at Starbucks. There are horror stories, of course, because there are those about anywhere, he figures. Hell, he posted his own (mostly made-up) horror story about Sheets 'N Things. There's a lot about how great the benefits are, though, and how someone can work just twenty hours and qualify, and Puck figures he doesn't need most of this stuff, like insurance, but then somewhere he finds a reference to a discount on cell phone service, and after that he lets himself linger for a moment over the information about tuition reimbursement.

The truth is, this offer that fell into his lap seems a little too good to be true. A little too awesome. A little too much for someone like him.

Puck's distracted while he chops up the onion and tomato for the hamburgers his mom is fixing. Hannah's opening a can of some kind of beans; it's Monday night at the Puckerman apartment, which means everyone's present, accounted for, and helping cook. Puck almost cuts his finger while he's slicing the onion and swears under his breath, earning a look from his mom.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"Are you all right, Noah?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine." Puck sighs and pulls a second tomato towards him. "Just thinking."

"How was school today?"

Puck shrugs. "All right. Everyone in glee club's all crazy because of Regionals."

"Oh? What songs are you doing?"

"Yeah, that'd be why everyone's going crazy," Puck explains. "We had an awesome song picked out, but we got this letter that says we can't do it, so now we're writing original songs."

"Oh." His mom flips the hamburger patties. "Well. Is everyone working on their own songs, or are you working as a group?"

"Both, I think."

His mom's voice is cautious when she continues. "Are you working on a song?"

"I'm not much of a lyricist. You've seen my English grades," he adds with a grimace that's trying to be a smile.

"But you write songs. The music, I mean. You write songs." There's a lilt at the end, making the sentence half-question and half-statement.

Puck puts the knife down, stacking the tomato slices on a plate without looking up, and waits a few beats. "I write songs," he confirms after a moment, almost mumbling, and then raises his head and nods. "Yeah, I write songs." It's a little easier to sound confident the second time.

His mom just pats him on the shoulder for a moment. "I'm sure you have something that's perfect."

Puck blinks, surprised by her unexpected show of support. "Uh. Thanks, Mom."

She opens her mouth to respond but Hannah interjects, "Mom! The beans are ready!" and the moment is lost.

Puck spends the time he should be spending on his homework trying to write lyrics for the song he chose. The song's a fun one, with a catchy beat, and he's hoping it can help gloss over the inadequacy of his lyrics. When he makes a rhyme with 'rickets' and 'tickets,' he knows it's sort of hopeless, but he continues through to the end, trying to express himself in words. It's not a talent that he has.

"Noah? It's almost Hannah's bedtime, so…" his mom gestures at his guitar.

"Oh, right, yeah, sorry," Puck nods.

"It's a nice tune," she offers with a smile. "How… how many do you have?"

Puck gestures to the three binders he bought at Wal-Mart the week before, the binders he's stuffed with the contents of the box he filled as he cleaned up his room. "That many."

"Those… those are full?"

Puck shrugs uncomfortably. "They're just… always there. Struggling to get out and on paper. When I'm asleep, when I'm in class, when I'm playing football. Always." One of his English teachers talked once about writers who were compelled to write, people who couldn't stop the words from pouring from their brain onto paper or computer screen.

That's how Puck feels about the music. It's under his skin, always bubbling. One of the many things that leads him to feel like he's itching and searching. He doesn't really have a choice; he's merely the conduit.

"Oh." She nods. "Okay. Well, good night, Noah."

"'Night, Mom."

Puck's right; the song is a perfect one, and in the end, it gets higher praise from Mr. Schue than any other individual effort. His lyrics are the weak point, Puck knows that, but Lauren seems to dig them, even the awful rickets line. She's smiling and keeping the beat along with most of the others, and Puck feels a little rush in his chest.

Pride.

For the first time in a while, Puck's actually kind of proud of himself. He wasn't just deluding himself; his music is, if not stunning, at least enjoyable. Lauren drives him home after school and even agrees to come up for a pop, though not without a ten minute lecture on what is and is not acceptable behavior on his part, followed by a threat to castrate him if his hand so much as brushes against her breast.

On the plus side, once they're in his living room and he's sitting stiffly in the chair, she walks across the room to him and kisses him hard. She makes out with him (and, really, there's no other way to put it, since she's not letting him be a very active participant) for five or ten minutes, and then smirks as she sits back down on the couch.

"You're not completely hopeless," she says, taking a drink of her pop. "Your song was cute. Strange, but cute, and I liked the tune."

"Yeah?" Puck asks hopefully, because damn. Being recognized for something he's done is kind of addictive.

"Stop fishing for compliments, Puckerman, you know it was good."

Puck just rolls his eyes. Even Lauren doesn't really get him, sometimes.

She leaves soon after that, claiming that she can't stay too long or he'll start making faulty assumptions. Whatever that's supposed to mean. Puck pulls out the frozen lasagna from the freezer and preheats the oven, then opens up the bag of salad. Hannah and his mom'll be home before too long, and Puck… well, Puck tries to be a good son and a good brother. He feels like he's mostly failed at both of those, but at least he can make dinner a night or two a week, even if it is just reheating frozen stuff and getting salad dressing from the refrigerator to the table.

After dinner, Puck's mom calls him back into the living room, and he leaves Hannah to finish drying the dishes on her own. "Yeah?"

"Here." Rina hands him a plain brown paper bag, one of the really thin kind, like you get at a drugstore or bookstore or something.

Puck quirks an eyebrow at her.

"Go on, it won't explode," she huffs with a slight grin.

"Okay, okay," Puck tilts the bag and a thin spiral-bound book falls out. His eyes cloud in confusion before he turns it over and reads the front. Oh. Oh. He's pretty sure his eyes have widened and he looks up at his mom kind of dumbly.

"It seems like you shouldn't have to draw those lines–"

"The staff?"

"Yes, the staff. You shouldn't have to draw that every time. The man at the shop said this was good for everything, because the left-hand pages are." She frowns, pausing. "Tab?"

"Tablature."

"Yes, and the staff on the right-hand side."

Puck bites his lip and looks down for a minute, then gives her a big hug. "Thanks, Mom."

He can feel her surprise before she responds, bringing her arms up to return the embrace. "You're welcome, Noah." She pulls back and smiles, and he returns the smile.

"I'm just going to, uh," he holds the notebook up a little.

"Go," she says. "Shoo! Just remember Hannah has to go to sleep by 8:30."

"Yeah, okay," Puck tosses over his shoulder, already halfway across the room, headed towards his bedroom door. He sits down heavily at his desk, intent on starting to fill the book in front of him. He makes a mental note of the price tag on the front. $8. At the rate he's been going lately, he's going to need a new one every month or so. He casts the application another look and then disregards it, scribbling out the chords and notes that came into his head during lunch that day.

After Hannah goes to bed, he opens a drawer in his desk and slowly pulls out the book inside it. This week is Regionals; the next weekend, he's supposed to take the SAT. He's not sure why he wandered into Ms. Pillsbury's office and filled out the paperwork, but his mom was happy to pay the registration fee when Ms. Pillsbury called her about it. Then Puck felt bad about his mom spending the money, so he asked Ms. Pillsbury for a book or something to get ready for it.

He's not looked at it all that much. The math is easy. He doesn't go to math class usually, no, but that's because math's pretty straightforward. Someone, maybe Kurt or Rachel or even Quinn, once made a comment about math and music supposedly being linked. Maybe it was Kurt, because he's pretty bad at math, for all that he can sing. Anyway, Puck believes it, because they're both orderly and uncomplicated. The other stuff is complicated and he doesn't know how well he's going to manage, which is why he sighs and turns to the pages about "critical reading" for the next thirty minutes.

He just hopes his mom doesn't hate him too much for wasting her money.

He plays some music on his computer while he gets ready for school the next morning, and counts it as a good day when some of his favorite songs come on in rapid succession. He tucks his new notebook in his backpack carefully and heads to school, reminding his mom that he has glee club after school again, as they work towards Saturday.

When Schue asks what their favorite songs are, Puck's answer is on the tip of his tongue, because he heard it just before school that morning. "What's Going On, Marvin Gaye." Lauren's nod of approval is just the icing on the cake as far as Puck's concerned.

They start writing their lyrics, drawing on their loser status at McKinley, and Puck stays mostly silent, listening to their word and rhythm choices. After about fifteen minutes, an idea occurs to him, and he scribbles it on notebook paper, not wanting to call attention to himself. Once everyone's left, he ducks into the library (because, really, no one is going to look for him there, of all places), and transcribes it onto the staff and tablature. He charms a few free copies from the librarian, and leaves them in a stack on the piano in the choir room, writing the melody line on the staff lines on the whiteboard. Just because he doesn't trust the rest of the club to figure it out, he adds the title of their song, using his left hand. He doesn't want anyone to guess that the music is his. If they use it, that's gonna be sweet, and if they don't, he doesn't want any fake sympathy.

There's speculation about the writer of the music when everyone filters in the next afternoon, but the consensus develops that maybe it was Brad, who just sits and smiles, enigmatic as always. The point is, in Puck's mind, the music works. It fits with the lyrics with just a few adjustments, and it's got a good beat. It's easy for Brittany and Mike to develop choreography to go with it, and it doesn't require anyone to strain their vocal range.

Puck walks home on Thursday and Friday both with a shit-eating grin, because he knows he did good. His mom comments on his good mood, and he even sits through a game of Clue with his sister and mom on Friday night. He's saving his ten dollars this week, because when they win Regionals, he knows there's going to be pizza or ice cream or something.

Puck's suddenly grateful that he's sitting next to Rachel when Aural Intensity starts to sing about Jesus. They exchange a look and a roll of the eyes that, Puck thinks, probably only the two Jewish kids can really get.

Puck's not sure why watching Kurt in his ugly uniform is affecting him so much. A glance out of the corner of his eyes, though, shows that all of them are a little more subdued. Yeah, Kurt's the one that had to leave, but they've all had to deal with one of them being missing, and then the preppyland school goes and gives Kurt a solo? Fuck. Not that Kurt could've, would've stayed even if Schue'd promised him a solo in every competition until graduation (though that kind of offer would no doubt be tempting, and Puck's pretty sure Rachel would take it, were it offered her, even if it involved daily waterboarding in compensation). The expression on Kurt's face is sort of heartbreaking, though, a little too pale, smile tentative, even though he's clearly happy at the same time. Puck scowls. What the hell is that place doing to their friend?

"Raise Your Glass" is fun, an audience pleaser, and Puck joins along when everyone stands and dances, but as they finish, he leans towards Rachel.

"Holy crap, they're good." Rachel doesn't stop clapping, but her head dips a little in acknowledgement. Puck clenches one fist, fingernails biting into his palm. Sure, they'd try to be happy for Kurt if his group won, but it seems like the better option would be New Directions winning and somehow getting Kurt back at McKinley where he belongs.

Right. Like Karofsky's going to just drop dead or something.

Rachel's song is good, really good, and Puck's grudgingly impressed. Then it's time to walk out on stage, and he takes a deep breath. The chords are so familiar, and his fingers twitch a little. The lyrics blend perfectly with the music, though, and in the stillness after the first verse, a loud whoop echoes from the audience. They're grinning, because of the song, but Puck's pretty sure at least part of it is because of the slender boy in the audience, yelling for them on his feet.

After the first repetition of the chorus, it's a little easier for Puck to just get into the lyrics and move, the impulse to strum the chords dissipating. The song is fun, the message is fun, and when they toss the confetti out of the cups, it occurs to Puck that he's not thrown a slushie at anyone in months, over a year.

His grins gets just a little wider as the audience cheers.

When they get back onstage for the results, Puck finds himself near the front of the stage and on the edge of their group, but that's okay with him. If they win, everyone's going to clump together, and if they don't, well. He's gonna be fine with escaping as quickly as possible.

They do win, though, and in those first few seconds, all that flies through his mind is my song, mine!, though he knows that's not the only reason they won. Still. Something he wrote helped them win, and he grabs Rachel and Mr. Schue in an awkward three-person hug.

The next morning, Puck wakes up early and pulls on a clean shirt and the black pants he wore for the competition, then slides his wallet and the battered Starbucks application into his pocket. He stops in the kitchen to drink some orange juice, startling his mom, who's reading the Sunday paper.

"You're up early, Noah."

Puck shrugs. "Couldn't sleep. Guess I'm still keyed up from yesterday." He puts his glass in the sink and turns back to his mom. "I thought I'd walk down to Starbucks. You want some coffee?"

"Coffee would be great, Noah, thank you." She presses two dollars into his hand and Puck doesn't argue, just stumbles out the door into the bright sunlight. The store's busy when he arrives, and he gives his order to a tiny young guy working the register. The older lady is making the drinks, though, and when she sees him, she smiles.

"Given any more thought to it?" she asks.

"Yeah," Puck nods, and pulls the folded paper out of his pocket, smoothing the worst of the creases under his hand before setting it down on the counter and sliding it towards her. "I'll take it, if it's still available."

"Be here tomorrow at 4 in the afternoon," she replies, sliding the paper into her own pocket. "Bring your social security card and your driver's license and we'll take care of all that, then get you started."

Puck smiles and picks up his drinks. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. See you tomorrow, Noah Puckerman."

Puck makes sure his clothes are at least unwrinkled and clean before heading to school. Yeah, he could stop by home and change, but his life will be easier if he doesn't have to. He has last period free, so he shuffles down the hall to Ms. Pillsbury's office.

"Hello, Noah, how can I help you?"

"Um, I was just wondering if there was a form or something I could fill out, so I can leave campus last period, even though I'm not a senior?" He runs his hand over his mohawk absently. "I, uh, got a job, and I'm not sure what hours I'll be working yet, but…" He trails off, staring at the floor.

"Oh, certainly." She smiles pleasantly at him. "Come in, I'll just find that for you. Your employer will have to fill out a short section and then you just bring it back to me and I'll file it for you. Where are you going to be working?"

"Starbucks," Puck replies with a shrug. "Apparently I was the only honest teenager to walk in the door that day or something."

Ms. Pillsbury shakes her head but doesn't say anything else. "Well. So here is the form." She places it in front of him. "I'll just go ahead and sign my part here," she scratches her signature, then turns it back towards Puck, "and you'll fill out this, and have your manager or supervisor fill out these four lines." She hands him the form with a smile and he folds it, placing it in his pocket with his wallet.

"Thanks, Ms. P."

"It's what I'm here for." She pauses. "Are you ready for the test on Saturday?"

Puck nods. "Yeah, I mean, I guess so." He shrugs. "The math seems pretty easy but I don't know about the writing and reading sections as much."

"I have a good feeling about this for you, Noah," she smiles encouragingly. "Don't forget to take your calculator and a snack, and get some good sleep Friday night, okay?"

"Okay." Puck nods again. "Thanks again."

"You're welcome, Noah."

Puck leaves as soon as school lets out, thinking it's better to be early on the first day. Plus, he's not sure exactly how long it will take him to walk there.

He could've asked to borrow his mom's car. It's what he did a lot sophomore year, dropping his mom and sister both off and then keeping the car all day long, returning to pick up his sister and sometimes letting his mom walk home. It's what he did at the beginning of junior year, too, until the ATM incident, and while he's asked to borrow the car occasionally since then, and his mom's never said anything, he just feels weird asking for it on a school day. He's pretty much resigned himself to getting rides until after graduation. He doesn't think much about after graduation, yet, though with things like SATs and jobs, he knows he can't put it off for too much longer. Probably not more than a few months, if he's lucky.

He texts his mom to let her know he's going to be working on "a project" and he's sorry to miss family dinner night, et cetera.

It takes 25 minutes to walk to the Starbucks, passing right by the apartment on the way, and he does sort of grimace, because really. It takes maybe four minutes to get from his house to the Starbucks in the car. Still, it's only March, and he's not too sweaty or anything when he pushes the door open at a quarter till.

"There you are," the manager greets him with a smile. She hands him a stack of paperwork and a pen. "Go ahead and start filling these out, and then we'll talk scheduling and stuff."

The paperwork is pretty basic, and it doesn't take long for Puck to complete it. He waits a few more moments before she comes over with a clipboard.

"All finished?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Great." She scoops it up and shoves it under the top sheets on the clipboard. "Now, you're still in high school?"

"Yes, ma'am. A junior."

"So, I like to make sure all my employees can open and close, both. Can you work Saturdays or Sundays?"

Puck nods. "Yeah, I mean, like, I have the SAT this Saturday, and. Oh. I've got a four day long school trip in May that falls over a weekend. But generally, yeah."

"Okay. What I'm going to do is put you down for Saturday mornings, 6 to 2:30. That gives you eight of the twenty hours you need to qualify for benefits, which, I guess you don't need insurance, but you might like the discounts and stuff." She smiles and Puck nods, a small smile on his face. "If you've got something going on on a Saturday, we'll work to switch you to Sunday morning."

"Okay, sounds good," Puck nods.

"Now, are there any days you can't work after school?"

"Thursday. And probably Tuesday, to be safe."

"Okay. What time can you get here?"

Puck pulls out the form from Ms. Pillsbury and slides it across the table. "I have last period free, so I can be here by 3:00. Two forty-five if I walk really fast and no one stops me on the way out the door."

"Three is fine," she assures him. "So, Monday and Wednesday okay? You can work 3 until close, which is 9, and that's twenty hours for the week."

Puck shrugs. "Okay." He'll have to miss family dinner night until summer, but he thinks that he can make it work out. His mom will probably be okay with it.

"When summer comes, we'll see about increasing your hours, if you want. My college kids will be off doing other things."

"Cool."

"Base pay is $8 an hour, plus you get a portion of the tips. Realistically, though, you're looking at about $140 a week, take-home."

"That much?" Puck's eyes bug out a little.

She laughs gently. "What are you spending a week right now?"

"Ten bucks from my mom," he admits grudgingly.

"You're going to feel rich." She claps him on the shoulder companionably. "Let me take you behind the counter and start showing you the ropes."

Puck spends the next two hours learning about the different drinks, and then he's sent home with a page about uniforms and what to wear, along with a packet on how to mix different drinks and how to mark the cups. He shoves it all into his backpack and wonders how long he can keep the job a secret from his mom. He's desperately afraid that something will go wrong, and somehow lying to her seems easier than even the possibility of disappointing her.

When he gets home, Hannah and his mom are only halfway through dinner, so he sits down and joins them, giving them vague answers about the project he's working on. "It's, uh, for history. We have a end of the year project for chemistry, too, so yeah. Gonna be busy, with Nationals coming up, too."

That should work for a few weeks anyway.

"Oh, they do keep you busy as a junior, don't they? SAT on Saturday, right?"

"Yeah," Puck nods, then takes another bite. "That'll take all morning so."

"No temple," Rina nods. "I assumed so. You aren't exactly a frequent attender."

Puck wants to roll his eyes, but doesn't. Temple's not exactly his scene but he doesn't have a huge problem with it other than the fact that it's on Saturday, and usually there are lots of other things on Saturdays, like tests and competitions and a chance to sleep in.

Fucking Christians, there's never anything to do on Sunday mornings. He's probably being uncharitable but he's still a little bitter about that ridiculous song Aural Intensity sang on Saturday. He meant to ask Rachel if that was legal, since she's got the whole ACLU spiel down.

The week passes in a flash of celebrations (for winning Regionals), training (for his new job), and studying (for the SAT). He makes himself turn down every invitation he receives for Friday night, which is only two invitations, because he's a member of a Regionals-winning glee club, and one of those invitations is from Finn to come over and hang out. Puck has to laugh when Finn explains that Kurt's taking the SAT the next day and bailed on some plan Burt had made for the three of them.

And, sure enough, Kurt's there at McKinley when Puck walks up early Saturday morning. It's the first time Puck's seen Kurt since he apologized over the phone, because it's not like they spoke at Regionals or anything.

"Morning," Puck nods and stands beside him as they wait.

"Good morning, Puck," Kurt replies, not looking up from his phone. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"Not really sure why I am," Puck admits, "but Ms. Pillsbury seemed to think it was a good idea, and then somehow my mom got involved, and well." He shrugs, as if to say 'here I am.'

"Well, I for one applaud you," Kurt finally looks up after hitting send on his text message. "Scone?" He holds out a paper bag filled with mini scones.

"Sure, thanks." Puck selects one and takes a bite. "How's, uh." Puck screws his face up for a minute. "Galton? No."

"Dalton?" Kurt looks like he wants to laugh, but doesn't. "Relatively monochromatic."

They walk in through the doors, then, and Kurt sighs a little. "Ah, McKinley."

"You miss it?"

"Strangely? Yes. Every terrifying minute of it, believe it or not." Kurt smiles sardonically.

"Sucks," Puck offers, unable to really offer much else, and Kurt just nods.

The check-in process is annoying and Puck is escorted to one of the math classrooms for his test. It goes about how he expects: the math is easy and he finishes with time to spare; the critical reading is definitely harder, and he doesn't finish all the questions; the writing is about the same as the reading, except he manages to finish with about 20 seconds before time is called.

They're finally released after twelve-thirty, and he ends up back next to Kurt as they're walking out the door. "Good to see you, dude."

"Thanks," Kurt said. "Likewise." He stops and frowns at his phone, then shakes his keys out. "Hopefully I'll see you around." Puck nods and starts to walk away. "Wait. You need a ride?"

"Nah, I mean, it's not far, don't–"

"It's no trouble," Kurt says with a shrug. "I'm headed towards the mall anyway, and I'm pretty sure you're closer than that."

"Yeah." Puck shrugs and turns around, walking towards Kurt's Navigator. "The apartment building on High Street."

"Oh, no, that's not far at all," Kurt nods, unlocking his doors and climbing in.

Kurt flips on the radio as soon as he turns the key, and Puck sits in silence for the four block ride. "Thanks. Really."

"You're welcome. Bye."

"See ya."

Puck crashes as soon as he gets home, ignoring his mother's questions about how the test was and how he thinks he did. He just shrugs and takes a nap, waking up in time for dinner and then spending the rest of the night goofing off online and with video games.