Puck had known that this was going to be a weird night from the minute he'd suggested it. So he put up with Berry's crazy picture production (just because he knew her dads, and it really would've been a lot worse if they'd actually been there).
He put up with Santana screaming at him about not getting a limo and how she wouldn't be caught dead riding his beat-up, good-for-nothing, god-forsaken, POS truck to Prom. When he'd told her he didn't have the cash for a fuckin' limo, she'd muttered about him being a fucking sleazoid and a slew of Spanish he was willing to wager was her cursing out him and his ride.
And he'd put up with the awkward ride to Breadstix. He realized within five seconds of Rachel telling Santana that Puck was also going to be their date that Santana wanted Rachel specifically, and that, while she tolerated him (he was, after all, a sex god—and a good friend, whether she'd admit it or not), he was not what she wanted. So the whole ride to the restaurant was Puck's right arm around Berry's shoulders and Santana's left around her waist (her fingers dancing along the brunette's skin). It was hot as all hell, but as the undesired party, a little confusing to say the least.
Berry, for her part, didn't say much, which was probably a first. The mowhawked boy and the tanned girl let their familiar banter once again take the forefront, and Berry sat between them, likely wondering how the hell she'd gotten roped into all of this.
Eventually, however, they reached the parking lot of Breadstix, and Santana started flipping out again—there were three limos parked in the lot, and a bunch of really nice cars.
"¡¿Qué chingados? Puck, we cannot park your shitty-ass truck in this lot!" she screamed as he made the turn.
"Well, Satan, what the fuck do you suggest then?" he yelled back—it actually kind of hurt his ears, since the cab was cramped with the three of them. "'Cause I'm not going to magically pull a fucking limo out of my god damn ass!"
"Call a taxi; a town car; something pinche puto!" she snapped at him. "Because I'm not going to make my Prom entrance in this camión de mierdo!"
He put the car in park, and they fought like that for a good minute: her insisting they needed a nicer car and insulting him in Spanish; him reminding her unless her sorry ass was going to pay for it, there wasn't enough money for a nicer car, and they were already here anyways so they might as well just go in before they missed their table.
Apparently, they went on a minute too long, because Berry finally decided to open her mouth.
"That's quite enough from both of you!" she shouted, interrupting the Spanglish screaming match. She took the Latina's hand and met her dark eyes.
"Santana," she told her gently. "Noah's right: it's too late now to rent a limo, and we're already here, so getting a taxi would be wasteful. You look phenomenal, so no one is going to notice whether you came off a private jet or a mule cart." The dark-haired girl pouted at the first sentence, then straightened and smirked at the second. She gave the midget's hand a squeeze and rolled her eyes, only pouting slightly as she muttered a reluctant agreement.
Then the brunette turned to him. "Noah, your vehicle is a mess," she reprimanded, and while Puck opened his mouth to argue, he kinda knew he couldn't—he'd really only taken the time to sweep all of the fast food wrappers and various shit into a garbage bag before driving out to pick them up: Rachel'd actually gone back into her house to get some FeBreeze before she'd let them leave. "You could have at least taken it through a car wash, if not gotten it thoroughly cleaned by professionals," she insisted. When Puck rolled his eyes, she continued, "So, to compromise, you're going to drop myself and Santana at the front of the restaurant and park down the street; then come and meet us here." His mouth fell open as he saw she was completely serious. "We'll inform the maitre d' of our arrival and wait for you," she finished, and sat back in her seat.
Puck hadn't moved from his wide-eyed, slack-jawed position, and it wasn't until god damned Satan's smirking face cleared her throat pointedly as she sat prim and proper as Berry herself that he finally put the truck in drive, muttering curse words about "fucking high maintenance women" under his breath the whole way to the entrance. He watched Santana reach for the door, then paused in disbelief as the fucking midget grabbed her hand to stop it's movement, looking back at Puck pointedly.
Cursing a little louder, the mowhawked boy slid the truck into park, threw open his door, and not just a little crossly strode over to the passenger side, where he yanked open the door and extended his hand to his dates.
Damn Latina was eating it up, fucking canary-eating grin on her face as she delicately placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her out of the truck. Berry was at least a little more gracious, smiling and offering a "thank you Noah" as she too slid to the ground. She let go of his hand instantly though as her other arm was grabbed up by the ex-Cheerio, who waved mockingly as they watched him slam the door shut and stomp back to the driver's seat, forcing the car into drive, and heading off to park in the first spot he found outside the lot about a block away.
So that had sucked. But he figured the worst of it had to be over when a pleasant Berry and better-behaved Santana (B must've said a few words about being civil or some shit) had met him with a smile and, the crazy midget once again sandwiched between them, they were escorted to their booth.
Santana demanded a basket of bread sticks before they'd even sat down, and as the brunette (apparently having regained her confidence in the parking lot) sat next to her, she began filling the space with talk of Red Carpet events with similar dresses and Broadway stars that had spoken in interviews of their own Prom experience (or lack thereof; a lot of them apparently missed that part of high school).
Puck for the most part didn't say much. Sometimes he'd ask a question—just because some of the accounts were notable enough to warrant follow up: for instance, one guy used as a pick-up line, "Polar Bear," and when his date-to-be had said "What?", he'd replied, "Well, it's enough to break the ice"—that was actually pretty smooth. But mostly he liked to just listen to her talk; Berry was always happy when she talked. Her eyes lit up like she couldn't believe that you were paying attention to her. And he could tell she'd made an effort to keep him interested—when she'd go off on tangents about Broadway, she seemed to purposely steer toward things he actually thought were kind of cool. Like when she commented on the tackiness of one girl's dress (Puck had to admit, cheetah print was gross, though he didn't mind being able to watch her boobs practically pop out every time she moved), she likened it to Lil' Shop of Horrors, which was apparently about a florist that dressed like a hooker and a dweeb who accidentally grew a giant alien Venus-fly trap that ate people and took over the world—he might not mind seeing that.
At one point in the night, though, he knew something had changed, because suddenly San stopped paying as much attention to her meal and started letting her hands roam all over the brunette. The midget looked perplexed for a moment, but after a quick glance around the room, actually slid a little closer to the Latina and entwined one of the darker hands in both of her own as she smiled coyly.
Puck was a stud, but god damn if he wasn't also just a seventeen year-old guy. First off, San and Berry, both way beyond their usual brand of hotness, were sitting thisclose to each other, practically fused together (though sadly, without the making out); second, coy Berry, biting her lip in a shy tease, had to be the sexiest thing he'd ever fucking seen—ever. As he felt his pants tightening, he quickly excused himself and went to the bathroom to take a breather.
If he wasn't in the fucking bathroom of a fucking restaurant populated by two-thirds of his god damn class, he would have considered rubbing one out—god knows that he had enough of an imagination that the visuals just provided could max out his spank bank for years. But instead he concentrated on deep breaths, dead kittens, and Sue Sylvester giving him "come hither" eyes.
Which turned out to be a good thing, since not two seconds after he'd gotten it under control and started to piss, fucking Golden Boy walked through the door.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.
Puck ignored the tone, shrugging his shoulders and staring straight forward. "Taking a piss," he replied calmly, determined not to take the bait that Hudson was waving in front of him like a cougar with an empty house full of condoms.
"I meant about Rachel and Santana?" the gawky teen insisted. "They're practically making out out there." Puck, having zipped up his pants and made his way to the sink already, had to suppress a groan—he wasn't sure how much more he could take of the two of them like that. "I swear Puck, if you slipped her something—"
That brought him down fast. The hazel eyes turned fierce as Puck shut off the sink and whirled to face him. "Are you seriously accusing me of drugging them?" he spat the words as the very thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Wouldn't be the first time you've done whatever it takes to get into a girl's pants," Finn retorted, stepping a little closer into the other boy's space.
Puck brought himself up to full height, which, while not as tall as Frankenteen, was much better put together. "Look man," he growled. "Your girlfriend knew exactly what she was getting into last year—I didn't trick her or force her to do jack shit. And it's done with, so get over it." He paused as he watched Finn's angry face contain its body from acting on its desire to punch his "friend".
"As for Berry and San," he continued. "Whatever the hell they're doing is for their own benefit: I'm just enjoying the ride."
"Rachel would never act like that," Hudson insisted. "She's not like that."
"Then maybe you don't know her as well as you think."
Finn shook his head back and forth, as if trying to shake the bad thoughts that had infiltrated his perfect world from his brain. "This is all your fault—you're supposed to be my friend. You said you'd back off. You promised."
Puck was done with this; he was damn tired of Finn Hudson getting everything handed to him on a fucking platter. "I'm going to say this once, Hudson. You can't have them both, you gotta choose one: the cheerleader or the diva. 'Cause right now, you're stringing them both along and to be honest? It's just pissing me off."
"You never had a problem doing it," Finn sneered.
"When did I ever pretend to be anything but what I was? When I was with a chick, I was straight up about what we were; and when I was dating someone, I was loyal, damn it. You didn't see me making god damn lost dog eyes at my ex while I was fused with another chick. It's fucking pathetic, and someday they're both going to see it, and you're going to end up with neither of 'em."
"So you're just going to use Rachel since I'm not with her?" the quarterback asked. "Fucking take advantage of her like you always do with your stupid sluts?"
Puck growled, almost losing his temper as he grabbed the other boy and slammed him into the wall. "I'm going to forgive you for that because you're my bro," he hissed. "But you insult me, her, or Santana again," (he felt proud in the back of his mind for sticking up for his other date, even though Finn seemed to have no interest in protecting her) "and I'll pound your ass into the asphalt."
The two boys stood in silence, nose-to-nose, glaring for a moment.
Just then the door swung open, letting loose a gale of whirlwind chatter from the outside as a dark-haired boy Puck barely recognized from the jazz band (what'd he play—trumpet or something?) walked in to the obviously tense room. He stood frozen for a moment, realizing he'd interrupted something and taking a tentative step back towards the safety of the restaurant.
Just then Finn pushed Puck off, throwing him back into the stall doors. "You're not my fucking bro," he bit as he stormed out of the room in a way that would have left his ex-girlfriend looking subtle.
Puck took a deep breath, nodded at the poor kid who still stood shell-shocked at the scene that had passed, and walked back to his table.
Spanish translations:
Qué chingados - What the fuck
pinche puto - fucking (male) whore
camión de mierdo - piece of shit truck
A/N: The pick-up line actually came from Chord Overstreet in Teen Vogue, but I really really liked it.
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