…
"I heard your voice through the noise
I was cold and it was warm inside."
- Kept by Matt Nathanson
...
Sunday March 31st, 1974, 01:47 AM
Puckerman household, Lima, OH, The United States
...
"She's pretty," his mom tells him when the suns already long submerged and he's only wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Quinn went to bed immediately when they arrived, her and his mom only exchanging 'hi, it's nice to meet you's.'
She's staring out the kitchen window, a cup of coffee clenched in between her thin hands. His mom looks even more tired than he remembers. The wrinkles around her brown eyes, her dark locks turning grey and her worn out smile giving away that she went through a lot. Then again, the last time he saw her has been almost a decade ago.
"She is," he agreed as he leaned back against the kitchen counter and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He stared at the picture of his little sister above the kitchen table— trying to picture her now. Little, tiny Sarah.
"And thin, she should eat more."
"I'll tell her."
"Noah, why are you here? Don't tell me it's because you just wanted to see me. You haven't bothered to call me for years and now you take back a Fabray?"
His head snaps up and his mother puts her cup down harshly, half of the content spilling over the edge.
"Don't look at me like I'm stupid, Noah. I read the paper. I vote," his mother hisses as shakes her head. "Don't tell me you're in love with this girl."
This version of his mother doesn't resemble the quiet, depressed, mess of a woman he left. His mother who refused to speak to him, ignored him for months, caused him to leave.
He remained quiet.
His mother slapped him hard, leaving a red mark on his cheek. She spit, "You're a stupid boy, you've always been a stupid boy."
He pushed himself off the counter, facing his mom. His cheek stung but he tried to ignore it. He was a grown man now, he'd been beaten up countless times by men ten times as strong as her, he'd gone to war, he'd seen men die but somehow a slap from his own flesh and blood hurt that much more. "Mom, don't do this."
"Please," he begged but he saw her dull eyes. She wasn't herself. Not anymore. She slapped him again, pushing against his chest and hit him, and hit him and hit him. He knew this wasn't about Quinn anymore. It never was.
"Stop," he yelled, grabbing her arms. His mother yanked her arms back, "You're a selfish, worthless, stupid boy, and I wish I had never had you."
He sighed. Her words didn't pain him anymore, not when they had gotten this common— this familiar.
"I don't want her in this house, Noah," his mother turned back to look out the window. She was trembling. "I want you to leave tomorrow and don't bother me or your baby sister again."
He locked his jaw before going upstairs. He heard his mother's soft weeps increase with each step.
"Your sweet, sweet baby sister. My Sarah, my angel."
...
Sunday March 31st, 1974, 02:13 AM
Puckerman household, Lima, OH, The United States
...
He looked at himself in the mirror, muttering to himself. "Shit."
There was a nasty cut on his cheek from the impact of his mom's wedding ring but overall she hadn't done much damage.
He quickly cleaned it off, not bothering to bandage it. It wasn't that deep and he didn't feel like covering up for his mom's mistakes once again.
He crawled into bed next to Quinn. She was trying to pretend she was asleep but wasn't really doing a good job at it.
"Babe," he muttered. He was tired from the hours of driving, but also emotionally drained after everything that happened today. He'd hoped his mom would've been able to keep up a façade for a few days, and she usually managed whenever there were strangers around. There was something different about Quinn. There was always something different about Quinn, though.
"Guess I should've worn a better dress, huh?"
"It isn't about you."
He blinked, covering his eyes with his arm as Quinn turned on the small light on the nightstand next to her.
"Then what is it about?"
"Not now, it's almost three. Go to sleep," he turned his back towards her. He knew he was being a complete asshole, but he couldn't handle telling her about what happened so many years ago.
"Puck," her voice was stern and he heard her shift towards him. She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly.
"Go to sleep, Q," he slightly raised his voice, pushing her hand off his shoulder.
"No."
"Quinn, please," he rolled over on his back and sat up. She crossed her arms, pursing her lips and furring her brows.
"No. You told me you hated it when people lied to you, so stop lying to me," she told him firmly and she was right.
He rubbed his hand over his head, out of habit, letting out a sigh. He'd wanted to grow his mohawk back initially but decided against it. "Promise me you won't look at anyone differently?"
She nodded her head, chewing down on her lip as she gripped the covers to her chest.
He took a deep breath. "When Santana moved here, a lot of shit between my mom and dad had gone down already. He drank daily, used drugs, beat us," he tightens his jaw, pausing as memories of nothing but screams, lies and the stench of blood flashed before his eyes.
"Us?" Quinn whispered as she hugged her knees to her chest, peeking under her eyelashes to look at him. He looked so upset, so fragile— she just wanted to hold him but she needed to know. She needed to know what happened.
"My mom, Sarah, me— anyone he had his sights set on that particular night," he picks at the sheets. "At anything, really."
"What happened?" She was afraid to ask him, scared he'd close back off if she came too close.
"Well, my dad, the piece of shit, he promised my mom he'd stop using, because when he used— he was even worse than normal. Mom kicked him out, but he promised her, he promised me, and Sarah. And for a moment there, I actually believed him. He came to see one of my football games, even took Sarah out to watch a movie down at the theatre," he paused, tapping his fingers on the bed. "Santana arrived and my mom was working doubles shifts, trying to get enough money together to pay our bills and buy a cake for my sister's birthday. Mom slept most of the time she was home, so she didn't notice, but I did."
"Did Santana?" Quinn asked quietly as she rested her chin on top of her arm.
"Yeah, she took money and gave it to my dad so he could buy himself some drugs, because in the end we were always less important than his fucking addiction," he spit. His face softened as he looked over at Quinn, "Then one day, he comes over and takes Sarah. I told him no, but I just barely turned twelve— I might as well talked to a fucking wall."
Quinn scooted closer to him as she put a hand on his arm, rubbing it softly. She wished she had never asked.
"I stay awake the entire night, because they didn't come home and mom doesn't seem too struck by it. The next day, the cops show up—" Quinn freezes, so many thoughts running through her mind. She sees tears form in his eyes and her heart breaks all over again. "They tell us he took her ice skating on some remote ass lake. The ice broke and he was too fucking high to get her out. She hadn't even turned seven yet, she didn't deserve to die somewhere in the middle of nowhere because her daddy didn't love her enough to stay sober for a few hours."
"Puck…" Quinn breathes but he shakes his head, his eyes hardening and his body visibly stiffening.
"They let him go, called it a fucking accident. So my mom takes him back in. And I was thinking, if I don't get him out of here or I don't leave— I might kill him," he pauses, taking a deep breath, trying to control his temper. Quinn reaches out to hold his hand, squeezing tightly. She just wanted to make sure she was there for him, like he'd been there for her that entire day. "So I tell the cops where to find his dealer, and when he's most likely to be found there. So, my dad goes to jail for possession, and my mom blames me for killing my sister and taking away the love of her life."
"I—I," Quinn starts and he looks up at her, his brow furrowed, his lips in a thin line as he slowly nods his head to himself.
He swallows hard, "How screwed up is that?"
"Thank you," she whispers against his neck as she hugs him tightly, "For telling me. I know it's hard."
He nods his head against her shoulder, his fingers pressing into her back. She places a kiss on his neck before pulling away. She reaches out to touch the cut on his cheek, as she gently ran the tip of her fingers over the cut, making him wince.
"Did she…?" Her voice trailed off as she pulled her hand back.
"Yes."
Quinn nods her head as she tries to process everything. She still has so many questions, but she figures now is not the time. She reaches out to turn off the bedside lamp before lying down on her side, pressing her back against his chest and putting his arms around her waist.
"Babe," he mutters after a moment. She shifts a little, intertwining their fingers as she pulls his arms closer to her body.
"Mhmm."
"I just want to know I'd never do that you, or our baby. I wouldn't," his voice was low but steady and she feels her heart breaking and being stitched back together at the same time.
"I know. You're a good guy, Puck."
"No, I'm not," he mumbles but she's already asleep.
...
Tuesday April 2nd, 1974, 09:14 AM
Lima Hospital, Lima, OH, The United States
...
He's tapping her foot and she's nervously fiddling with the sunglasses in her lap.
He hates waiting. She hates the unknown.
"Miss Puckerman?"
Her head shoots up as she slowly nods her head, not getting up until Puck pulls her along. For a moment she forgot this was actually happening.
The nurse looks at her like she's done something wrong, and it's weird because it's the first time anyone has dared to look at her like that and it doesn't feel like that all. Like she's done something wrong. She leads them into a small room and tells her to change in a hospital gown while they wait for the doctor.
She does as she's told, slipping out of her dress as soon as the nurse leaves the room and slipping into the stiff material of the gown. She takes a deep breath, sitting down on the examining table. He looks over at her and it finally occurs to her they haven't talked since breakfast that morning, but it doesn't bother her, not really. It's like they can communicate without words.
A single tears slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away. As on cue, he takes her hand in his and she nods, letting him know she's okay.
The doctor comes in and doesn't even bother looking up from his clipboard as he asks her to lift her gown.
"I'm just checking a few things to see if you're indeed, pregnant," he informs her, putting the item in his hands down and putting on gloves instead. The sound of the plastic snapping onto his skin makes her wince. This all feels like it's a big horrible disease, and it shouldn't feel like that. A baby should be a blessing, it should be welcomed into the world no matter what the circumstances.
She imagines a little girl with blonde curls and Puck's dark eyes and a hatred for dresses because she didn't want to be like mommy but like daddy and a little boy with dark hair like him and smooth, tan skin and a toothy grin with a small round nose and for a second there, she actually gets herself wrapped up in the idea of actually having his children and raising them.
He starts applying pressure to her stomach and she closes her eyes, imagining another heartbeat within her own body.
"You're not pregnant, miss Fabray," the doctor pulls his hands away, picking up his clipboard and writing down a few notes. "Congratulations."
Congratulations. He said, like they should be happy they weren't pregnant. No, he told her— because she's the president's daughter and he's figured that out by now and he wouldn't give the guy who almost knocked her up a second glance because he might as well be a piece of dirt under his shoe.
He leaves and she gets dressed in silence as Puck drives the car around.
"You know," he licks his lips, taking a left turn as he pauses, "for a moment there, I wouldn't really have minded if you were, you know."
He doesn't look at her but she nods her head, more to herself, maybe — she softly murmurs, "Me neither."
"I mean, it saves us a lot of shit now that you're not but," he sighs, looking over at her for a second, "It kind of would've been nice, you know?"
She smiles, nodding her head — a little too fast probably because she's starting to feel lightheaded. "They can make you go away, and they can even force me to marry Sterling but they can't make a baby out to be something it's not. They would have to let me stay with you, because if there's one thing worse than being with a formerly troubled commoner, it's a baby out of wedlock."
"I just kind of, I just kept seeing you with a little baby in your arms and you would look up to me and smile and then it didn't really matter anymore — what they would do to me," he stares at the road with such intensity that's almost a hundred percent sure he actually means it. "Because — because I had you, and that little, tiny..."
"I know," she wipes away some more tears and damnit, she really doesn't want to cry but this is kind of goodbye, isn't it?
One more drive home and that's the end of whatever they were trying to be here. Whatever they were pretending to be these past days, whatever she had tried to make herself believe they were. Because none of it's true. In the end she's the daughter of someone who could never accept she loves a boy who doesn't appear to be perfect and he's the guy with the bad streak and the mohawk and the ability to make any girl fall in love with him but he chose her. That's all they'll ever be.
…
Wednesday April 3rd, 1974, 4:35 PM
Route 75, OH, the United States
…
Tired, she leaned her head on his shoulder. She let out a yawn and his free hand shifted over to cover hers. She looked at their hands, her fingers gently tracing over his scars from the war, faded but to her they felt new, fresh, present. She adjusted her head a little, so she could look at him. The sound from the rain outside almost blended out the low sound of his radio.
"If I had a day that I could give you, I'd give to you a day just like today," she heard him sing along softly and it hurt her like a knife in the chest. He used to sing with pleasure, without fear. Now he felt like he had to hide.
There was a flash of lightening for the sixth time in fifty minutes, the time they'd been on the road since they left his house and they were getting more frequent. It was unlikely dark for an April afternoon.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, grasping his hand tightly and he turned his head to look at her, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.
"Why?" A frown appeared on his face and he glanced over at the abandoned road for a moment before looking back at her.
"For everything."
He looked back at the road and that was that. A silent agreement that they wouldn't talk about it anymore.
She turned her head to kiss his shoulder, resting her head there for a moment before turning back to look at the barely visible highway. By now there was lightening and thunder and she quickly did a prayer, cursing herself for not having taken her rosary.
"Shit," he mutters as his windscreen wipers stop working and everything goes by so fast. He leans forward and lets go of her hand, resting it on the steering wheel instead as he tries yanking on the handle to make the wipers work again and next thing she's knows she's screaming his name and she can feel rain on her skin.
She wonders if she's dead. There are flashes of lights — like she's laying on the grass in the backyard and the stars are falling down directly on her — but then there's blood. A lot of it. And she's not sure if it's his or hers but there's so much blood.
Then she sees Puck, first smiling then he's yelling her name but every sound soon fades into the steady beat of a heart, and she tries to open her eyes again — she tries and tries and tries but it's like someone is squeezing them shut.
God, the blood it's everywhere. It's on him and it's on her dress and her hands — and then there's darkness again.
Puck's back, for only a few seconds. There's a quiet murmur around them — of people, but they're not staring or whispering about them but they're laughing and eating and obnoxiously talking. He's sitting across from her, eating waffles with extra syrup because he loves those so much and his leather jacket is lying next to him in the red booth. She looks down at her own plate — bacon and eggs and pancakes with extra bacon — and then she spots the small diamond on her left ring finger and she looks up again. He smiles at her and he says something but she can't make out what it is he's trying to tell her. His eyes shine as he talks and she wants to stay here, right here, so desperately.
She wonders if the life you've had eventually flashes in front of your eyes, or the life your desire so desperately to be yours.
...
"Yeah, I believe you now, I should have kept my head,
I should have kept my heart, my heart."
…
A/N: Sorry for the humongous wait, I was so busy with school and just a ton of shit I've been dealing with. The worst part is that I had most of this written already but I just couldn't finish it for some reason. Anyway, you're not here to read about all my excuses - here's some more background on Puck and of course the very first part of this story has finally happened. Please review, it's a huge encouragement! Just one or two more chapters :) And again I want to thank my beta Brooke so much! She's literally an angel