A/N: I wrote this in response to urkonstantine23's prompt, "Another night with her, but I'm always wanting you." This one has more angst than the others, but I hope you guys like it anyway!

Puck spends the night wishing that he hadn't agreed to come out to a club with Rachel and her new boyfriend, Ian. Honestly, he hates the douche bag. There's no one thing he can point to that would explain why, or he would, and expect Rach to ditch the guy. Because he's her best friend, and that's how that shit is supposed to go down, right?

He listens when she complains about the women he "dates"(fucks). Mostly she calls them cheap and stupid, and he gets rid of them(sure, that's why. 'Cause he respects Rachel's opinion).

So, yeah. He shouldn't have come out with them tonight, but he does. And because he does, he gets a front row seat of Rachel pressing up against that bastard on the dance floor, her hair all loose and shiny over her bare shoulders. He thinks she's hotter than any other girl in this joint, and he really hates that he's not the one out there with her body pressed to his.

Thing is, this "friends" idea kinda fucks with his mind. He's never done this with a girl before, much less one that he's made out with.

And those relatively innocent kisses they shared during high school? Sometimes he remembers those, and they keep him up, and hard, at night. He's had more sex dreams starring Rachel Berry than he likes to admit, even to himself.

He wants her. He's been fighting with that for a while, because they actually have a successful friendship and he doesn't want to fuck that up, but times like now, he can't deny it.

So he watches her, is unable not to. It doesn't matter that he sort of has a girlfriend—or at least a girl he's sleeping with on a regular basis—who happens to be at his side, completely oblivious to the way his eyes keep drifting back to his best friend. He sees Rachel smiling as she moves to the music, sees the way Ian's hand slides down her back to rest on the soft curve of her ass, and something inside him snaps. Just… breaks.

So he grabs the nearest drink on their table—Rachel's, and isn't that ironic?—and drains it before motioning for another. Soon he's completely drunk and completely pissed, because if fucking Ian wasn't around Rach would be laughing that he was done and helping him out to a cab. She'd probably even get in with him to make sure he got into his apartment okay, even though her place is in the opposite direction.

There's something in Rachel's eyes when he tells her he and Anna are leaving, but he's too far gone to realize that it's worry.

When he fucks Anna that night, it isn't really her that he sees beneath him. Then they're done and the brown eyes he'd been imagining become blue, the brown hair goes back to blonde, and he tells her to leave.

She curses him and hurries into her clothing before storming out, and he doesn't bother to stumble after her and lock the door. Instead, he thinks of Rachel, wonders if she and Ian are having sex right now.

Wonders who she's thinking of if they are.

Reaching for his phone, he types out a message more by feel than sight.

Another night with her, but I'm always wanting you.

He sends it to her, the first number on his contact list, and passes out.

~/~

She shows up on his doorstep at 8 the next morning. She would have waited until later if she could, but those words keep floating around in her head, repeating like a mantra that will give her no peace. Another night with her, but I'm always wanting you.

Just like they had the night before when she read them the first time, the words send a shiver down her spine.

Noah had no right sending her that text. Of course he was drunk when he sent it; she knows that. He's the only person she's ever met who actually becomes more eloquent when he over-indulges.

She pounds her fist on the apartment door, her hands almost shaking with anger and nerves and something else she refuses to identify because she's pretty sure she doesn't want to know what it means. There's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she wonders whether or not he's even home.

Another night with her, but I'm always wanting you.

It's not like Rachel needs the reminder that Noah has been off sleeping with someone who isn't her. She doesn't. In fact, she probably knows better than he does how many women he's had sex with during their friendship. Four years. They've been best friends for four years, since running into each other in New York during a college break. There have been a lot of women.

And it hurts. Whether or not he knows it, whether or not he means it to, it hurts.

She blames high school—the hormones, their ill fated week-long romance, the fact that they never slept together and got that out of their systems(she tries to ignore the persistent humming in her gut when he does something intrinsically sexy, like smirk or wink or breathe, that hints that it would take a lot more than a few rounds in bed to get Noah out of her system).

If it weren't for those high school experiences looming over them, reminding them that no matter how certain they are that friendship is the best option for them, they still know how the other tastes, maybe things would be different. Normal.

Instead of the decidedly not normal position she's in right now, broken and sick over one text from a twenty-four year old boy-man who still hasn't learned that words have as much power as a weapon.

She pounds on the door again.

When she hears him swearing on the other side of the door, a part of her relaxes. It opens a moment later, revealing Noah standing there, squinting into the sunlight, with red eyes and pillow lines on one side of his face. He's barefoot and shirtless, but he's taken the time to pull on some pajama bottoms(she knows he sleeps naked).

He looks like hell.

She's pretty sure she feels worse.

"The hell, Rach? 'S fuckin' early," he grumbles, backing away from the door as if the light hurts—which, she supposes, it probably does.

"What is this, Noah?" Following him, she thrusts her cell phone, the message clear on the faceplate, into his face.

He closes the door and squints. "You mean that thing that used to be a phone before you bedazzled the fuck out of it?"

She glares at him, still holding out the phone. A monster. Her best friend is a monster. And half the time, he doesn't even realize it.

Noah looks back, miserable and hung over, before finally taking the phone. Then he freezes, and she knows he remembers. "Shit."

"What is this, Noah?" She wishes that she could be nonchalant, laugh it off in case it was just the alcohol talking, but she can't. Not with him, not about this.

"I—it's… I just…" He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head, no doubt regretting that he'd ever sent her that message.

She kind of regrets it, too, because now it's there, between them, something they have to deal with. It's astounding, how nervous this conversation makes her. Her heart is pounding and her stomach's in her throat. She gives a quick prayer that she won't vomit here in his living room. "Where's Anna?"

"Dunno. I sent her home last night."

"Why?"

"Didn't want her here."

She can barely breathe. "Why?"

Just say it, she thinks. All you have to do is say it, Noah. Please.

Instead, he scuffs the carpet with a bare foot and asks, "Where's Ian?"

She sighs, disappointment flooding her. She hasn't given Ian a thought since she read the text. "His house, I suppose."

"You really like him?"

She shrugs. Her insides scream no.

"I don't."

"Why, Noah?"

He's uncomfortable. His body language screams it, and Rachel resigns herself to the fact that this is going nowhere. Maybe even accepts the fact that their friendship will be damaged forever.

Tears sting her eyes but she forces them back and ignores the way her heart feels like it's breaking in her chest. People have survived worse, haven't they?

He takes a deep breath and exhales, gives a shrug as pathetic as hers. "'Cause he gets you, and I hate that."

At any other time, she would smile at that, but she's still so unsure of her grounding that she just nods. Takes the time to absorb it. And bluntly asks the question they're dancing around. "Do you mean it, Noah?"

He glances down at the phone in his hand, as if he's forgotten that it's there. "Does it matter if I do?"

Lying doesn't cross her mind, even if it could help her save face. "Yes."

"Yeah, I mean it." He smiles, and it's a little sad, but hopeful, too. "Fuck, Rach. Everyone else? Lousy substitutes."

For once she can't think of anything to say, so she just smiles. And if there are tears in her eyes again, at least she knows they're nicer ones this time.

He takes that as encouragement. "So, should we give the real thing a try this time?"

"Yes, Noah. I think maybe we should."