Relationship status

It seemed to Puck that everyone he knew, and many people he didn't, made a hell of a lot of assumptions about him and Santana, and not a single one of them was entirely accurate.

He guessed in the age of the Facebook relationship statuses, it made sense that everyone around them seemed to want to have some kind of definition as to what exactly they were to each other. They wanted to know if they were "just friends" or "dating," "in a relationship," whatever that even meant anyway, or "boyfriend and girlfriend." They wanted to know if they were "friends with benefits" or something along those lines, and whether or not they outright asked, he could nevertheless tell from their not-so-subtle questions or implications that for some reason Puck himself could not quite fathom, having an exact label for them seemed to be important to everyone except for himself and Santana.

He could see the questions in Kurt's and Rachel's eyes every time Santana lay her head on his shoulder and curled into his side on the couch, every time she sat in his lap or that he reached without thinking for her hand as they stepped outside, pulling her protectively close against him. He could see the small, hopeful smile that Rachel gave every time Santana wordlessly tugged Puck to her curtained off area to stay the night with her, and the furrowed concern and confusion she showed every time she banished him to the couch instead. He could hear in Kurt's not-so-casual questions about their plans for the night or the weekend, in the way that he asked how they had slept, exactly what it was the other man really was wanting to know. He certainly could see it when Kurt took his sneaky camera photos of Santana sprawled across the couch, her head in Puck's lap, her feet in Rachel's, and all the comments that were posted in response.

But as much as people asked, and as curious as they seemed to be to want to know, Puck had no answer to give them, because he himself wasn't sure, nor did he feel a need to define it. He and Santana never discussed it, and if she didn't feel a desire for drawing specific labels or parameters, then neither did he.

He knew that he enjoyed being close to her, spending time with her, that he could not sleep at night until he could hear Santana's faint snore first. He knew that he loved the feeling of her hair against his fingers, her soft skin beneath his lips, and he knew that no matter how scarred and bruised it could get, no matter how intent she was upon covering it up, Santana's body was flawless to his eyes, and Santana herself was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He knew that when Santana's fingers slid into his, when she turned to look at him and give him a genuine smile, when she lay in his arms at night, her arms around his waist, her face buried in his chest, and whispered thoughts, fears, and dreams into his skin, he felt like more of a man, more trusted and powerful and whole, than he ever would have thought possible.

He could count on one hand how many times he had said aloud to Santana that he loved her, and if he added into that number how many times Santana had said the same for him, there would still be a finger or two left over all the same. But Puck could see it in the dimples that showed only for him now, in the way Santana looked and called for him alone when she was in need. He felt it swell in his heart every time she pushed herself forward in some way to make him proud of her, so very proud for how hard she was trying, how far she had come, in the way his name sometimes sounded on her tongue.

They didn't need a Facebook relationship status to know; they didn't need spoken words or verbal explanations. They didn't' need to explain to everyone that they were more than friends but maybe not quite dating, and it was insulting to Puck to even have to clarify that it was not a "fuck buddies" interaction between them.

That was the only question or assumption that really got to him from everyone. It was one thing for it to be assumed that they were dating; this he could understand and shrug off. But for people to assume that he and Santana didn't really care about each other, that they would just use each other for sex and then go about their business- even if this might have been admittedly exactly their arrangement before, years ago- pissed Puck off beyond what he could sometimes control. It was none of anyone's business what he or Santana did or didn't do together sexually, but the truth was that he hadn't so much as touched her bare breast since their escape, not in a sexual manner, at any rate, let alone had sex with her or even had it seriously cross his mind to ask. He couldn't have imagined asking, after what had happened, couldn't have dreamed of a scenario where she would want to, no matter how much kissing or cuddling had gone down. And if Puck was perfectly honest with himself- something he tried at most times to avoid- he would have had to admit that even the thought of having sex with Santana, even a perfectly willing and eager Santana, was not only terrifying to him, it was not something he even desired.

It didn't really make a lot of sense, he guessed. He was young, he was a sexual person, certainly, and he loved sex; he loved sex with Santana, or he had once. Santana was young, sexual too, if not so much towards males, and she was beautiful….and he loved her. And yet Puck didn't want sex with her. Not at all.

But then again, Puck himself no longer wanted sex…period.

It wasn't like he didn't have an opportunity outside of Santana. There were always girls coming into his workplace, many who were attractive and quite flirtacious, some who had made it clear that they were up for anything Puck might offer. If he had wanted to, he could go home with a different girl every night and deal with the fall out later.

But the truth was that Puck didn't want to. When any girl but Santana came too close to him, touching his arm or shoulder, he flinched without quite meaning to, backing away. The thought of his hands touching her bare skin, reaching to undress her, made his throat tighten, and the thought of actually having sex with any of them made him feel shaky and almost physically ill.

It was alarming in some ways; Noah Puckerman, not wanting to have sex? Noah Puckerman, actually uninterested in touching and being touched by pretty girls? It was crazy, definitely fucked up, no pun intended. But Puck couldn't help his own response, and so he tried the best that he could to simply avoid them.

Because every time he let his thoughts drift in that direction, unwanted mental images of Santana would come to his mind. Santana's body, bare and riddled with goosebumps as she shivered, dreading his touch. Santana's tears wetting his neck, Santana's cold shuddering beneath his as she tried to disguise her trembling as an orgasm. Santana's choked voice whispering for him to hurry, trying to hold back audible sobbing, Santana's anguished expression the moment the cameras were turned off and she could no longer pretend. He could not even think of sex now without thinking of Santana's pain, of exactly where its source had come from, and there was nothing desirable or sexy about it anymore at all.

But no one else seemed to understand that. Everyone seemed to expect that it was only Santana rather than Puck who could have possibly changed, and every time there was even the smallest implication that Puck might not understand this, he grew more and more furious to hear it- especially from the people who were supposedly his friends.

"I'm not going to pretend I know what's going on," Quinn had told Puck on one occasion over Facebook chat, of all things. It was the one time that Puck had decided to log in and had been stunned by the number of messages and comments waiting on him, most thinly veiled nosiness from people he didn't give a shit about and who he knew didn't really give a shit about him either. He had, however, accepted a private message from Quinn, expecting her to be above all of this, but she had in her own way disappointed him too.

"I've been seeing the pictures of you and Santana, Puck, which Kurt seems only too happy to post…not sure what he's trying to prove, or what point he's trying to make," she had begun in what seemed to Puck a rather dry opening tone. "But I wanted to talk to you about it. I know the two of you have a past and now even more so, and honestly I don't really want to know the details of all the past because it's not only not my business but would make me very uncomfortable and probably a little skeeved off too. But Puck…what you're doing with San now…I really don't think it's such a good idea."

Of course Puck had grown defensive, because for one thing, Quinn was right, whatever he and Santana chose to do was absolutely none of her business. But where did she get off on giving out advice or admonishment to either one of them?

"And what exactly is it you think I'm doing with San?" he had retorted, even going to the extra effort of using proper punctuation and capitalization, just so Quinn couldn't accuse him of being lazy or uneducated or something.

"How cuddly you two are…how just about every picture there is, you're holding onto her or she's sprawled across you, and neither one of you even look drunk. I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt her deliberately, Puck, I know you're a good guy really and you've helped me out and noticed things I was going through when no one else would. I know you don't want to hurt Santana. You might not even be thinking about it, what you two are doing, but…Santana's gay, Puck. Really, really gay. And right now she's been hurt and scared and she's really vulnerable. She might be coming to you for comfort or security but if you use that-"

"Just what the fuck are you saying, Quinn?" Puck hadn't even finished reading the rest of what she had to say, his blood pressure shooting up at this implication. She was saying that he wouldn't hurt her on one hand, and on the other that he was using her?! What the hell right did she have, what the hell did she think she knew or understood about either of them?

"I just don't want her to be hurt, Puck," Quinn had tried to explain. "She might do something with you now that she normally wouldn't, and I don't want to see her regret it because of what she's been through. Or you either. I don't want to see you start to fall for her or think things are different now, and when she realizes what she's doing, she hurts YOU. Can you please just think about it, what I'm saying?"

Puck didn't need to think about it. Well intended as her words might be, they were still so insulting to them that he could barely control his fingers to type a reply.

"I'd never ask her to do ANYTHING she might regret. I'd never do any of that shit with her, not now, not ever, not if she didn't ask or want! You don't know anything about what happened or who we are. Things are different and things have changed and I'm not gonna explain how 'cause you'll never understand. You think all we are is sex and groping and using, you think that's what either one of us is about? I'd never hurt her and she won't hurt me and you don't know anything at all so just keep your damn mouth closed and your lame opinions to yourself."

"I'm not trying to hurt you, Puck," Quinn had repeated, just before Puck signed out entirely. "I'm just trying to keep you both from getting hurt."

Puck had resolved about then to never tell anyone at all any of the details about what had really happened. It definitely seemed to him that no one would really get it, would have way too many opinions that would piss him off way too much, and it was much simpler to let them come up with their own ideas and theories, no matter how lame, rather than give them any sort of actual details and facts to work off of and accurately judge. It seemed to him more dangerous to give them facts to form offensive ideas about rather than to just speculate and be wildly off the mark, so he decided anew that his mouth was keeping shut about it all.

But he had never discussed this resolution with Santana, and it appeared that she had opposite ideas.

He had come home late one night from his new job, Kurt having met him to walk back with him for that particular night, and had not been too surprised to see that the living room was empty, all the bedroom curtains drawn. It was around the time that Rachel would normally go to sleep, after all. But what did stop him in his track was the low murmur of voices he could hear behind her closed curtain, and his realization that it was Santana's voice he could hear, hesitant, soft, but nevertheless the only one speaking.

Puck wasn't trying to listen, not really. Or at least that was what he told himself. But he could hear Santana's voice rise and fall occasionally, just enough so that through the pieces of her words he could pick out, he knew what she was talking about to Rachel, at last. She was telling her about the abduction…she was telling her about her rapes.

Kurt and Rachel knew, of course, what had happened to them, or at least what any newspaper articles they had no doubt sought out had revealed. Puck himself had refused to look or read. He had been assured by the police that his and Santana's names, as victims of a sex crime, would not be revealed publicly and that it would not be public knowledge that they had been made to have sex with each other. Kurt and Rachel knew the bare bones of what had happened, that they had been kidnapped and physically assaulted, that they had been starved and had eventually engineered a trap and their own escape. They knew that it had been terrible for them, that it had been a prostitution ring, and that Santana, at least, had in some way been sexually threatened or assaulted, by her own behavior and their own deductions if nothing else. But he had been sure that they knew nothing more than this, had in fact tried to protect any further information from being revealed to them, as much for their sakes as for his and Santana's. He suspected that their friends, who already struggled so frequently with how to handle what knowledge they did have, could not have coped with any further understanding of just what specifically had occurred during their abduction.

But somehow, something Rachel had done or said or something Santana had decided for herself had lead her to finally breaking her own near silence, and Puck froze in the doorway, part of him fiercely proud of her for her bravery, part of him cringing with dread at the possible repercussions.

Confused, obviously not having made the connections that Puck had, Kurt's eyes roved between him and the curtain, and he opened his mouth to speak, clearly wondering what had Puck remaining so still and affected. "What-" he started, but Puck shushed him with a slashing gesture of his hand and a hurried shake of his head. When the other young man went silent, still frowning at him with confusion, Puck stepped forward slowly, still listening.

He could hear Santana's voice crack almost every time she mentioned his name, how it got just a little higher and louder on occasional, triggering words. She didn't seem to be crying, at least not where Puck could hear, and it took every ounce of his restraint not to walk in on her and sit with her, to check for absolute certain that she was okay. He could just picture her, lying on her back staring up at the ceiling with utter concentration, not allowing herself to blink for fear of letting fall the tears gathered in her eyes. Or maybe she was lying with her back against Rachel, letting the other girl spoon her so she would not have to look into her eyes. He could see Rachel's wide, horrified eyes, her convulsive swallowing and blinking as she struggled not to let loose the emotion that Santana's words were provoking in her. But it wasn't his place nor the time to check on this, so instead he took hold of Kurt's arm and half pulled him into the kitchen, trying to give them the relative privacy they no doubt wanted.

Kurt came easily enough; by then he too had heard enough to figure out the nature of the conversation and wanted very much to ignore it himself. Puck caught him glancing at him several times with conflicted, awkward concern before quickly averting his eyes again.

It was an excruciatingly long twenty minutes or so before Puck could no longer hear even faint murmurs of voices from behind the curtain, and another ten before he could hear the soft, rhythmic rumble of Santana's snoring. The rest of the evening was fairly awkward, with Kurt retreating to his bed and Puck stretched out on the couch, figuring it would be strange for him to sleep alone in Santana's bed- until he was awakened a few hours later by cold hands on his arm, shaking him slightly. Jerking awake, Puck had raised up both hands, half in a defensive gesture, half in preparation to hit out, before he realized that it was only Santana, having slipped out of Rachel's bed to find him.

"Come to bed?" she had whispered, seeming somehow even smaller to him than usual, her eyes glinting in the darkness with an uncertainty that made him smile in spite of himself. "It's freezing and I can't find any socks, so…"

Puck didn't point out that this excuse for coming to him made no sense; she had, after all, been sharing a bed with Rachel, who not only had plenty of warm, fuzzy socks to lend, but also was a warm body herself to curl up to. Instead he simply sat up, stretching, and shuffled with her to her- pretty much their- bed, rolling onto his side to face her, and he was not surprised when she curled her back against his chest, pulling his arms around her.

"I told Rachel," she said to him after a while, her words muffled into his back.

Puck didn't pretend that he didn't know what she was talking about. If Santana didn't already know he knew, then she could at least guess that he would be able to piece it together, so he simply took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb over its back as he replied.

"She freak out?"

"Not really," Santana murmured back, exhaling. He felt her knees press into the back of his, bony knobs that always amazed him in their smallness. "I could tell she wanted to, but she kept it together. Guess she's gaining some acting skills in that drama school of hers."

Puck chuckled slightly, but he was listening to Santana's tone, more than her words. He felt her shifting against him again, moving even closer, and squeezed her hand, waiting for her to make another comment. When she didn't, he asked a question of his own.

"San…you okay with her knowing, now that she does? What made you tell her anyway?"

"What, you wanted me not to?" Santana asked, drawing her face back from him. Puck could tell that she was trying to get a glimpse of his, but she would have to half drape herself over his side to manage.

"Nah, I don't care. I mean, I do, but…if you wanna tell her then I guess it's cool, it's your story."

"It's your story too, Puck," Santana told him quietly, her voice soft but meaningful. "Not just mine. Ours."

Puck couldn't argue with that, even if he didn't exactly want to talk about it. Going quiet, he simply shrugged, asking her his question again.

"What made you want to tell her all of a sudden?"

"Well for one thing, she never asks anything," Santana explained, her voice still soft, thoughtful in tone now, as though she was puzzling through the reasons for herself. "And for Rachel that takes a supreme amount of will when she's just dying to know something. But she didn't ask or shoot out her theories at me or even overly smother me when I told her to leave me alone. You know? And she does the stupid, weird little things I ask her to if I need it, and she sits with me at night and doesn't yell at me when I make her take all the guys's orders at the diner or go disappear into the bathroom for fifteen minutes at a time. I don't know…we kinda ask a lot of her, Puck, without letting her understand why. So I sort of wanted to let her understand a little."

She sighed, squeezing his hands, still almost whispering her response to him. "I'd tell Kurt too except it would be way harder, lady lips or not. And anyway, anything I tell Rachel is gonna be blowing up Kurt's ear within twenty seconds, we both know that. Might as well save my breath."

What Santana was saying made sense to Puck. It was generous too, in a way he hadn't quite expected from her. It couldn't have been easy for her to talk to Rachel, but she was doing it as a favor to her, to be fair to her, and he could respect that, if not totally feel comfortable with it.

"Well, if you're cool with it…and if you're okay…" he replied, to which he felt Santana nod, her forehead pressed again between his shoulder blades.

"Yeah…I'm okay. Sort of feel like I needed to say it out loud in some ways, if that makes any sense. Like, obviously it's real but it's something we never really talk about, not…like the actual words of it, you know? We dance around and we know what we mean and we never actually say it. So it was hard but…sort of okay."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Puck asked, even as he felt his entire body tense up at the very thought of it. "Like with words, like you said?"

He didn't' realize he was holding his breath until he felt it release out when Santana shook her head again.

"No. That was enough. Way more than enough."

They let their words fade out there, with Puck feeling Santana drift off, growing heavier against his back, and heard her snoring begin anew before he himself could sleep. In the morning, Rachel didn't just greet him good morning, but hugged him long and fiercely with misty eyes that made him highly uncomfortable, knowing exactly what had changed her response to him. When he walked in on Kurt in the bathroom, instead of squealing at him and covering up, as he normally would, Kurt had apologized to him and gotten very red and uncomfortable-looking, not quite meeting Puck's eyes. When Puck caught the look of pity in his eyes and the way Kurt's lower lip caught between his teeth as Puck made himself coffee, Puck knew- and wasn't exactly happy- that Rachel had already told him too.

If it had ended there, then Puck would have been able to sort of be okay with it. It was Santana's decision, and she had a point in saying they were roommates and had put up with a lot from them both to have at least some knowledge of why they had to do what they were being asked to. It would have still grated on his nerves and tried his pride and patience, but from just Kurt and Rachel, it would have been tolerable.

But Santana had obviously not thought of the fact that Rachel's mouth could be unstoppable and Kurt was a huge gossip who was still very friendly with Tina and Mercedes, who also happened to enjoy spreading around any juicy stories that might come their way. It didn't take long for Puck to start suddenly getting texts and Facebook messages and phone calls again, few outright spelling out the reasons why for their sudden renewed interest and sympathy for him, but none were at all subtle about disguising it either. By the time Puck had gotten texts from ARTIE, of all people, wanting to know if he was okay, he had completely had it.

"What the hell did you go tell the whole world what Santana told you?" he hissed at his two apparently oblivious roommates the second they were both home while Santana was in the bathroom, aware that his fists were unconsciously balling at his sides but doing nothing to try to relax them. "She told you in confidence, so YOU would know, she didn't say to put out a damn broadcast over it!"

"We didn't put out a broadcast, we just told a few close friends- just so they would understand too," Kurt tried, blinking, and Puck noticed him taking a few steps back, his hands lifting slowly, as though preparing to duck and protect himself if needed. He didn't need to look in the mirror to know how scary his expression must look to trigger that kind of response, because his own anger, steadily pressing harder and harder against his chest and running with increasing heat through his veins, gave him an inkling. "We didn't think she would mind if they all get it now…and they aren't going to say anything-"

"She told you, not them, there was a damn reason for that! And they're saying a whole hell of a lot of things, I can't turn around without tripping over someone trying to talk about it to me, so what the hell do you think they're doing to her? You better be damn glad she doesn't get on Facebook or hardly check her phone anymore!" Puck hissed, noting and not caring when Kurt and Rachel exchanged frantic glances, Rachel swallowing hard before addressing him.

"Noah, I just, I wanted to help. I thought that if everyone knew where you both were coming from then they could be more sensitive and considerate, you know that everyone just wants to express their sympathy and-"

"They did that weeks ago when they first figured out we were kidnapped, they really need more reasons to start all over again? They gotta talk about it when they still don't know shit, they're hearing a third or fourth hand account that someone probably twisted up or exaggerated or left important shit out of over time? You think hearing from five different people what might or might not have been true is gonna help us out, you think it's gonna make things better? I thought you were supposed to be the near genius, Rachel, how are you being so dumb?"

Rachel didn't have a chance to answer then, because Santana emerged from the bathroom, and as pissed off as he was, Puck didn't want to draw her into it too if she didn't have to be. He got through most of the rest of the evening stewing silently, ignoring even Santana. But it was a visit from Sam Evans that finally pushed him past his boiling point.

Puck hadn't been sure how, exactly, it had come about that Sam was visiting at all. He didn't think that Kurt or Rachel would have invited him, since as far as he knew, neither was especially close with him. Nor was Santana. Sure, they were all friendly and part of an extended family of sorts, but Sam was closer to Tina, Artie, and Blaine, and of course Mercedes. It was never made clear to him how, exactly, Sam had ended up walking through their front door, and maybe he had decided to come up himself on a whim. Maybe he had been sent out as a scout of sorts by the other Glee kids, someone to confirm, in his nonthreatening, sort of clueless manner, the truth of what exactly was going on between everyone up and New York City. Given the raging curiosity of the others, Puck wouldn't have been surprised.

Things went pretty well at first; they all had a pleasant enough time interacting, and it was one of Santana's good days, with her being fairly social and even snarky, accepting a hug from Sam with only momentary hesitation, even if she did back quickly away. Puck was glad to see that she seemed actually happy to see him, that she laughed and smiled along with everyone else- but he didn't fail to notice Sam stealing furtive, not so subtle looks at her, and sometimes himself as well. It left him somewhat on guard, ready to step in to interrupt him, head off an uncomfortable conversation, or outright defend Santana if needed from anything he might thoughtlessly blurt out. But as it turned out, as little sense as Sam had, he did at least have enough to wait until Santana was removing her makeup for the night in the bathroom before turning to Puck and making the comments he seemed to have been holding in all night.

"So…I heard from Mercedes about what happened," he blurted, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head as his generous mouth drew into an awkward but sympathetic grimace. "That really sucks, like, about the guns and stuff. But I was thinking, you know, it could have totally been worse. I mean, the other guys with her, that's really, really bad, and I hate to think about that…I'm not gonna say anything to her about that because that's just…I just don't even want to think about it. But with you two, that has to be kind of better, right? One of those other hooker girls, they could have given you diseases or whatever, you know? Santana's hot and pretty good in bed, and it's not like you guys haven't had sex before. So it wasn't anything new, just sort of embarrassing, I guess. Especially since she's a lesbian now. So, you know, good thing it wasn't that bad at least with that part of it."

Sam's words were obviously intended to be his effort at connecting with Puck, empathizing or sympathizing, maybe even an effort to show he understood. The problem was, of course, that he didn't understand, not at all, not one tiny aspect of one tiny second of what had actually gone down. And as he stood there, his eyes wide and earnest, no doubt expecting some sort of acceptance or acknowledgement from Puck, all Puck wanted to do in that moment was beat that look out of his eyes, use his fists to make a physical as well as mental impact on just how wrong he really was.

"Oh god," he heard Kurt stage whisper from behind him, the horror in his voice obvious. "Oh Sam, no you didn't…"

"Noah, no," he heard Rachel's urgent whisper, and he felt a small, insistent hang grab at his inner elbow, trying to tug him back. "He doesn't know what he's saying, Noah, please don't do something stupid-"

But Puck could not have listened to her if he wanted to; the only sound he could focus on then was the sound of his own temples pulsing with his rage, his blood pumping too rapidly through his veins, his heart pounding almost beyond control against his chest. With one rough gesture he shook Rachel off of him and seized Sam's upper arms, propelling him backward so that both nearly stumbled over the coffee table. He shoved him back so that Sam fell back against the couch and continued to lean over him, gripping him, his entire body hovered over the younger man as he pushed his face close to his.

"He doesn't know what he's saying? He doesn't know what it was like? I'm about to show him."

And with that his fist shot out, nailing Sam in the upper cheekbone. He didn't give the man much time to react before he was hitting him again, in the side, in the upper arm, barely feeling his knuckles skin as they met bone. Sam was yelling out hoarsely, trying to defend his face, to shove himself up and away from Puck, Puck could hear Kurt and Rachel shrieking at him even as they kept a prudent, helpless distance, and over it all he was yelling, having completely loss a sense of where he was and what he was doing. There was nothing there in that moment to him but himself and Sam, surrounded by Sam's ignorant words, and the only option seemed to be to hurt him for them, to make him know even a small piece of the hurt they had felt.

"You- don't- know- shit! Think I LIKED it- think it was FUN- think I could think of one fucking THING about how she LOOKS- bruised up and fucking CRYING- fucking SICK, you're fucking SICK- think I'm like you- think I'm like THEM-"

"Noah, that isn't what he meant! Noah, stop- stop!"

"Puck, he's BLEEDING! Stop it, STOP IT!"

"I'm sorry! Man, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

But it wasn't any of their voices that got through to him, or that mattered to him at all. It was Santana's, softer, but no less urgent, that finally stopped his fists mid air.

"Puck…don't. Don't."

Puck's arms stopped their motions abruptly, then fell heavily to his sides. Chest heaving, he turned his head in her direction, taking several gulping breaths, and his lips pressed tightly together as he swallowed. He could feel his muscles twitching with the urge to keep hitting out, to keep hitting Sam, but he made himself remain still, looking to Santana.

She was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, her thin fingers gripping the side of the door, her eyes locked on Puck, her expression very serious, almost grim, and yet her eyes were soft with understanding. She took a few steps forward, then held out her hand to Puck, waiting without words for him to take it.

Puck didn't look down at Sam, who was still stammering an apology he couldn't quite understand. He didn't see his bloodied lip or bruising cheekbone, his uneven breaths or the fear in his eyes. He didn't look to the shaken Kurt or Rachel, clutching each other with whitened fingers several feet away. He looked only to Santana, and with shaking legs, walked towards her, letting her wrap her fingers tightly around his and draw him in.

When she led him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, Puck followed numbly, almost mindless as to what was happening. He didn't realize he was speaking to her until he was halfway through his sentences, and even then he barely understood his own words.

"Wasn't like that…I would never…I never liked it…was never okay…NEVER…"

"Shh," Santana said, and though he heard her swallow, taking in a deep breath, her hands nevertheless stroked over his arms, her thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. "Shh. Don't say anything else, okay? I know. I know. Shh."

But Puck couldn't stop talking. He was almost sobbing the words now, needing them to be said, needing so badly for her to know, to understand.

"I never…Santana, I never wanted…not for a minute, not for a second…it's not…it wasn't…I need you to know…I'm not like them. I'm not, I was never…I'm not like them…"

"Oh, Puck," she murmured back, and suddenly she was pulling him in, guiding his head down, pressing his face into her shoulder as she cupped the back of his head. She was smaller than him, and the gesture was awkward, but she held on, her body swaying slightly as she tightened her arm around his back. "I know. Don't ever say that again…don't, because that's…it's fucking insulting, okay? Not to me, but to you. I know. I know."

It was almost an exact repeat of the incident from only the week before, the watching of Les Miserables in his presence by their roommates, that they had all tiptoed around since. Puck was dimly aware of this, suspected that it had meaning of some kind he was too tired and too spent emotionally to try to figure out. But for now he simply slowly let himself accept her words, her supportive arms, and the words whispered into his ear, caressed into his skin.