A/N: I couldn't bring myself to break this chap up, so it's pretty long and full of mostly Kurt. I wanted to make up a little bit for the hiatus. I reference a lot of stuff. Said stuff, ain't mine. Enjoy!


Blessed Benefits

Kurt

"I already told you that I didn't think this was a good idea." He pauses, halting at the end of the hallway, eyes darting back and forth as he takes a second to decipher any oncoming passersby. When he's satisfied that he's the only current hall occupant in the vicinity, he then whispers frantically, "especially with you having surgery in a few days."

Kurt huffs, repositioning his hand on the cell, caging it securely against his cheek as he continues.

"But I gave in, and told you to go through with it. And now you don't even bother to show up on time. And I'm pretty sure, getting shit faced with Cedric, or boning some random from the bar may seem more important but I just - I just wish, just sometimes that you could turn off your Noah Puckerman for a second and try to be a professional with this. I know it may not mean much to you but an excuse to shed your clothes and reinflate your ego, but this is my life. My livelihood. I'm taking a huge risk with you, you know."

He hadn't even registered his fingers splayed through his hair, literally holding off his oncoming mania.

"I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That was - I don't even know where that came from. Wow, this is gonna be a fun message for you to listen to. Could you just call me? Let me know you're okay. I don't know. I'll just explain to Lorraine that..."

"Hey babe!"

"You're... early?" Kurt squeaks, struggling to close his mouth as he stares ahead at what most certainly wasn't a figment of his imagination, or some illusion. Nope. Couldn't be. Sure he was the slightest bit wired, but he blames that on the triple energy shot mixed into his delectable strawberry banana smoothie from earlier this morning. It doesn't have anything to do with Puck not answering his calls or bothering to call back. And now standing here in person as if all was normal and well. No. Not at all.

"This is a moment where time travel would be greatly appreciated," he breathes into the phone, and then pushes the end button with a swift tap.

He has a dual urge to both hug and throttle the man standing before him, mega watt smile in place as one of the regular assistants, Teresa, busies herself with measuring around his waist line with a flimsy scrawl of measuring tape; kneeling down, and positioned awfully close to his...

Kurt swallows.

He wasn't wearing anything. Except black boxer briefs.

That were - pretty form fitting, to say the least.

"H-hey."

Lordy Hummel. Get it together!

"I - uh - I thought you were late. I called you like four times. I was just leaving you a message actually."

Puck's muscled arms are spread out to the side, his tan physique cut smoothly like it was housing pipeline underneath the formidable display of olive toned flesh; his abdominal muscles practically pulsating, and his man-V, cut deep enough to rival a parallel ravine that led to... well, places.

Kurt's licking his lips before he can muster any feesible self control.

"Oh, which you can totally ignore by the way. Erase actually. It's probably just static air. And maybe a few words before it cuts off."

"Right. Yeah, my phone is - um - kinda in my pants. Which are somewhere over there," Puck nods his head over to some area in the corner housing a vanity. "They've been measuring me, and double checking the fit on some of the clothes so, yeah. Sorry about that Princess."

"S'fine. No worries. Um - where's John?"

"I think talking with Midget Bo-I mean, uh, your boss. Last minute pow wow about the layout or some crap."

"Okay. I'm just gonna set my stuff up. I'll be back to - um - to start with you. With fitting you. Clothing you. For the first shot. I'll be back."

He's so rambling right now. And so sounding like a complete moronic, school boy, tongue-tied, ass... burglar, or whatever. Once again, the getting it together needs to happen Hummel.

His inner voice could be such a little bitch sometimes, he chastises - well, himself. He puts his stuff down on the vanity near Puck's discarded garments, then beelines for the set restroom.

He pats water onto his face with swift, repetitious movements that are stereotypically dainty. But he doesn't care. He was wearing a shimmering eyeliner to compliment his messier faux do today, and fuck if he didn't want to waste it on deferring this unnecessary mini-melt down.

"Okay. He's your friend. That's it. So stop thinking with your dick, Hummel," He scolds himself aloud with a pointed glare at his reflection in the mirror looming over the sink.

"Plus he's got... It's not right. He's not like that, and he's vulnerable, and - yes, really gorgeous, if you take away the fact that it's freaking Puckerman. But you're just helping him. That's all. Yeah. So don't get all predatory and creepy. He doesn't deserve that. Now game face!"

He exhales, and vacates the restroom with a fixed expression: calm, collected. He marches across the room, ignoring any passing glances in his direction, and stands directly in front of Puck; who was now decked out in speedos... only.

"So did he develop an allergy to clothing since I've been away or..?"

Teresa, her dirty blonde hair tucked into a messy pony tail, barely looks up from her tactical spraying to address Kurt as she adds another quick spritz for good measure to create a sheen on Puck's skin.

"John wants to focus on the undergarments to start off. Then we're working our way up."

"I didn't know we were even gonna be focusing on - um - underwear. At all actually."

"Oh don't tell me that you're embarrassed my little baby faced beauty?" John interjects as he suddenly emerges and makes his way toward the small group.

"Your husband is a clear work of art. You should feel privileged to share, this," and John places a single digit on Puck's shoulder, gliding a slick, but brief path over the skin there before shaking his finger as if it'd been burned. "With the world."

Puck looks disgusted by the weird caress, but to his credit remains silent. With the exception of his expression. The clenched jaw and narrowed gaze were clearly screaming the bloodiest of mutinies. Or murder. Probably murder.

"That's not the problem. We didn't talk about this for today. I thought we were doing the evening and formal wear items. Where did this even come from?"

"Lorraine, my dearest. I consulted with her about it just a bit ago," John explained, sauntering several paces away to begin checking over his camera equipment. Kurt blinks, feeling slightly dismissed, then follows him over, trying to keep the edge from overtaking his tone.

"Well you guys never consulted with me about it. I'm the creative consultant and the senior designer. Specifically for this project. I should have a say."

John chuckles with a flourish while sifting through his camo bag.

"Sweatheart. The undergarments are obviously not in conjunction with your work. This is for another account. A very big one, that we shant discourage or put off. Calvin Klein as a matter of fact."

"You aren't - wait, what?"

John laughs again. And God does he sound like a stupid Disney villain. That mustache is not helping.

"You heard correctly. Lorraine locked in a deal just under the wire. Sent them shots from our last shoot, and they were excited to take a bite out of your man - try him out for their Fall and Winter campaign. Now we have to get these shots and we'll definitely need your creative mind with the set up, and overall decorative choices. You know, hair and all that."

Kurt is biting his lip. He's not sure if it's to quell his growing agitation or outright refrain from speaking. Probably both. He's almost at the point of prayer to the Spaghetti Monster itself. Eventually, he finds himself capable of speech. The strain of keeping his voice calm is challenging, but not impossible.

"I think this is a great opportunity for him. I do. I still would've appreciated being forewarned. He is my husband after all. Especially with a client like Calvin Klein."

John stands up, tinkering with the sight on the camera, then locks eyes with Kurt.

"Honey, Lorraine knows you. Asking or telling. What option do you think works best for you?"

Kurt is seething, but succumbs to the buzzing in his head that trickles into silence. There isn't a retort worthy enough to combat something that truthful. Lorraine does indeed know him well. Lorraine knew that he probably would've bitched and griped, or basically convinced Puck to walk out and not do it.

Principles, and having some sense of dignity. Not giving into the demands of the system, and whatever arguments were suitable to get the job done, he could've drummed them up. All of them compiling a bunch of complicated liberal dribble, meant to cover up the fact that he just didn't like the idea of Puck being showcased like a slab of meat. Not in that way. Especially with his body being riddled by a potentially terminal disease. It just seemed... wrong.

"I'm gonna help put you and him in another tax bracket if this goes well. So save the modesty for the nunnery sister. Let the boy parade, and focus on doing your job. I'll see you over there."

John crosses the dusty wood slated floor, and immediately settles the camera onto the stand, commenting on the lighting and shooting off directions to his team who swarm to adjust the scenery, and assess Puck like a science experiment.

Kurt breathes out the heaviest sigh ever, counts backwards from twenty, and then revamps his game face beforing tredding over to join the swarm.


Puck

"Oh God, just rape me! Rape me with your eyes! That's it. Now tilt your chin. Just a bit more and... perfect. Flex! Let your muscles rip through your skin. Yes! Exactly!"

He was trying. With every fiber of his being he was trying.

Mostly to not walk over and bash Creepy John over the skull with one of the light fixtures. But every time he adjusted himself into some other ridiculous pose, he'd catch Hummel out of the corner of his eye.

He could tell whatever he'd spoken to the Creeper about, hadn't been a welcome or even positive exchange. He could see it in the rigid posture, and that thing that Princess sometimes did when he was holding back - biting his inner cheek, and chewing his bottom lip like his face was part Bubblicious.

The kid was bothered. That much was plain.

"Okay, now I want you to look outwards. Like you're staring into a dark abyss that's coming towards you. A darkness that wants nothing more than to possess your body. Caress it, and explore every crevice. Swallowing you whole. In one mouthful."

"Yo! Alright, I'm good. I need a break."

"Darling we're just getting started here. I need you to be tip top. We have a long schedule."

"I get it. I feel like - woozy, or something. I need to rehydrate. That cool?"

"Well yes, of course. Get him some water! Or whatever it is that this brilliant homage to Greek sculpture work desires. Keep making me happy, and I'll do nothing short of milk Jesus' seed for your personal replenishment."

He pushes past Teresa and several other assistants who assail him with various bottles of liquid, from vitamin water to some other energy shit he doesn't recognize. He strides directly toward Hummel without missing a beat.

"Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?" Kurt poses once he reaches him, looking concerned.

"I was gonna ask you the same."

"What?"

Puck gently guides Kurt by the arm toward the nearest corner to avoid being overheard.

"What did he say to you?"

"Who? John?"

"No. The other creepy molester prototype. 'Course him. Is everything cool?"

"Yeah. It's fine. Everything's good."

Puck takes a moment to look him over.

"You're a horrible liar, Hummel."

"Look, it's nothing to worry about. So let's just, let you take a break. I'll go get you a gatorade -"

"I'm not thirsty. But my skin literally feels like I have jizz, actual man jizz all over it. Like Johnny boy's eyeballs, literally produce dick spunk with every second they linger. It's gross."

Kurt snorts in response, which influences Puck's urge to chuckle. They share a laugh, and Puck inwardly pats himself on the back for making some of Hummel's tell tale icecapade, protective Princess wall, melt away. Even if it's just a small chunk. A few bars less anyway was a step.

"This underwear deal, I mean - it's kinda cool. You know, Calvin Klein, the whole Marky Mark thing. But I honestly was just going along with it because I thought this was what you wanted. You know - that this was part of what they needed from you, or whatever. But - um - if this isn't cool, for like - you, I don't have to do this. I've seen myself in my underwear. I don't need to see it beyond my own mirror."

Princess ducks his head, kind of like he was gathering his thoughts. When he looks up, his lips are slipping into a decent side grin; the pinkened flesh settling with an ease that seemed like a rarity.

"I want you to do what you're okay with doing. Honestly. Was I caught off guard? Yes. But you do look good. And this will be just another opportunity for you to really get something so good out of this whole thing. I could never tell you not to go for that, Noah."

It was something about the way he said it. There was so much care, like honest care laced in each syllable.

It feels strangely easy to do. Puck reaches up to gently tilt Princess' chin, maneuvering his face just a touch to the side. He then plants a quick one on his cheek before trekking back to the shooting area.

"Alright Johnny. I'm in for a few more. Then we're moving on to Kurt's things."

"Sorry? Did you actually partake in drinking Jesus juice during the break handsome?"

Puck shoots his infamous Puckasaurus smirk at the dude like a throwing a knife.

"Nope. But I will walk my happy Hebrew ass out of here if we don't move onto shooting Kurt's clothes. Then you won't have a model. And you'll have the pleasure of explaining that one to Ms. Warrenson. I have it on good authority that she likes my work. A lot."

He then leans in closer, mere inches from the other man.

"Plus, I won't be able to, you know, man handle you with my eyes and shit."

John's expression morphs from playful intrigue, to an obviously pissed state. But underneath the immediate annoyance, Puck could've sworn the dick was harboring a bubbling appreciation within that same beady glare.

His dark eyes narrow as they take in Puck's frame. For Puck, it was a refreshing and very welcome change from pretty much any of the looks the guy normally gives him.

"We'll do one more wardrobe change with the undies, and then we'll move on. Work for you?"

Puck catches Kurt's eye from across the room. The smile was contagious it seemed.

"Yep. Peachy."

And so it went, that he strutted around and hammed it up flash after flash, until Creeper called out that he'd gotten what he needed, and that they needed to change the set up.

He was trying not to move too much when that Teresa woman and some other chick were prodding and poking at him while getting him suited up.

Kurt seemed to be discussing something with Johnny boy a few yards away.

"Don't worry. Kurt isn't John's type if that's what you're worried about."

"What?"

"You're staring. A lot." Teresa comments while fixing the hem on his pant leg. "Daggers is an understatement."

Puck shakes his head, making some ridiculous snorting sound - to make sure she got how like - not, that is.

"Nah. I just wanna make sure he's cool."

"Right. Well, you're all set."

She pats his shin, and stands to quickly look him over. He's startled by the sound of Hummel's voice just over his shoulder.

"You look - um -"

"Like James Bond," Puck jokes.

"Really amazing, I was going to say. Not that the underwear didn't suit you. But something about you in an actual suit... It's just - it's nice."

Puck's eyes thin, his grin widening. "Are you flirting with me, Princess?"

"Wishful thinking gets you nowhere Puckerman." Kurt runs his hands over Puck's shoulders, smoothing out the jacket material, and probably eyeballing a hemline or some shit, before pulling back with a satisfied smile.

"If you want me to take you to Prom Hummel, all you had to do was ask?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, but Puck notes that they're kind of warm looking, and way less cutting then they'd been earlier. Kurt responds by flicking his fingers through Puck's comb over, adjusting some apparently wayward strands, and then starts calling for quiet on the set.

True Puck had never had a problem with getting naked. He's always been pretty secure with his body. It was maybe one of the only things in his life that he felt mostly at ease with, secure about; that he had absolute control over. At least until recently. Inside and now even outside, what with being ordered around and put on display like a fucking show dog, or some kind of showy type animal, he was losing total control over the one thing that was always his.

But standing there in a perfectly cut suit, tailored to his build, and constructed by someone who was sort of becoming kind of - well, important to him... an unexpected friend, he never felt more like a bad ass. It was stupid, and made no sense really. But that's how he felt. So eat it, inner Puck voice that sometimes sounded like Santana. Just - eat it hard!

A little of it might've been Kurt's comment. A little. But the kid didn't need to know that though. Like - ever.

Fuck Calvin Klein.


Kurt

Exhausted? Check.

Needed food? Check.

Going to ignore both of those things to check his e-mail? Check.

He tossed his bag onto the couch, and then wandered over to his office area, pulling open his laptop, and slumping into his desk chair.

As the computer loaded up, his mind runs over the events of the day; snippets being screened in his mind's eye, captured like a movie through various states of rewind.

John's continuous ability to always produce a discomfort that enveloped a person as easily as breathing. His sinewy body, ducking, and nearly contorting itself to take pictures while he practically oozes all over the floor, shouting out comments that would even make Carrie from Sex in the City blush. Hell, Samantha might even have had to struggle with gagging just a little.

The look of Kurt's clothing. He had confidence before in his men's formal wear, but after today, he knew that he'd strode into another league. The fashion forward one that haunted his psyche, and peeled at the edges of his dreams; the battle of his dreams both alluding and enticing him finally finding a middle ground.

And Puck, he looked - it was like the line was made for him. The bastard looked smoldering. It was like he'd been transported into another person, his eyes alight with something that complimented and bolstered the varied suits potential more than any distinctive pose, or stance could've accomplished.

He didn't realize it until he was already logged in, that he'd somewhere along the line decided that he deserved some social down time. Which basically meant trolling Facebook.

He narrows his eyes, a mixture of awe and curiousity at noting the amount of messages flooding his inbox. Mostly all from today.

"Um - okay, who died?" He asks aloud, clicking onto the first message; one of amongst exactly thirty two.

Ms. Mercedes Jones

- wrote:

Okay?! WHAT THE HELL, white boy? This has to be a joke. But I'm not laughing. AT ALL! Call me! Seriously Boo we need to talk. ASAP!

He skims through several more private messages from her, all of which pretty much contain the same theme. Capitalized threats and urges for him to call her to explain himself.

"Okay - um - definitely need to call you, just to make sure you're stable. Now..."

He taps the enter button to open a message from Artie. Not a rare occurrence, but kind of unusual to hear directly from him. Most of their exchanges consist of 'liking' posts and leaving witty remarks here and there about whatever political, or newsworthy item they reposted or felt the need to comment on.

RobotWheelz

- wrote:

Kurt! That shit is crazy, yo! I'm not usually one for cursing, but I had to drop one on you to sum up my feelings of unrest, surprise, and weird... uh, acceptance? I checked it over like twenty times on zoom, and my editing capabilities tell me that it ain't fake so... Congrats! I guess. Long as you dudes are happy. Hit me up and give me the details.

He scrolls down further, his heart starting to quicken its pace. He clicks on another message at random.

"Okay, wait. Even Santana wrote me? What the hell?"

SNIX

- wrote:

And here I thought you were saving yourself to be the Prince of England's secret side of ass. You seem to be full of surprises Lady Hummel. Interesting ones. Salud! And be gentle with Puck. He's new to the game. Unless he's been secretly whoring to make money - which, who knows? It's LA after all. Drop the soap!

PS - I'd be offended at the lack of an invite. If I actually gave two shits.

At this point, he's frantically searching, trying to make sense. He spots a message from Finn.

Frankenteennowman

- wrote:

If you don't call me to explain this, I'm gonna fly to LA, beat the shit out of Puck, and disown you to your face! Seriously, what the hell is this?! You guys better be joking. This better be some prank thing. I didn't tell your dad. I don't want to be responsible for giving Burt another heart attack. Or for making it explode or something. TELL ME THIS IS A JOKE!

His eyes are watering, and he's starting to wonder if the fear that's building in his chest cavity is going to give him a heart attack. He notes some messages from several other Glee Club members, college friends, and the like. Blaine and Rachel have left him a few a piece, but he can't bother to read anymore. This is crazy.

He breezes through the home page, skimming like a mad man for a sign of something.

And then it's there: Big. Bold. And unequivocally damning.

It was a picture from his wedding. THE picture, if you will; of he and Puck kissing at the alter.

"Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no. Wha - I - What the fucking bloody, rampaging, Gaga, shit storm, son of a fuck is this?!" WHAT THE HELL?!"

And his doorbell rings. Right as his heart is pretty close to capsizing. He literally has his hand over his chest, partly suprised at the intrusion at his door, but also the intrusion and Facebook assault that has essentially turned his world upside down.

Another ring, and then an impatient bout of knocking.

"I'm - I'm coming! Just - just give me a freakin' second!"

It's like he can't seem to pull himself away. Like leaving his screen open with that picture corralled inside it, was asking for it to do more damage. The captured moment admittedly looked anything but innocent, or accidental.

More knocking.

"Okay, okay. Jesus!" He shouts as he hurries toward the door. "I'm coming, I'm walking, walking, and I'm opening the God damn..."

A stranger. Some man. Short in stature, kind of mousy, with a balding brunette head, ample mustache that epitomized rustic, Burt Reynolds nostalgia, and short sleeved white collared shirt with a brownish, sadly boring tie. He also had a plastic ID badge around his neck, which he currently had held up.

"Door. Um - sorry, can I help you?"

"Mr. Hummel-Puckerman?"

Oh what the good Charlatan is this now?

"Uh, yes. That is. I am him - me. That is me. Can I help you?"

"Harold. Harold Pussey. Spelled P-U-S-S-E-Y. Accent over the 'Sey'. It's French. I'm with the Department of Social Services."

Kurt knew that his eyebrows were cuddling his hairline. So he's still silent, waiting. Ah, he's expecting Kurt to take his turn now. Okay, then.

"Uh huh?"

"Well sir. I was here to complete an assessment with you and your husband," He pauses to open up a hideous burgundy planner, quickly glancing over a few notations, and then looks back up, "A Mr. Noah Puckerman. Well Hummel-Puckerman now."

"An assessment?"

"Yes sir. I'm a licensed clinical social worker, and my job is to meet with the newly married gay and lesbian couples who utilize and share federal funding, and the corporate insurance policies of their partners."

"I'm sorry. Harold?"

"Mr. Pussey."

"Right. Mr. Pussey. Are you saying that you're here to check in on us because of Puck - I mean, of Noah, being put on my medical insurance?"

"Truthfully? Yes sir, I am. You see we're required to do these, well as you say, 'check-in's' to establish the validity of the marriage. As it turns out, there have been a lot of fraudulent medical claims resulting from same sex partnerships. Particularly in the Los Angeles county area since the law has passed to legalize gay marriage here in the state of California. People marrying each other for the benefits. Friends helping friends out. Some people even hiring someone from say Craiglist, to make the arrangement and be able to use their insurance coverage on a payment plan policy. It's pretty ridiculous the lengths that people will go. I've definitely seen a few doozies since I've been doing this line of work."

"Right. Crazy," He breathes, a sparse, lifeless chuckle leaving his lips to punctuate the whispered words.

"May I come in? Is your husband in?"

"Um - yeah. And no - no, he's not in. Not at the moment. Actually, it would probably be better for you to come back when he's here. Right? I mean that makes more sense."

"Oh I will be coming back. Another time for sure. But would it be alright for me to come in now? You know, since I made the drive and everything? Maybe have a glass of water?"

"Uh - yes. Of course. Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. Come in, of course."

Kurt pushes open the door, allowing the shorter man to waltz in. As soon as he closes it, he notices the stupid picture of he an Alan, propped up on the end table near the sofa. Fuck him and his unaddressed issues for not getting rid of the damn thing.

He races past Pussey, and slams the photo down, turning back with a smile. Thankfully the man was too busy looking over Kurt's artwork on the walls to have noticed the manic behavior.

"You're a Kessler fan?" Kurt asks conversationally.

"Nah. More of a classical enthusiast myself. All this new age, modern stuff just makes me cringe. It's like anyone can throw something on a canvass and call it art, you know?"

"Exactly. Um - so, can I trouble you for a bottle of water, or some low calorie juice, V8?"

"Water's good. Thank you."

Kurt is surprised Pussey can't overhear his heartbeat from the other room. He takes his time pouring the bottle of water into a glass, hoping that his heart would hammer a little less, and that the little man would appreciate the thoughtfulness of the gesture. Then get the fuck out.

"So, that's a shame that some people are taking advantage of the system like that." Kurt calls into the other room from the kitchen.

"Marriage is such a sacred thing." He continues. "Um - so what happens to them? The couples that - uh - get caught up in these false marriages?"

"Depends," Pussey calls back.

"On?" Kurt queries, willing his voice to sound steady as he leans on the kitchen counter for support.

"Well, on the type of false coverage claims that were made. Somebody who was only using it for minor medical issues, check-up's, dental appointments, new glasses, things like that. Small penalties and fees. Residuals mostly. But someone using it for say major medical procedures: hospitalizations, long term medical care. You could be looking at jail time. Six months to a year."

Kurt was thankful that he was holding onto the counter and that he was out of Pussey's direct line of sight. He was most certain that he'd have fallen and made a bloody mess of himself in the broken glass from the water cup he definitely would've lost his grip on. He inhales, and exhales, trying to catch his breath.

"Oh. Wow. That sounds terrible." Kurt reasserts his grip on the glass, trying to keep the tremble from showing, and plasters on his homiest, friendliest smile indicative of a church going, saint before traipsing back into the living room.

"Here you go."

"Thank you," Mr. Pussey nods in gratitude, accepting the glass. Kurt sits at the other end of the sofa, folding his hands together to maintain a semblance of calm.

"I noticed that you don't really have any photos around. Well, of you and Noah. Together."

Don't you dare panic, Hummel. Keep it together. Think: Acting.

"Noah's not a big fan of the whole having pictures posted everywhere, thing. Too Hallmarky. Plus he doesn't think he's very photogenic."

"That's strange. My understanding is that he's also working as a male model?"

Fuck. Brilliant, Kurt.

"He - um - see's it as a job. He never likes to look at the finished product. I always tell him that he's gorgeous, but he insists that he gets enough of himself at the job, so why come home to his mug all over the place here, too? Silly man, right? His ability to be humble always strikes such a chord with me."

"Hm. Indeed. So how long have you been a couple?"

"Um, well. Not long. We've known each other for years. Went to high school together. We just reconnected only a few months - about six months ago. Hit it off, and the rest was history."

More like less than a month. But he didn't need to know that.

"So a fast courting then?"

"Very. It was like - like, we couldn't keep our hands off of each other. I wanted to be coy and play hard to get, but there was just something so, animal and insatiably carnal about him - about us. Together. And then before we knew it, we were skipping down the aisle. In between tearing each others clothes off. More water?"

"No. I'm fine. I think that'll be all for now."

"Great, great. I'll walk you to the door."

Mr. Pussey looks slightly affronted by Kurt's sudden upheaval and quick pace as he follows him toward the door.

"Uh - what should I do with the -"

"I'll take it. No worries," he chuckles while reclaiming the empty glass. "I love to clean dishes. Noah can't get enough of my domestic side."

"Right. So I'll be in touch."

"Great. Can't wait."

When he pulls open the door to allow Mr. Pussey's highly anticipated exit, he's greeted by none other than...

"Puckerman?"

He was dressed in his normal, casual attire. A hooded sweatshirt and dark, boot cut jeans. His hand was raised in the air as if he had just been about to knock on the door.

"Hey. I was just - Mmph!"

Kurt launches himself at him, knocking him into the opposite wall and kissing him fiercely.

When he pulls away, Puck looks both dazed and slightly irritable.

"Dude, what the hell?!"

"Honey! I love when we role play and you call me dude. But we have company. This is Mr. Pussy - um - Pussey. Sorry."

"It's French," the other man interjects.

"Right. So Mr. Pussey was here to assess us, and see how - uh - legitimate and amazing our love is. I guess there's been some gay couples who've been making false claims for insurance purposes or something?"

Please, let the light bulb turn on. Please let there be light...

"Oh. Yeah. Totally, babe. That sounds - um - shitty, of them." Puck reaches down and intertwines their fingers. Kurt leans into him, flashing a beaming smile across the hall at Mr. Pussey. Thanks be to whatever creature dwells upstairs, atop the clouds.

"Ah. So you are Noah Hummel-Puckerman, correct?"

"Indeed I am sir."

Mr. Pussey puts out his hand for Puck to shake.

"Nah. I'm a hugger. Hugs not drugs, right dude?" And Puck lumbers forward and embraces the smaller man in an awkward bear hug.

Kurt's anxiety was spiked high enough that he manages not to laugh hysterically at the sight. Puck nearly lifted the guy off of his feet. When he releases him, Pussey clears his throat, then steps back with a suspicious gleam in his eye as he quickly readjusts his tie.

"My Noah is quite the glutton for affection," Kurt chimes in with a grossly merry tint to his voice.

"I see. Thank you. I'm afraid I won't be able to conduct the full assessment at this point. I would stay to speak with you more, but I have an appointment to get to in Westminster. Traffic and all."

"Well that's too bad, dude. I got a good vibe from you. You're a good hugger," Puck proclaims, fastening his arm around Kurt's shoulder.

"Uh - okay, then." Mr. Pussey concludes, nodding dubiously, and then dismissing himself. He strides down the third floor hallway, and disappears around the corner; like a phantom... menace.

Is that a movie or something?

Star Trek, or... Oh. Right, Puck told him about it being the suckiest sell out film in the history of the Star Wars franchise. Why he even thinks of that now is beyond him. There were certainly more pressing matters at the moment.

Like who was trying to ruin his life by putting up that photo.

Also the fact that he could be seeing the inside of a fucking prison cell at this rate. Which - just, no. He had prison bitch written over every square inch of his body. He wasn't built to last. Not in prison terminology anyway.

Kurt storms back inside of his apartment, wasting no time before he snatches up his cell phone. He'd turned it off during the course of the day for the photoshoot, and had forgotten to turn it back on. When the screen saver flashes into life, and all of the icons and apps load, he immediately clicks onto his message icon.

"I have over fifty messages. Ten alone are from Finn. I can't even listen to them. Oh this is not good. This is terribly - horribly not good."

"So you've seen it?"

"Yes! Yes, I've seen it. Who hasn't seen it?!"

"Yeah, I got a couple of messages from Satan. Finn's already threatened me on like - five different messages. I think every one has a different method of torture in it."

"Perfect. Great. Now all that's missing is poisonous snakes biting my freakin' face off! Did one of your friends do this? Was it Wyatt?"

Puck shakes his head.

"Fuck no! They wouldn't have done that shit!"

Kurt shoots him a mutinous, skeptical, skin peeling glare in response.

"What?! I'm telling you. None of them even brought there phones in the building. I made it clear. Especially with Wyatt."

Kurt lets out a sound that's probably similar to the growl of some sad, forest dwelling mammal, then stomps back into his office area, Puck trailing at his heels. He plops back into his chair and refreshes the Facebook page.

People have already left twelve more messages since he had last looked at it.

He peers at the name labeled above the picture.

"Of - fucking - course," Kurt blubbers angrily.

Puck squints down at the screen, taking in the name that in a way, didn't at all surprise Kurt.

"Oh c'mon! Your fucking boyfriend?!"

Alan had struck. Again.

"He's not my boyfriend anymore! Eight relationship free months can attest to that, in case you haven't noticed!"

"Whatever! Your ex, douchey, dick faced, asshole, ex-lover, whatever the fuck - just totally outted you."

"You too. Or did you think I was sucking my own face in that picture?"

Puck runs his hand through his mohawk, taking a beat. He sounds a little less agitated when he speaks again.

"I already told you, Kurt. I don't care about what they think of me. It doesn't matter. But I know you were worried about your family knowing about us. Your dad and everything. That sucks. I'm sorry."

Kurt somehow draws a sense of calm from Puck's renewed air of tranquility. The anger is merely sizzling, not bursting and engulfing him to the point of an outright rage.

"I guess it was a bit naive to think that they were going to stay in the dark forever. And now with this Mr. Pussey sniffing around, I don't know. Maybe it's better this way."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe we really need to sell this to everybody. Them included."

"You don't want to tell them - about - well, you know... tell them the truth?"

Kurt knows exactly what Puck means. What he wasn't actually saying. And he was grateful to the point of being speechless. It was Puckerman's way of giving permission to disclose about his Cancer.

But Kurt would never do that.

"No. I think under the circumstances, it's better to let them think it's real. I honestly think it's probably safer at this point. If they think it's real, then all the more reason for Pussey to think so too. Think about it. What if he snoops around and asks our family's questions? Isn't it better for them to genuinely believe it?"

"Even if they hate it more than the devil." Puck comments sarcastically.

"Even so. Puck, he was talking about jail time."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Actual, butt raping, salad tossing, HBO's Oz, and Orange is the New God damn Black, jail time. You and I both know that I'm a bit too delicate and egotistical to be passed around for a pack of gum."

"That's true," Puck concedes.

"Right. So we have to make some changes. This has got to be legitimate. At least enough for him to buy what we're selling, and leave us the hell alone."

"Fuck. I'm really sorry about this Princess. I didn't think - I didn't know it was gonna be like this."

Kurt reaches out, putting his hand on Puck's shoulder; providing moderate pressure. It was meant to comfort Puck, but it was working to concurrently amplify his own surge of certainty.

"Don't be sorry. Be proactive. Help me so you can get the help. This isn't just about me getting a leg up at work anymore. Now both of our lives are on the line, Noah."

Puck looks up from where he'd been burning holes into the carpet. He seems, if anything, a touch more determined.

"Okay. Yeah. Let's make it happen Your Majesty. So what's first?"

Kurt musters a smile, dropping his hand away.

"Well, how do you feel about being roomies with the kid you used to make king of the dumpster dive?"


A/N: This one flowed much more easily once I started going. Thank you guys for the uplifting comments from last chap! Very grateful and enthused. I was really pleased to note that you guys thought Puck was captured pretty well, so I'm hoping I was able to do so with Kurt on this chap. Also, I made up all the stuff about the Social Services rules as well. Also the artist name Kurt mentions. I liked the name. Liberty of fiction. Shoot me your thoughts! (: