A/N: This is for metaphor, who reminded me that I was trying to slowly put my drabble responses up here! Thank you! This one was in response to: "Puck 'helps' Rachel pack for a vacation. Maybe it's one he doesn't really want her to go on," prompted by the awesome smc_27.

Puck walked into the bedroom and stopped short, glaring at the suitcase that was sprawled across the bed. It reminded him that in a few hours, Rachel would be heading to the private plane bound for Las Vegas, fucking Sin City, without him.

Damn bachelorette parties. He didn't get why Rach's theatre friend was making such a big deal out of this wedding; anyone who spent five minutes with Sandy and Tom knew the marriage would last three months, tops. Puck was sort of hoping for six weeks; that had been his guess, and the pot for the betting pool had been five hundred dollars, the last he heard.

What? If the marriage was gonna end up in the shitter anyway, someone might as well get some good from it.

He also didn't get why the fuck they had to go to Vegas. Like New York didn't have male strippers and day spas? The hell else were they planning to do out there?

Whatever the plans were, he didn't like it. Ten chicks alone in Vegas? It spelled trouble.

It wasn't that he didn't trust her. Rach was probably the one woman he'd ever slept with who he seriously did trust. It was just that he knew how hot his girl was, and he knew how horny single guys acted when they were in Vegas and saw hot girls, and he didn't like the way those two facts kept adding up to a reason for justifiable homicide.

Not when he was across the fucking country, well out of killing range.

He walked over to the bed and unzipped the suitcase, curiously peeking inside. She had meticulously packed that shit over the last two days and if she came home and found him snooping through her bag she'd probably flip the fuck out, but whatever. He just wanted to see what she was taking.

He completely ignored the toiletries except to note that she was taking enough junk to clean and dress up a third world country(seriously, he saw her every morning before she'd showered, put on makeup, or brushed her teeth and she was goddamn gorgeous. Why did she have all this crap?). But then he got to the clothes, and he scowled.

Tiny skirts. She'd packed three of her tiny skirts, including his fucking favorite little black one, plus two dresses that he knew clung to her petite body like skin. Some of her skimpiest tops were also nestled carefully in the bag, with matching lingerie sets.

What. The. Fuck. If no one was going to be seeing her underwear, then why did she need to take the matching sets that she knew made him lose his freaking mind?

And why was she taking the black fuck-me heels that made her almost as tall as a normal person?

"No," he muttered to himself, pulling the shoes out of the bag. "Hell no."

Out came the little skirts, the revealing tops, the seductive underwear, the shoes that screamed sex. He carried them all to their shared closet and dumped them into the corner, behind the hamper. Then he started repacking.

The problem with trying to make someone like Rachel less appealing was that she looked good in everything. Half the shit she wore in high school might as well have been potato sacks, and he'd still wanted her. And her taste had improved since then.

Who'd have thought he would ever miss the animal sweaters and bright blue pantsuits?

But at least jeans covered up her legs, and T-shirts were less inviting than cleavage-revealing tank tops. He packed one of her looser, longer dresses that was still dressy enough for a club, and added the plainest, most sensible underwear that he could find in her lingerie drawer(the thought of any other guy seeing them, even a glimpse by accident, still made him clench his teeth). Her boring black heels went in next.

Smiling to himself, he closed the suitcase and zipped it up. He was helping her, really. Saving her from what probably would have been a constant line of douche bags trying to get into her pants.'

And Rachel Berry's pants? Only accessible to one guy, and that was him.

The bag was waiting in the hallway when Rachel came home half an hour later. She looked at it in surprise as she walked over to Noah and planted a quick kiss on his lips. "You brought out my suitcase."

He smiled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. "Just being helpful."

Wordlessly, she raised an eyebrow. He'd made no secret of his displeasure at being left behind. "How would you feel if I told you that the plans changed?"

"What do you mean?"

Her eyes sparkled as she smiled up at him. "Well, Sandy and Tom decided they'd rather not spend the weekend apart, so this is now a bachelor and bachelorette celebration."

"You mean…"

Grinning, she lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I'm ready to go. How quickly can you pack a bag?"

He laughed, suddenly much more excited about the upcoming weekend. "Give me ten minutes to throw some shit together." He was already halfway to the bedroom when he remembered the pile hidden in the closet. He turned around, ignoring her confused glance, and grabbed the bag in the hall.

"Noah, that's mine," Rachel called after him.

"Gimme ten minutes, babe." Because if he was there with her, sensible and boring were not gonna cut it.