A/N: My sincerest apologies everyone. Life's been full of what feels like everything lately including attending and being in (ironically, I suppose) my friend's wedding. Anyway though, both of our guys are in this one. Disclaimer on any actual products, shows, movies, etc. I mention. This one turned out a bit longer so I hope that's a bit of a consolation for the long time it took to get it posted. Let me know what you think.


Blessed Benefits

Kurt

It hurts to blink.

But he does anyway, trying to acclimate to the real world where apparently the sun was the enemy, leaking through the blinds in a cascade of concentrated light that was eating his face.

He groans, a sound that if he cared more about honesty in the moment, was really a whine. But he doesn't care. Not when his head and stomach must have stayed up during the wee hours plotting and planning their execution of the perfect assault when he awoke. He's tempted to use his arm as a shield, and try to trick himself into sleep again - 'cause for the love of Prada was he feeling like shit that got ran over twice.

He thinks about it... for several minutes actually.

But the adult, responsible part of him was being an insistent little prick this morning. So he groggily sits up, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders to the chorus of several satisfying pops.

His surroundings slowly materialize, unveiling from a blur of drab colors into a... well, an unfamiliar, messy, bedroom of drab colors.

What the hell happened last night? Better yet, where the hell is he?

Did he have - No... he couldn't have...

He pulls the comforter and single sheet back, breathing a sigh of relief at the fact that he's still in his pants, a sign of virtuous restraint. Uncomfortable as the damn things are right now, they're a sight for literally sore eyes.

Yeah, even his eyes freakin' hurt.

It's ludacris he knows, but just for a split second, Kurt's a little disappointed in himself for not totally abandoning his often rigid pretenses, and actually giving into the idea of a random hook up. It's been a while since he'd gotten laid; too long really, and this scenario obviously has the makings for at least a presumably interesting random exploit of drunken release.

Didn't he deserve at least that?

But then his logical brain scolds him, belittling him much like Alan would do, and he lets the thought pass into the recesses of his mind; some oblivion of squashed, forgotten fantasy stamped under the heading: Do not tamper with.

It took him another few seconds of suffering barely controlled panic to realize where he likely was, eyes growing wide and suspicious as he takes in the empty, frat boy looking excuse for a place.

It had everything you'd expect some slovenly, man-child, whose obvious goal wasn't impression management, but stale replays of constant weekday partying, to have.

An unfolded Futon serving as a regular bed: Check.

Worn comforter with some awful masculine pattern, and underneath, a thin sheet that was seriously the consistency of tissue paper: Check.

Old beer cans of varying brands cluttering the chipped, second-hand nightstand: Check.

He stands up, immediately holding his arms out to maintain balance, his midnight blue undershirt riding up his lean belly. He steps forward, then again, and eventually finds his center as he makes his way into the living area.

He quietly pads across the carpet which is littered with stains, a feeling of disgust creeping over him as he contemplated what he was likely making skin contact with. Even if the contact was only with the bottom of his feet.

It wasn't totally muffled, but his head had been swimming just enough to tamper with the sound; curtailing it, and creating a distant jumble of words.

But now he was peaking around the corner of the short hallway, and he could put an image to the noise - which for some reason made the words make sense.

Puck was sitting on the couch, something else that was atypically worn and mute, with his laptop opened on the - God, it wasn't even a coffee table really, just a flattened scrap of wood atop several plastic crates - and his back to Kurt.

He saw blond hair framing a young face floating just over Puck's shoulder within the confines of the screen; hazel eyes that were now familiar to him but housed in a smaller, sweeter face, staring out at the man who'd been talking with a lilt Kurt had never really heard in his tone before.

He knows that he shouldn't be watching. He really shouldn't even be here. But he's captivated by the sight. So he stays frozen, his breathing more like a soft hum as he observes the exchange.

"You were late this morning."

"I know, I know. Sorry Baby Girl."

"Daaad," she whines, a perfect pout etched across the cute face.

"What? What'd I do?"

"You called me a baby. I'm eight years old. I'm so not a baby anymore."

Puck laughs openly at his daughter's retort. Kurt puts his fist up to his lips to stifle the smile; like the smile itself was in danger of giving away his position.

This whole thing, it was seriously straight out of the Twilight Zone. Puckerman was talking with the same baby Kurt had only seen in pictures years ago, and she was healthy, and kind of snarky, and growing up: a real authentic person, not just some figment of the Glee club drama pool, or some distant faded after thought. She was real, and Puck was her father who actually had a relationship with her.

And there Puck was, being nothing of what Kurt normally associated him as. He suddenly gets accosted by the image of Puck in a business suit, carrying a brief case and ducking into his daughter's dance recital with a huge grin planted on his face. And great. He's definitely being both creepy and ridiculous now.

"Guess you're right. But you know you'll always be my Baby Girl. When you're eight, eighteen, or eighty two."

"Ew, that's old," She giggles.

Kurt thinks she laughs just like her birth mother, Quinn. It's kind of surreal to hear. Like time warping back to his Glee club days where his life consisted of Vogue, hairspray, and fighting tooth and nail for a damn solo.

"If I'm that old, then you're gonna be real old. Like over a hundred," She jokes.

Kurt can feel the tension emanating from Puck's frame from across the room. He's stiff, pensive.

A few beats pass, and Kurt swallows, almost marching forward to - well - to do what, he didn't know. Interrupting was an option obviously, but that would be equally strange and borderline rude, and then his only choice would be admitting that he'd been eavesdropping in the first place.

"Uh - yeah. Yep. You'll um - you'll be an old fart. And I'll be the oldest fart. Pointing and laughing with no teeth, saying, 'there goes my Baby Girl.'"

Puck recovers. It's a noticable struggle that any adult observer could recognize, but the awkward moment quickly transcends into a forgotten faux pas.

She's full out laughing, squealing with peels of laughter that seem to eradicate a little of the tension in Puck.

"Daddy you're gross."

"And you love every bit of it. So how's that situation with that Thomas kid going?" Puck asks, his tone genuinely curious.

"He's still stupid. Yesterday he pushed me down the slide. And when I was jump roping with Lizzie, he came and tried to trip me."

Puck chuckles softly. "Kid must have it bad."

"Yeah he is bad. He's always being mean for no reason."

Kurt can hear the smile in Puck's voice when he responds.

"Trust me Monkey, there's always a reason. In this case, I'm pretty sure that he probably likes you and wants to be friends."

She pauses. "But what kind of friend does crap like that?"

"Hey! Watch your mouth kid."

"But you say it -"

"And I'm... I shouldn't have. But I'm a grown up. Plus you weren't supposed to hear that. But to answer your question, someone who doesn't know how to say how they feel, that's who."

"But that's easy. If he wants to be friends, all he has to do is ask."

"Yeah but some people just - don't know the right words. So sometimes, they - um - they do really dumb stuff. Sometimes even bad things to try to get the other person's attention."

Kurt automatically thinks of Puck's off kilter vacations, also known as juvenile hall. He recalls that those stints were definitely after Beth had been born and then given up for adoption. It's also when Quinn seemed to have moved on from him completely.

Her face scrunches up in confusion, way too similar to Puck's same interpretation of that expression.

"But that - just - that doesn't make any sense, though."

"No Monkey. It really doesn't. But I bet if you can help that Thomas kid find the right words. You know, show him how, he might be a little bit nicer. That way you can be the bigger person who uses kindness instead of being an assho - oh, I mean a meanie. Being a meanie."

She looks to be thinking it over, Puck quietly watching her.

"Just try, okay? Let me know how it goes."

"Okay, dad." She beams, eyes sparkling, apparently contented with that final instruction. "So how come you were late?"

"Oh. Right. I - uh - I was helping a friend."

"Was she a girl?" She poses teasingly.

"Nope. Just a friend."

"Not a girrrlfriend?" She giggles.

Puck shakes his head, running his hand through his dishevelled mohawk.

"You're ridiculous. No, a guy friend who's a dude. I was - um - helping him with moving."

Lord could the boy even give a feesible white lie? Moving... really?

"Like boxes and stuff? Is he moving into your apartment? Do you have a room mate? Can I meet him?"

"No. Not exactly."

"Who is it? Do I know him?"

"Whoa. Twenty questions much? Somebody's being awfully nosy this morning."

"Yep. So spill."

Puck leans forward with a huff.

"Do you remember the guy from my old Glee Club photo I sent you?"

"The goofy, tall one? Mr. Finn?"

"Nah. But good description. And please don't call him Mister. That's just - I don't know, weird. The one named Kurt."

"Oh, I remember. He's pretty. I like his eyes."

Kurt blushes, forgetting about his headache for the moment. He'd have to remember to send that kid a care package of some sort - ask Puck what kind of things she liked.

"Uh... yeah. Sure. Him."

"Uh huh."

"Well it was him that I was helping."

Beth shot him a contemplative look. An expression signifying some sort of devious consideration of Quinn-like proportion.

"And you weren't mean?" She challenges bruskly; a syrupy sing-song quality to her voice that only barely covered the accusation.

"Wait - what?"

Kurt's sentiments exactly.

"Why would I be mean, Monkey?" Puck rephrases.

She shoots an incredulous glare, as if he was absurdly nutty to not have figured it out for himself.

"Cause you told me that when you were in school, sometimes you used to be mean to him."

Kurt sucks in a breath.

Suddenly breathing felt too hard to do. Like it would be too loud and he'd miss something important; an ironic notion being that this was basically a conversational exchange with a grade schooler, and he was suddenly treating it like it could single handedly tip the universe. But he waits with bated breath; unable to move, unable to speak up and spare himself the pain of whatever callous, insensitive comeback Puck would no doubt spew out.

"Yeah. Your dad could be kind of a Tool when he was younger."

Okay. Kurt didn't quite expect that.

"Kinda like Thomas with me?" She suggests proudly.

"Maybe. Yeah, a little like that."

Once again, unexpected.

"Kurt was always nice, even when I wasn't," Puck continues. "I was just lucky that he's being the bigger person, like I want you to be with Thomas. And now... Yeah. I think we're figuring out how to be friends. Which is cool."

Well alright then. Score one for Daddy Puck.

Even referring to him as Daddy Puck felt almost out of body, but yeah, Noah Puckerman was in fact that: a dad. And apparently, a pretty decent one who actually gave solid advice, and really seemed to love his kid.

They continued on, catching up about a spelling test that Beth had aced and other random happenings that could easily be mistaken for mundane snippets of everyday life, but to them seemed like an exchange as careful and important as handling gold bars or a handful of diamonds. Every word leaking with laughter, soft smiles, and adoration.

And for a moment, Kurt felt a stab of jealousy. Puck had someone who he loved unconditionally, who loved him back. And yeah it wasn't a lover or partner, but it was still something with indescribable depth, and meaning. Similar in the sense that he had to earn it, and cultivate it with almost blind devotion, time, and care. Build it from the ground up.

Kurt was getting fake married to the guy. And sadly that would be the highlight of his love life: a fake marriage to a straight, ex-bully, with the saddest taste in home decor probably ever.

He realizes it then.

Maybe Puck isn't the one truly receiving the favor with this arrangement. Perhaps he was the naive one to have even bothered to believe that.

With that thought, Kurt quietly escapes back into the bedroom to fish out his shoes and socks. He'd at least make a point to leave a note behind before departing.


Puck

He really wishes that he hadn't promised Princess that he wouldn't go all cray cray and burst into his office after that last time.

But seriously? What the good fuck?

So here he was, standing outside of Hummel's office building squeezed into the fashion district of down town Los Angeles; irritable because he wore his leather jacket on probably the hottest day ever - something he laughed at Hummel for doing when they'd first met up with his damn lady-scarf - and chain smoking.

Man did he wanna kick his stupid office door off the hinges, drag him out, hog tie his ass, and rip into him. He was fuming enough that he was even blowing the smoke out angry, each waft of smoke pushed out like funnels of steam cloud. Kind of like the train from Back to Future Part Three. The weakest of the franchise in his opinion, but still a classic.

He'd quit smoking like eight months ago. He thinks anyway... Right. When Cedric got Assistant Manager. Sometime then. Cold turkey. One day, woke up, and just decided it was time. Plus those fuckers are primo expensivo. Not to mention his daughter's personal crusade within her school's anti-smoking campaign, some 'Say No to Drugs' awareness shit. He knows that has a lot to do with it too.

He remembers those days in elementary school where they forced you to tie those red ribbons on some obscure portion of the school fence, gave you lame stickers and rulers and shit, and tried to entertain you with middle aged randoms doing some sad little skit about the effects of smoking and drugs. Years later, the torture doesn't end apparently, as his kid was caught up in fighting the good fight during her second grade experience. It was like listening to the internet. If it had the voice of a seven year old girl.

For a whole two weeks, she spouted off nothing but statistics and facts about the grueling, gnarly ways smoking could ruin you. It was honestly impressive, albeit scary as hell.

She didn't know about her old man's habit.

And as far as he was concerned, after listening to her heartfelt ranting via Skype, and realizing that the idea of his Baby Girl talking so clearly and matter of fact about death was scaring him enough to recognize that he was kind of killing himself, she would never know, and he quit that very day.

The irony. Oh the sweet irony.

But right now, he was stressed. And bored. He was never one for Candy Crush type phone apps, his camera phone sucks balls, and he dropped his phone in the toilet probably like half a year ago and he's been too lazy to replace it. So his speakers sound like garbage, which cuts listening to music out completely. So he's smoking.

Plus he already had Cancer anyway. What more could it hurt? Another five minutes goes by before he hears it.

"Seriously Puck? You're smoking now?"

Puck takes an obnoxiously long drag before flicking the butt away. Kurt watches the motion with a look of disgust, his designer shoes that are probably Italian imported leather or whatever, are gleaming in the sun. Once again he's dressed to the gay nines, fitted dress pants and a checkered shirt, a flimsy looking silvery neck tie pinned with a decorative tie clip, and a dark hooded vest overlaying the tucked in shirt.

He thinks back on when Hummel used to sport those knee length woman sweaters. The kid grew up. And not that Puck would point it out to him, but he too, came an equally long way with his fashion choices.

"Oh no. Do you think I'll get Cancer? Oh, wait..." He spouts with biting sarcasm.

"That's not funny," Kurt deadpans.

"I've smoked on an off for years. Cloves in high school. Newports in college."

"You didn't go to college," Kurt counters.

"But everybody knows that you're supposed to smoke Newports when you're college aged, Hummel. It's like, the rule. Or a rite of passage into manhood or something."

"Probably in the Bible I bet."

"Probably. I quit though actually. Not that it's any of Your Majesty's business."

"Yep. 'Cause that definitely looks like quitting. So why are you here? Mickey is literally feening like a Breaking Bad meth-head to call security after you called for the third time, and shared your plan to remain out here until I gave into coming downstairs. I had to actually pry his pointer finger off the dialpad."

"Um. Hello? You like - totally fucking ran off yesterday morning. And then when I tried calling, you ignored me."

"I've been busy."

Puck's eyes narrow, taking in the dude's defensive posture: the crossed arms, the subtle but still noticeable fidgeting, the way he looked to be chewing the inside of his cheek.

"You're lying."

"Am not," Kurt argued.

"I know, because you turned your phone off."

Kurt catches his eye then, the defiance radiating.

"I told you. I've been busy. I do have a high demand job, you know?"

"I know what it means Princess Hummel, when it goes straight to voicemail. And you're too uptight and super organized to not keep it charged at all times so don't try givin' me that 'my phone's been dead' crap. I also know because I've done that shit to girls way too many times to count. I'm like King Shit when it comes to the avoiding game. So I'll say again... You. Are. Lying. What gives, Kurt?"

Kurt has the decency to at least look a little guilty, his blue eyes stormy, and looking anywhere but at him; his tone a lot less clipped when he answers.

"I left a note. I didn't think it'd be a problem Puckerman."

Puck realizes how much like a chick he's sounding, which further fuels his frustration level.

"Yeah I got the note," He grumbles.

"So what's the problem that's led you to coming to my place of work - again - and demand that you see me like some stalkerish vigilante? I told you I would be working and I'd be in touch -"

"Well fuck me for being concerned about your well being. And also, I just - I wasn't sure, okay? I thought..."

Kurt unknots his arms. Puck can feel his eyes on him now. He continues, voice shaky and lame.

"I just - when you weren't answering, I - uh, I thought you were blowing me off. Bailing out." He takes a deep breath, and exhales, steadying himself. "I went to check on you and you were gone. Then I found your note saying something lame about 'keeping in touch when you could' which frankly felt like the kiss of death."

Kurt's eyes look watery, and he gasps aloud at the implication. Puck bruskly hastens on.

"No, no. I mean - sorry wrong words. It just felt - like a blow off, I guess. I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop on when you freak and change your number, and threaten me with the cops. Or worse: Burt. This thing that we're doing. What you're doing for me... It's so much bigger than me. And I know I don't deserve it. All the things I've done in the past. I'm worried it's too much, and you're gonna just up and leave. It's fucking terrifying."

Puck blinks, clearing his throat. He liked himself better when he was pissed. He was feeling really gay at the moment. Fucking talking about his feelings must be an automatic response to speaking more often with a gay man. Which is basically like talking to broads.

But his anger hadn't really been anger. Not really. And for fucks sake... his mangina which was suddenly fully formed, is juicing with hormonal woman feelings.

Kurt touches his shoulder, a small smile crimping. His blue eyes softer than they'd been when he first appeared on the sidewalk in front of the office building.

"I told you that I was in. I'm a Hummel, and with us, our word is our bond. And you weren't exactly wrong. You were about the running off for good bit. But I should've had more class. We've known each other long enough. I owed you a face to face explanation. And at the very least a cup of coffee before taking off."

Puck shoved his hands in his pockets, the agitation deflating like a flacid balloon. He would've said dick, but that seems... pretty much like something Kurt wouldn't appreciate.

"Which I hate. But I would've liked the chance to make you tea. Or Kool-Aid. Seriously. That shit's amazing. I can go through eight packets a day."

"First of all, I don't know if its completely bizarre or hilarious that you of all people have tea. Second, you dump eight Kool-Aid packets in a pitcher at a time?"

"What? Tea is both soothing and refreshing. And hell no. I dump 'em in my mouth. The water just soaks up the flavor. Takes the kick out of it. But then it takes like a week to scrub the layers of coloring off my tongue so I stopped doing so many. Anyway, you were like - way wrecked, dude. I know your head probably felt like it got gang raped by hammers or something."

Kurt chuckles. The signature one that reeked old Kurt. Puck can't help but smile.

"Well apparently you were too busy helping me 'move'," and he punctuates the statement with air quotes, "to make any type of beverage anyway."

Puck knows he's giving a pretty good confused look right now. 'Moving'? What's he... Oh. Right.

"You heard me. With Beth," Puck figures.

Kurt nods, his cheeks slightly pink. Puck takes a beat.

"That why you ran?" He eventually asks. The words... what was that word Kurt's insane Smurf boss had said... right, 'delicate'. Kurt duck's his head at the comment, then nods again.

"I think. Yeah. I don't know. It just made it more real, I guess. Seeing her, and you talking to her - which I'm really sorry by the way for eavesdropping - but you're right. About this plan being bigger than you - than us, really."

Puck exhales, sighing into a careful lopsided grin. "It's cool. I get it. And I wasn't lying about the moving thing," Puck defends.

Kurt shoots him a scrutinizing glare.

"I did move some shit. It's called your ass, after you practically passed out in the bar. But it's not like I'm gonna tell my kid that. I'd love that conversation. 'Hey sweetheart, I had to drag my drunk ass friend home 'cause he got hilariously shit faced after like three drinks, and sleep on the couch which feels like cement, and that's why I was late'. By the way you don't look heavy but when you're dead weight, you can be a bitch to carry."

"You actually carried me?" Kurt utters quietly, a lackluster version of his previous bitchiness.

"Yeah. What do you think you were carried on the back of winged unicorn? Or slid into my apartment on the arch of a magical rainbow like a fucking playground slide, Princess? It wasn't a big deal. You were sloppy and half dead, so I just helped you kick off your shoes and shit and threw you on the bed. No biggie."

Kurt seems uncomfortable with this knowledge, his cheeks burning brighter.

"Um. Well, thanks."

"Yeah. Just - spare me the disappearing act next time around. The note was overkill. I felt like every woman whose ever been left by their dude the next morning with basically nothing except the memories. And we didn't even have sex. Just flashes of me being a human taxi cab."

Kurt rolls his eyes, making some impatient growling sound in his throat, his face colored entirely. But Puck could tell that it was from some good-natured place. Not his usual Ice Queen, pissy little, 'I'm the ruler of the world', place, and he laughs heartily at that.

"You're exhausting," Kurt says, his grin open.

"That's what she said."

"My point illustrated in perfect time. And now I actually do have to get back to work. Will you believe me if I say I'm gonna call you?"

"Will you answer if I call first?" Puck retorts, eyebrows raising.

Kurt blinks, the smile still lingering and kind of sheepish.

"Touché. After I get off - and don't you dare!"

Damn. Kid was learning his ways fast. Puck smirks, shrugging his shoulders innocently.

"You said it. Not me."

"Good day to you, Puckerman," Princess states dismissively.

Puck had already turned before calling over his shoulder, "Fiancé."


A/N: I took in the wise advice from COLA COA, regarding more exposition so I hope this chap read more smoothly and left less room for questioning the surroundings and where the characters were. Still dialogue heavy but I think that's just my style. Especially with Puck. I love both his internal and external dialogue. Thanks to everyone who continues to review, favorite, etc. I do take in your feedback and love you all for taking the time. Not sure when the next one will be, but I'm not abandoning this fic so just know it's coming. Slowly but surely. Much love!