Author's note: This is two long days' writing. It's wonderful and terrible to see the scenes that have been in my head for months, coming together at last. There are a few surprises here, too, one notable one from Kurt.
I expect you know by now that my inspiration is largely musical. Certain songs have formed this story, and I've been listening to many of them nonstop while I write. This chapter was largely shaped by three songs: "Now" from the upcoming musical Home by Scott Alan, sung incredibly by Jonathan Groff; "Goodnight My Angel" by Billy Joel, sung equally incredibly by John Stamos; and "Ghost" by the Indigo Girls. My playcount on all three songs has exceeded the number of hours it took me to write this chapter. You can hear two of these three songs, and most of the others from this story, on the Donutverse Youtube playlist, here: http:/ www. youtube. com/playlist?list=PLD240CD7441F64E8C
Incidentally, if you want to know what Davis Lawton looks like, look no further: http:/ www. flickr. com/photos/nubianamy/6490886351/in/photostream
After the events of this chapter, the story of Bending in the Archer's Hand splits into two concurrent stories. I hope you will not miss the next part of the Donutverse saga, set in Santa Fe, titled The Breath Before the Phrase, as well as sticking with our characters here at home.
Endless thanks to songirl77 for the lyrics to Puck's song for Finn and Kurt.
-amy
Angela wasn't there when Finn arrived at Carl's office after school. Instead, Mr. Lawton sat behind the desk, sorting through papers. He looked like a grownup at a kid's desk, in his fancy suit and perfectly arranged blonde hair, trying to fit his long limbs into the space usually taken by petite Angela. He smiled at Finn as he walked through the glass front doors.
"Hi," Finn said. "Where's Angela?"
Mr. Lawton stacked his papers and made a neat pile of them on one corner of the desk. "She has another assignment this afternoon," he said. "You might see her later. How are you today, Finn?"
"I'm doing all right," he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. He'd actually felt a lot better after those few words with Puck in Spanish class, but when he'd hurried to the attic room after school for their meeting, no one had been there. He wasn't answering his phone, either. "We had a complicated week. We had a fight - me and Puck - but I think things are getting better."
"A fight, hmm? Did you resolve things?" Finn could tell Mr. Lawton was paying close attention to what he was saying, even though his eyes were on the paperwork in front of him. He realized, with a start, that Mr. Lawton probably knew all about the baby - he was Puck's lawyer, after all - but he also knew there was a rule which said he couldn't talk about it with anybody.
"Not yet," said Finn, "but I think we have a chance of making it work."
"I'm really glad to hear that," said Mr. Lawton. "The three of you have high ambitions for your relationship. Even adults would fumble sometimes in the situation you're in. Let me tell Carl you're here."
Finn moved restlessly around the lobby, looking at the art on the walls. He'd originally thought they were abstract shapes, but now he realized they were actually really, really close-up photos of familiar things. He identified alligator clips, a hairbrush and a ruler before he realized the theme. Tools, he thought, his face heating. After that, it was easier to tell that this image was a close-up of the tails of a flogger, that one a cane, and that one - he gulped - looked like a braided bullwhip.
"You like that one?" Carl's smooth voice came right behind him, and Finn jumped a little. He was smiling, dressed in a plain white shirt and tie and dress slacks, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
"I'm still a little freaked out by the idea of using any of those things," Finn said. "Actually, it's all kind of freaking me out right now. After what happened."
"Come on back to my office," Carl said, with a friendly hand on Finn's back. He closed the door quietly behind them and sat down on the couch beside the fireplace, leaning forward on his knees with an interested expression. Finn sat on the very edge of the black leather chair adjacent. "Now, tell me what this is all about."
Finn looked at his hands. "I don't know how much you already know."
"You're going to have to assume nothing," Carl said gently. "Otherwise I'd be giving away what others might be telling me, and that's definitely not going to happen. This is a strictly confidential environment, even between lovers. I often have both members of couples as clients."
Finn jerked his head up, surprised. "Really?"
"Sure. Both partners of a couple often need something from a discipline relationship, and they can't always meet each other's needs all the time."
Finn considered this. "Do you ever have clients who... who've never done this before, and they realize that one partner wants it, but the other one doesn't?"
"All the time," Carl nodded gamely. "Absolutely. And sometimes the reluctant partner just needs a little time to come to terms with what it means to offer discipline as part of a loving relationship. People come from all walks of life, Finn, and they carry all kinds of baggage into their relationships. It makes sense that those of us who desire this kind of interaction will take time to acclimate to it, and all its ramifications."
Finn nodded back, the worry twisting his heart. He gazed down at the stone flagons of the fireplace and watched it burn.
"What's this all about, Finn?" Carl asked again, more gently. He reached over and briefly laid his hand on top of Finn's as it gripped the arm of his chair.
"It started with Puck's daughter," he said, watching Carl's face, and Carl nodded for him to continue. "He wanted to keep her. I guess, since he's underage, it's not an automatic thing that he gets to be a parent, but he went through the paperwork with Mr. Lawton to petition for parental rights. He got Quinn - she's the mother - to sign off." He sighed. "Quinn was my girlfriend, but she and Puck -"
"I got it," Carl said easily. "What happened?"
"I told him - I didn't think it was a good idea. Puck's life, it's not the most stable, and he has trouble managing sometimes. I thought, bringing a kid into the mix - not the best idea, you know? So I told him, look, I know you want this, but you've got to trust me, it's not good for you to be a father now. Let someone else be the kid's father, somebody better equipped. Somebody who can give her everything she needs." Finn cast an appeal at Carl. "Does that make sense?"
Carl was silent for a long moment. He looked like he was struggling with something. "It does," he said, finally. "It does make sense. I can understand that point of view - very well." His blue eyes flashed at Finn, and Finn's breath caught for a moment at the intensity behind them. "But I can also see Puck's view. When you're somebody's father - that's not something that goes away, no matter what you want to have happen. You're always tied to that person."
"That's what he said, too." Finn closed his eyes. "I can see now, that I wasn't listening to him, that I could have been a better - a better Top? I could have given him support and helped him without taking away his ability to make decisions for himself... and even if I didn't understand, I could have been his friend. I mean, I still am. His friend."
Carl gazed at him. "You're a lot more than that to him," he said quietly.
Finn swallowed thickly, trying not to cry in front of this impressive man. He wanted to impress him, he wanted - wanted to be good, to make him proud. "Yes," he whispered. "He's a lot more than that, to me."
"So." He leaned back and regarded Finn again, this time more critically. "You disciplined him. You set down some rules?"
"Yes," Finn said. "I told him he needed to let go of her, that he couldn't - that he shouldn't - have her. And he said he wouldn't. He said he would stay with me, and he would give her up." Finn felt the burning anger rise up again, faster than he would have believed, and saw through Carl's eyes that he could see it too. "But he lied. He lied right to my face, over and over." The anger was choking him.
"That... is unfortunate," Carl said regretfully, nodding. "But you have to realize, that's part of the dynamic between Top and brat sometimes. The brat will push boundaries, try to find any way out of the contract, push every button you have. It's your job not to take it personally, not to let it get to you, and provide firm, clear expectations - and equally clear consequences when those expectations are not met."
"But what if I can't do that?" Finn protested. "I messed up. Big time. I punched him. I... I don't think I can trust myself around him, if I'm going to get angry like that."
"Now, wait a minute." Carl held up a hand and shook his head. "You've got to stop that right now. First of all, you're going to get angry. It's part of who you are. Everybody gets angry. Your goal is just not to let it eat at you. What Puck did, it wasn't about you. You can be angry about what he did, you can be angry about how he's being - but you can't let it rule your interaction with him. If you lose your temper, you apologize and move on."
His gaze hardened, and suddenly his eyes were diamond on Finn, making him squirm. "And second... you can't expect yourself to be perfect. Nobody is. You saw me screw up, right here in this office - and there were consequences for me. I needed them as much as anyone." There was a flash of humor in his eyes before they went right back to stern. "Just as there will be consequences for you, young man."
"I -" Finn found himself frozen, eyes wide and fixed on Carl. "I'm not sure what you -"
"What you give your boys, Finn. It's what you need, too." He wasn't letting him look away, not even to blink. Finn's eyes were watering, but his mouth was dry. He had a death grip on the arms of the chair.
"I don't think I can - " he choked.
"Oh, yes, you can," Carl said, smooth and calm. He stood, and Finn looked up at him, his breath coming faster. He held out his tanned hand. "Come with me."
Even as he thought, am I really going to do this? he was rising from the chair and following Carl out the door and up the stairs, chin tucked to his chest, apparently not even ready to argue with him about it. He barely noticed their surroundings as they emerged into an octagonal room filled with light. Carl led him into an adjacent room, one with a wooden chair and a large wardrobe and nothing else. Finn sat down in the chair, straight and tall, waiting for what Carl was going to tell him.
"We need to take care of some business, Finn," Carl said firmly. "Tell me, in one sentence: what's this all about?"
"I hit Puck, in anger," Finn said immediately.
"Which is something you may not do to any sub," he stressed. "You're there to give him guidance and discipline, not react to his poor decisions. It undermines your authority and can hurt him, especially if he's dealt with abuse." Carl looked meaningfully at Finn.
"I know," he said, closing his eyes. "I want to take it all back. I wish it had never happened."
"But it did. Ignoring it isn't going to make it go away. You've got to deal with it, up front, honestly." Carl crossed his arms in front of his chest. "And you've got to give him his own discipline for what he did wrong. That's just as important, Finn. Consistency, here, is for his own good. Do you understand?"
"Yes, s- " His eyes opened, and he hesitated. "Is that okay?"
"It's okay, Finn," said Carl, and his voice was unbelievably kind, so gentle and full of understanding, that Finn started to cry. He didn't know if that was okay, either, but at this point, he didn't have any choice in the matter, because the tears were coming, hard and fast like sleet, and he wasn't going to ignore them for anything.
"That's it," he murmured, placing a hand on Finn's head. "That's a good boy. Just let it come."
Carl moved in close, pulling Finn in roughly to his stomach, and Finn leaned into the embrace, his body shuddering. It was ridiculously easy to let himself fall apart here, in front of Carl, now that he'd given him permission. "I just feel so bad for hurting him," he sobbed.
Carl's hand on his hair was incredibly soothing, even more than resting his head on his abdomen. He stroked Finn's hair and spoke in a quiet monotone. "It's all right. You did something wrong. This will take care of your guilt, and let you move on. This will take care of it."
"Yes, sir," Finn whispered. Already, he felt better, felt the retreat of the guilt in the face of being cared for, and it was staggering how much it changed him. He leaned back, looking up at Carl standing beside him, and wiped his eyes. "Thank you. I'm ready."
Carl's face creased in an astonished smile, just for a moment, and Finn saw the tears glistening in his own eyes. "I always forget how different it is between two Tops." He stepped away from him.
He gestured to the wardrobe, and Finn was reminded strongly of a book his mom had read to him when he was little, one in which four children traveled to another world. "It's customary to choose your own tool," he said. Finn stood and opened the door, and took a breath - because it was almost like being transported somewhere else. Because Lima, Ohio shouldn't have a place where these tools were arrayed like this, like an arsenal, for Finn to pick for his own punishment.
He touched most of them before settling on a simple leather paddle, the largest and plainest. "This one," he said, feeling certain.
Carl nodded, looking pleased. "You prefer utility over show. That's commendable."
"It's not a performance," Finn said, with some heat, and Carl just nodded again.
"No, of course not. It's not for anyone but us."
Finn turned his head, studying Carl's face. "Us?"
"Us," Carl agreed. "You know it's not a one-sided arrangement. It never is - that's what makes it work. I told you some people use the phrase power exchange, because there's a mutual gain between one who Dominates and one who submits."
Finn thought again how remarkable it was that he was several inches taller than Carl, and yet it seemed as though the older man was standing over him, his only tool his eyes. "I was feeling bad, earlier today, for wanting it," he said.
Carl nodded. "Desire is complex. We all get caught in shame sometimes. Even me, after over twenty years." He smiled at Finn. "Do you feel bad now?"
"No," said Finn softly, meeting Carl's eyes. "I don't."
Their gaze was almost too intimate, but Finn stuck with it, feeling the strength and understanding, and other things underneath. Carl took the paddle from him, his face grave.
"If you were my boy," said Carl, still holding his eyes, "I'd put you over my knee."
Finn felt his legs wobble, and he had to clutch at the chair for support. "Okay," he said.
"As it is, I think that might introduce - complications." Carl's smile was rueful. "It'll be better this way. If you don't mind..." He took Finn's hands off the chair, then showed him how he wanted him to stand, hands and legs braced, knees unlocked, bottom in the air.
"You - shouldn't I take off my pants?" Finn asked, his face heating up.
"Mmm," said Carl, rubbing his chin. "This paddle lays a pretty heavy wallop all by itself. But - all right. Go ahead."
Why did I say that? Finn groaned inside his head, but he complied, taking his own jeans down, then, at a nod from Carl, his boxers as well. He tried not to be aware of his own nudity, and the proximity of another man, someone not his boyfriend, and with whom things that ordinarily accompanied this kind of activity were not going to happen. Instead, he focused on arranging himself appropriately, watching Carl for cues, and waited, taking a steady, even breath.
"Remarkable," Carl said under his breath. He laid the paddle on Finn's bare skin. "You've chosen a word, to use if things get too intense," he reminded him. "I want to hear you say it now."
Carl had coached him to choose a word he wouldn't forget, but one that wouldn't come up in the course of an encounter, like no or stop. "Waterfall," he said.
"Someday you'll have to tell me why you chose that," Carl said. "Not now, though. Right now, your job is to endure this. Don't try to fight it or pretend it doesn't hurt. We both know it does, so there's no point, all right?"
Finn nodded. It seemed like a long time between Carl's last words and his next action, in which the paddle lifted and came down again on Finn's bottom, hard. There was a pause, and Finn had time to think Oh, that's not so - before it landed again, in the same spot, just as hard.
Finn's voice came ripping out of his throat, much louder than he'd ever intended, as the burn began. It only increased, multiplying in intensity, consuming his whole consciousness, and he found himself flinching away, tucking his bottom in a futile effort to avoid the next stroke.
"Finn," Carl said, as calm as ever. "You need to stay still, so I don't accidentally hit something I'm not aiming at. If you can't do that, I'm going to need to restrain you."
Finn moaned and squirmed, but he put himself back into the position he'd started in, and held on to the chair for dear life. It hurt, mother of God, it hurt, it really really hurt - and then the next blow came, and the next, and it was worse, it was so much worse.
"Let it go," Carl said, and each strike landed precisely on the one before. Finn shouted with the pain and frustration of feeling helpless, and he wondered desperately if this was how Puck felt all the time. How does he bear it? he couldn't help thinking, even in the midst of the blistering pain.
"All right, now," he heard, and realized the blows had stopped. Finn hung his head below his shoulders, breath heaving, buttocks on fire - and his mind surprisingly clear.
"That's - all?" he asked, and he cringed a little at how it sounded. "I'm not asking for more, really, I just wanted to know -"
"That's all," Carl said, and ran a hand down Finn's back. Finn shuddered as he felt the response all through his body, and this time the sound that escaped his mouth was unmistakably one of wanting. He cut it off with an embarrassed laugh. Carl took his hand away and smiled; Finn thought Carl's own cheeks might be a little pink.
"Sorry," Finn muttered. He reached down and retrieved his boxers and stepped into them, feeling suddenly far too exposed to be without pants in front of Carl.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Carl said. He waited until Finn had struggled into his jeans, wincing a little, and then he put a hand on Finn's arm. "It's a natural response, for many men. It comes with the release of tension. It means - it worked."
It worked, Finn's mind echoed, and he settled into the sensation of clarity. He sighed. "Yeah," he said. "It did. Thanks." He held out his hand to Carl for him to shake.
Carl considered his hand, looking a little taken aback, but he took it and shook it firmly. "I'm sure you know it's important to take time afterwards, to relax, eat and drink something, and consider your feelings. This isn't simple stuff. Why don't you grab a bottle of water from the cupboard in there, and I'll call down to Davis to bring us a snack in my office, and we can talk."
Carl spoke on the phone briefly to Davis, finishing up just as Finn returned with two bottles of water. He handed one to Carl, who accepted it with a smile.
"Davis - he looked like he was filling in for Angela?" Finn asked, walking stiffly behind Carl on the way downstairs. Carl turned off the lights and chuckled.
"Davis is being disciplined for something he did last week," Carl said. "This is part of his penance. He hates doing paperwork."
Finn paused for a moment, shocked, but Carl kept going down the stairs, and he had to follow or else be left behind. "I guess I hadn't thought about... discipline, being anything other than... what we just did."
"Oh, yes," Carl said lightly, as they emerged into his office. The fire was nearly out, but Carl poked it and put another log on the grate. "Historically it extends far beyond corporal punishment, and psychologically can be very effective, depending on who you are. Davis is a submissive, almost without exception, and he's very bright. He responds well to tasks, activities that give his brain a chance to shut off and let his subconscious do some thinking." He glanced at Finn, leaning against the stone of the fireplace - he was not going to sit down. "Consider at school, if you do something wrong. What is a typical consequence?"
"Detention," said Finn. "Or suspension, if it's really bad. They call your parents, call you to the office."
Carl nodded "So, what is that? Restricting freedom - essentially bondage. Cutting you off from your social group - isolation. Parents and principal - public shaming. What about writing essays? Extra homework?"
"Yeah," Finn said, thoughtfully. "So you're saying it's all really discipline?"
"I'm saying teachers, all authority figures, use classic methods to break down a person's pysche, to use power-over to gain control. But in this case, here in this office, it's shared control. It's for the good of your mental health, not because I want to manipulate or use you. Well." Carl coughed. "Not without your consent, that is."
Finn laughed in surprise, and Carl ran a hand over his neck, amused. "So - this is good for me?" Finn said, marveling.
"It can be," Carl allowed. "Let me be clear. There are just as many wrong ways to be in a discipline relationship as there are to be in any kind of interpersonal relationship. Some people misuse their power. I've seen - well, I don't even want to tell you what I've seen. People don't always have others' needs in mind, let's say. And we all make mistakes, myself and Davis included." Carl grinned. "He'll have to be the one to tell you what he did, but it makes a hell of a story."
Finn let all this sink in, and when Davis came in with a tray of cheese and fruit and crackers for them, he looked at him with new eyes. Davis glanced first at Finn, then at Carl, with a curious expression. Finally he sighed. "All right... what did you tell him?"
Carl's eyebrows went up. "Practically nothing," he drawled. The grin they shared spoke of a longstanding friendship. Finn felt a pang inside at his own missing best friend. He could apologize, he realized, straightening up. He could make it right.
Finn ate some food and drank his water, and smiled and laughed at all the right places through Davis's tale of woe, which involved a "tiny little scratch" to a borrowed car, and a failure to inform the owner of his actions, not to mention an unfortunate security camera video tape. But his mind was elsewhere, and Carl apparently could tell. Eventually he reached over and touched Finn's knee.
"You should call him," he said. "While you're feeling like this. It's the best thing you can do for yourself, and him."
"I think I will," said Finn. He shook Carl's hand again, and Davis'. "Thanks, again. I - it's really nice to know you're here."
"My pleasure, Finn," Carl said, his eyes dancing. "Let me know how things go with your boy."
But as Finn trudged down the street in the blowing snow to the bus stop, his phone call to Puck still resulted in a generic voice mail message. He left a few words, just to let Puck hear his voice and know he wasn't mad, ending with "Call me, okay?"
Then he called Kurt, who picked up on the first ring. "Finn," he said, out of breath.
"Hey," said Finn. "You won't believe what I just did. Can I come over? We need to talk."
"Finn," Kurt said again, and Finn realized he wasn't out of breath. He was crying.
"Baby," said Finn, with a sickening blast of fear. "What is it?"
"It's Noah's mother," he said. "She - she died. This afternoon."
Puck, he thought wildly. "Oh... my god. Where are you?"
"We're at St. Mary's. Timothy said she just collapsed during rounds this morning. They'll have more information after they do the... the autopsy." Kurt took a hitching, sobbing breath, and Finn immediately needed to be where he was, to hold him, to make it okay.
"I'll be there in just a few minutes," Finn promised, looking at the bus schedule he had in his pocket. "I'm already downtown."
"What are you...? Never mind. Tell me later. I can't talk about anything here. Finn, Puck's gone. He took his mother's car and drove - somewhere. He's not answering his phone. God - I can't deal with this, not knowing where he is... what he might be -"
"He'll be okay," Finn said, as calmly as he could. "He can take care of himself."
"No, Finn, he can't," Kurt said, his voice rising in shrill panic. He heard Burt say, "Easy there, buddy."
Finn leaned heavily on the bus stop sign, brushing snow out of his eyes. "I know you're worried, but it'll be all right. He's a survivor. He'll come back when he's ready."
"That's what my dad said," Kurt sighed. On the other end, Burt added, "See?"
"Listen to him. I love you. I'll be right there. What floor are you on?" He stared down the street, willing the bus to drive faster.
"I love you, too," Kurt whispered. "We're on the fifth floor. Finn... you sound a lot better."
"I am," said Finn. "But don't worry about me. Now we all have to be there for Puck."
Santana stretched out on her back on Britt's bed while Britt finished her nighttime calisthenics. She was so freaking flexible, it was disgusting. "Okay," she said into her phone. "Explain again why singing lead is a bad thing?"
"It's not bad," Blaine protested. "Just - being a sophomore, and singing lead, I feel... like it's not fair. Like maybe some of the seniors in the group deserve a chance to be in front, sometimes. But the vote was unanimous. I couldn't really say anything about it."
"You're just too awesome," she said, rolling to her side, half onto Lord Tubbington, who barely moved and simply purred harder. "And you're such a dork. Why would anybody complain about getting too many solos? I wish I could get even one."
"They don't know what they're missing, San," he said positively. She grinned. His unswerving faith in her was a hallmark of their ten years of friendship. Never mind that they hadn't really sung together in over a year, since he'd transferred to Dalton.
Both Santana and Brittany jumped as there was a loud rapping on the window. Britt scrambled up from her yoga pose and put her hands on the sill, pressing against the glass. "It's Puck," she said in puzzlement. "Why wouldn't he use the door?"
"He's trying not to be noticed," San said, sitting up.
"What's going on?" Blaine asked. "Who's trying not to be noticed?"
"Puck. He's here at the window."
"He's the one who used to be Noah, right?" Blaine knew about all of Santana's friends, but after that unfortunate birthday party in third grade, his dad never let him hang out with her anymore.
"Right. He doesn't look very good. I should go. You'll be home for Christmas, right?"
"As little as possible," said Blaine. "But I'll call you when I get back into town. I have something for you." This made Santana smile; Blaine always found the best presents.
"Bye," she said, and disconnected the call. "Holy shit, Puck - what the hell happened to you?"
Well she might ask, because Puck looked terrible. Britt closed the window on the blowing snow and helped Puck to sit down in her desk chair while she worked at his soaking boot laces. "It's way too cold out there for swimming," Britt said, chiding.
"I fell in the snow," he said. "A couple times. I don't really remember."
Something in his voice made Santana come closer. His face was frozen and his nose red, but his skin was a scary grey color. "Puck..."
"She's still at the hospital," he said.
"Who?" asked Britt.
"My Ma. She's still there." He closed his eyes. "Can I stay here tonight?"
"You're not living with your Ma anymore," said Santana. She was starting to get pissed off. "What, is she working late or something?"
"She's late." Puck laughed. "Yeah, she's really late. As in, the late Ruth Puckerman."
It just got fucked up after that, but eventually she got the whole story out of Puck, and then Britt made him take off his wet clothes and get into the shower so he would stop shivering. Then Santana made Britt put her arms around her and hold her while she thought about what the hell to do next.
"He's really confused," Britt whispered.
Santana nodded, resting her head on Britt's shoulder. "I think people usually are when their parents die."
Britt thought about this. "I just don't understand what the big deal is about death. They'll totally see her in heaven. Well, maybe not Puck."
"Wouldn't you miss me, if I died?"
Britt smiled at her. "You'd still be in my dreams every night, right?"
Santana sighed. "Never change, Brittany."
When Quinn came to stay with Brittany after moving out of Finn's house, she realized Santana was sleeping over as often as not. She knew Santana's mother lived way on the other side of town, as a live-in housekeeper for some rich family in Lima Heights, and that Santana's friend - Blair? Baguely? - had transferred to some private school somewhere, so it made sense that she would hang out here. But Santana wasn't just visiting; she had, like, a toothbrush and two drawers and her favorite cereal in the cupboard (Cracklin' Oat Bran). It was almost like she was Britt's sister or something.
And Britt had boys over sometimes - last week she even had three of them, but Quinn couldn't tell from the sounds who they were - but this was the first time in a while that she'd seen Puck at the Pierce house. He didn't much look like he was interested in talking, either. Not that she blamed him, after what had happened with Finn earlier that week.
Puck was sitting at the kitchen table, freshly showered, in a white t-shirt and boxers, resting his head on his arms, just doing nothing. He didn't even have his guitar. She wandered over to sit beside him.
"Hey," she said. "The baby's doing crazy somersaults, if you want to feel."
He put out a half-hearted hand to her stomach, not even bothering to lift his head, but he did offer a smile when he felt her belly lurch and bump. "That's so freaking cool," he murmured.
"You wouldn't say that if you were feeling it from this side," she said. Actually, it was awesome, having the baby kick inside her, but Quinn figured she'd get more sympathy from people if they thought she was hurting.
"Probably not," he admitted. He rolled his head back, chin on his hands. "D'you know, I never even told my Ma about the baby."
"Really." Quinn wasn't too surprised; Puck and his Ma weren't very close, and from what Quinn remembered, she wasn't super keen on the idea of being a parent at all. "Do you think she'll have a problem with it?"
"She got pregnant with Meemee when she was pretty young," he said. "She and my dad were still together when Sarah was born. I think she liked being a mom, back then, before things got so shitty at work and with my dad."
Quinn noticed Puck didn't answer her question, but she didn't push it. "What are you going to do? When she's here?"
He didn't answer at first. Then he sat back, propping his leg on the edge of the table. "I think it'd be cool to travel," he said. "Couldn't have the car seat in the truck, but I could sell it and get a car with a back seat."
"Just you and the baby?" She knew Puck better than to say what a stupid idea right off the bat. If she questioned it enough, he'd come to that conclusion all on his own. "What about work?
"I can do car maintenance; Kurt's dad taught me. But I think I'd do better working in a restaurant. I could start low, dishwasher or prep cook, and work my way up. Then I could be home with her during the day, find somebody to watch her at night when I worked."
"Sounds like you've got it all figured out, Puck." It was more pre-planning than she'd ever heard from him before. "And what about... you know. Finn? And Kurt?"
She didn't expect the answer he gave. "They don't want to have a baby," he shrugged. "So I figured that was pretty much the end. It was only a matter of time, right? I mean. You said it. I'm a Lima loser. They're not going to want to stick around with me anyway."
Then Santana's head poked around the corner, and she said, "Quinn," and she never used Quinn's real name, so she knew it must be important.
She didn't believe it at first when Santana told her. It sounded like a prank, if a sick one. But Santana stuck to her guns, and eventually Quinn had to accept it. God... Puck. She went up behind him and put her arms around his chest. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"Yeah," he said, holding still until she was done hugging him. Then he got up and went outside, standing looking up at the sky while the snow fell on his face.
"I'm going over to tell Mr. Hummel he's here," she said to Santana. "He's just two blocks away."
"He didn't want me to," Santana said. "I don't think we should snitch on him if he doesn't want his boyfriend's dad to know where he is. He'll be okay here for one night."
Quinn looked outside at him in the snow. "I don't think he'll be okay anywhere," she said. "I don't think he's okay, period."
"No," sighed Santana in irritation. "But we've got to work with what we've fucking got."
There was endless paperwork, more of it than Timothy had seen before, and he'd been working with the hospital for the past four weeks on a daily basis. He tried to take notes, but he knew he was forgetting some things as Mr. Berry whirled him through the process. Forms because she died on the job. Forms because she was being treated for certain things. Forms because she was Jewish and needed to decline the embalming. Forms to release her body.
Her body. He'd been the one to identify it. That had been a little weird, and more than a little upsetting, but he'd already cried so much he figured a little more wouldn't matter. He had six tissues in his pocket, an extra pen, a bottle of Excedrin and all Ma's identification. His satchel had copies of all their financial paperwork, including tax statements from the past two years and all the bills she hadn't paid over the past couple months. He was actually surprised they hadn't turned off the gas yet.
The house - that'd probably get repossessed. Just as well, since the balloon mortgage was about to go up, and he could barely afford to pay for his apartment with the money he'd made on the last tour. January, he thought. January, I get to go back to L.A. and start the new record. She'll let me crash as long as I want. No more fucking Lima, Ohio.
Except for Sarah. Noah, he'd be all right. He had his new little family, and in two years he'd be of age anyway. If Timothy could make it on his own at sixteen, so could Noah. But Sarah - he sighed. He had no idea what he would do with her. Maybe she could come to L.A.? he thought hopefully, but he knew that was a ridiculous idea.
Sarah hadn't said one word since he'd told her Ma had died. It was almost worse than when he'd told Noah, in a way, because she was just - mute. He wished she would yell or scream. At least that he could understand. He glanced at her sitting on the plastic seats along the wall in the Family Grief Room, her hands in her pockets of her tie-dye dress and the knit hat with a red pointy face and ears and a dangling fox tail in back. Earbuds were firmly in her ears, but he didn't think she was listening to anything.
"You hungry?" he tried.
She shook her head.
Carole stepped into the room with Finn behind her. Finn went to sit beside Sarah, and she immediately turned away from him. Carole sighed and put a hand on Timothy's back. It felt good to have some human contact, after the brush-off he'd gotten from his two siblings.
"I bet you're hungry," she said. "Why don't you go? Or I can run down to the cafeteria and pick something up and bring it back."
"I have more forms to fill out," he said, holding up the stack. Carole half-sighed, half-groaned.
"When Christopher died, I swear, I had to answer the same question sixteen times." She glanced at Sarah and leaned in to speak more quietly. "You guys can come stay at my house tonight, okay?"
"That's - that's very nice of you," Timothy said, startled. "I was trying to figure out what... well, Sarah... I guess we're going to have to talk to a social worker."
"Burt and I might be able to help with that process," she said. "I imagine it's going to be different now, without your mother, but she's already in the system, and I hope that means things will be sped up a bit. But - no matter what, Timothy, Sarah and Puck have a place with me. They can stay as long as they need to."
Timothy closed his eyes against the flood of relief that came with that information. "I feel awful," he said. "I mean, she's my sister, and I love her, but -"
"But you're not ready to take care of an eleven year old," Carole nodded. "Even if you wanted to. Don't feel bad about that, Timothy. You're still growing up, yourself."
He stared at the papers, the endless reiterations of Address, Social Security Number, Living Dependents. His hand was already cramping. "I guess I could use something to eat," he said.
"I'll go get you some soup. I had it myself, and it wasn't awful." She stood and gave Finn one more meaningful glare before she headed down the hall to the elevator.
Timothy watched Finn consider Sarah for a moment. "Sarah," he said. She didn't answer. "Hey - I'm just gonna talk, okay? You don't have to say anything. But I need to say some things, and nobody's here to hear them but you, so..."
She crossed her arms and ignored him. Now Timothy was sure no music was playing on the earbuds. There was no way she could have heard him to ignore him otherwise.
"I wanted to say... I'm really sorry for what I did to your brother," he said. "I was pissed off, but that wasn't any reason for me to hit him. It's not the first time we've had a fight like that, but... this time was different, because... because I'm his boyfriend now, and he thought he could trust me in a different way. He thought he was safe with me."
Sarah was looking more and more angry, but she hunched into her arms and continued to ignore Finn. Our family's specialty, Timothy thought tiredly. Close your ears and wait for it to go away.
"We've got a lot of work to do," Finn continued doggedly. "But I think we can work through it. Your mother's death... that's going to be hard for both of you, I know. I want you to be the first to know... I'm not going anywhere. I'm sticking around."
She looked over her shoulder at him. "But you said... you said you were done with him."
"I know what I said, but... I was wrong. I shouldn't have said that. I was trying... if you can believe this, I thought I was helping." He grinned. "Pretty stupid, huh?"
"Really stupid," she agreed. Then she launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around his chest. He looked a little surprised, but a lot pleased, and he hugged her right back.
"You're a big shit, Finn Hudson," she said, muffled into his shirt. "And I'm still pissed at you."
"I'm still pissed at your brother," he said. "I don't think I can get over it so easily. But you - I'm not at all mad at you. And I didn't want you to feel like you couldn't come to me, when things suck so bad."
"Things have always sucked." She glanced at Timothy. "It's not so different now. Except now that she's dead, we don't have to take care of her anymore."
Speak for yourself, Timothy thought, flipping through the stack of paperwork again.
"He's still not home?" Rachel asked, peering over the banister into the family room. "What did he say on the phone?"
"He just said there was a matter he had to take care of before he could come home," said Daddy Leroy. He gave the soup one more stir and offered it up to her for a taste. She came into the kitchen and sipped off the wooden spoon. "Good?"
"Mmm," she agreed. "More garlic."
"Too late to add more garlic," he said. He took a handful of fresh herbs and crushed them in his hands, spilling them in among the beans. "Let's try this."
They were still working on getting the soup flavorful enough for Rachel's taste by the time Daddy Hiram came in the door. He looked exhausted, but he was happy enough to get kisses from his family.
"So what happened today?" Leroy asked, spooning up the soup. "Rachel, get the bottle of wine from the door of the fridge. Your daddy looks like he needs it."
"I won't say no," Hiram sighed, rubbing his neck. "God. What a day. We had a nurse pass away in the middle of her shift, right in front of patients and everything. It was a nightmare."
"Oh, my god," Rachel exclaimed.
"I think you might know her son," he went on. "Ruth Puckerman. Her son Noah goes to McKinley."
Rachel dropped her soup spoon. "Noah - oh, no. Noah's mom? He's got to be frantic." She turned frightened eyes on her father. "He doesn't have any parents, Daddy. What's going to happen to him?"
"His older brother was there," he soothed. "Social services will take it if he turns out not to be a fit parent, but he's not alone. But - he took off, lost us in the hospital. He took his mother's car and drove away. They still haven't heard from him. He was pretty confused."
Leroy reached for Hiram's hand and held it tight. "The death of a parent, that's hard on a kid. I see all kinds of reactions."
"Daddy - you can help him, right?" Rachel touched their joined hands, feeling relieved. "You can find him a therapist, someone who does grief counseling like you?"
"I'd be happy to help," Leroy said. "Anything for a friend of yours, angel."
1 text – Mercedes Jones
8:33 pm – you'll never never guess what I just heard from RACHEL. Puck's mom died this morning! OMG. Poor Puck. and now he's gone AWOL and nobody's seen him all day.
1 text - Tina Cohen-Chang
8:34 pm - that's terrible! What about Kurt? He must be totally freaking out. Have you talked to him?
1 text - Mike Chang
8:35 pm - was she sick? I didn't even know anything was wrong. Nobody tells me anything.
1 text - Artie Abrams
8:36 pm - listen to the tiny violins, buddy. I don't think Puck was really talking much about his mother, and after the debacle with Finn and the baby... whoo. Hella mess. You think we should go over there?
1 text - Tina Cohen-Chang
8:37 pm - go over WHERE? He's not going to be at his house. You think at Kurt's?
1 text – Mercedes Jones
8:38 pm – yo, everybody chill, okay? Kurt and Puck have enough to deal with without us being in the way. I'll call and let you know what I learn.
Burt stood in the hallway for a moment, listening just hard enough to make sure Kurt wasn't talking to Finn or Puck, and then knocked softly before walking in.
"Mercedes," Kurt said, holding up the phone, wiping his red and swollen eyes for what seemed like the millionth time. Burt nodded.
"She can come over, if you want," he offered, but Kurt shook his head.
"I want to be here alone in case Noah comes back." Into the phone, he said, "Thanks. Tell everybody I'll see them at the memorial service tomorrow. I love you too." He set the phone down, then fell back on the pillows with a groan. "God, Dad."
"I know," he said, coming in and sitting down on the bed. "It's like your mom all over again. Tomorrow's going to be even harder, with the funeral and everything."
"I didn't even like her," Kurt protested, sniffing. "I feel stupid making such a fuss. But I can't stop thinking about Noah, and Sarah, and Timothy - how I would feel if you -"
Burt let his sensitive son fall apart on his shoulder for the fifteenth time today, holding him gently while he cried. "I'm not going anywhere, Kurt," he said.
"But you don't know that for sure."
"Nobody does," he agreed. "You've heard that phrase from Benjamin Franklin, about two things in life being certain?"
"Death and laundry," Kurt said, and Burt gave him a little nudge, grinning.
"I think it was death and smartass sons," he corrected. "But look at me. I'm healthy, thanks to a good diet from my obnoxiously thorough meal planner and twice a week at the gym. I'm low stress, due to my son having a stable, ordinary relationship..."
"Forget it," Kurt retorted, crossing his arms. "Stable and ordinary is clearly not in the cards for me. You'll be lucky to get tumultuous and quirky."
"I can live with tumultuous and quirky," Burt allowed. He scooted up on the bed next to Kurt, leaning back on the enormous pile of pillows that graced his headboard, and put an arm around his shoulder, pulling him down onto his chest. He absolutely did not mention the bottle of lube that sat on the nightstand.
"I'm not sure what's going to happen with Finn and Noah," Kurt muttered after a moment of silence.
"Me either," said Burt. "But this isn't about them. You heard what Finn said. We've got to be here for Puck now."
"This from the same boy who was engaging in fisticuffs with Noah in the middle of the choir room not a week ago?" Kurt said. "You really think I can trust what he says?"
"Hey, you're the one dating him, not me." Burt listened to the sound of Kurt breathing, more precious than life itself, and chuckled. "Fisticuffs?"
He sighed. "It wasn't pretty, Dad."
"I bet." He considered the timing, and then thought, screw it, and went ahead. "I've been thinking about something."
"Okay..."
"Now that Ruth's... gone, Sarah's going to need a place to stay. And Puck. Like, permanently."
He could feel Kurt tense, but he just hung on. "Dad," he whispered.
"I haven't talked to them yet. I wanted to ask you first."
"Permanently." Kurt wrenched away and stared at him, his eyes intense. "Dad... I don't know what to say."
"I don't either," Burt sighed, "but it looks like this question is going to have to be answered sooner than later. Or else Sarah's gonna get sent to live with some ward of the state. Both Carole and I, we agreed they could stay with either one of us as long as they need, as long as they can, but... there's no way they're going to grant permanent custody to Timothy. And honestly, I don't think he wants it."
Kurt stared blankly across the room. "I don't know."
"Well, you're going to need to think about it eventually. We've got a thirty day window, according to the social worker I've been talking to. But I don't think I should even bring it up with either of them until you've said yes. Or no."
Kurt wrinkled his nose. "God. That would... that would make Noah my... my brother?"
"Not actually," Burt said, but he felt a wave of giddy hilarity wash over him, and he started to laugh. "Holy crap, Kurt."
Kurt buried his face in his hands. "Dad... maybe I should just become a monk. They have gay monks, right?"
"Tons of 'em," Burt agreed, pulling Kurt back down into the safety of his arm. "Whole squadrons. We'll go on a field trip to visit some after Christmas."
"I love you, Dad."
"You, too, Kurt," he murmured, and kissed his hair.
Carl turned the fifth page of the Friday morning newspaper and nearly choked on his coffee. Shit. "Angela."
"Yes, sir," she said, from the kitchen.
"How many Puckermans do you suppose there are in Lima?" He held up the newspaper, and she walked around the island to read over his shoulder.
"Oh, my god," she said. "That's his mother. The poor kid."
"They're having a memorial this afternoon." He glanced up at her.
"Hmmm," she said, biting her lip. "You're getting attached to them, aren't you, sir."
"Cheeky, aren't we?" He reached over and smacked her bottom. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to, sir," she called back, retreating into the kitchen.
"Fine. But I'm getting a second opinion." He stood, tucking the newspaper under his arm, and made his way down the hallway to the guest room. The house was plenty big enough for his own rooms, and playrooms besides, and he seldom used this wing at all. He'd turned up the thermostat last night after Davis' session, and it was warm and cozy when he opened the door. Carl's grey Persian cat, Wilford, was curled up and purring beside Davis, happily kneading his claws on the blanket.
"Rise and shine, gorgeous," Carl said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Davis stirred, stretching as well as he could with the chain looped through his collar and around the O-ring in the floor, and gave Carl a sleepy smile. "You know, the chain is long enough that you could have slept on the bed instead of next to it."
"What fun would that be, sir?" Davis murmured, his voice husky and rough from the strain he'd put on it last night. Carl smiled fondly down at him, curled up on the blanket, and ran a hand through his tousled blonde hair. All that hollering and carrying on. Such a diva - worse than any brat I've ever met. It's a good thing we split up all those years ago, or else I would have killed him by now.
"Angela's made breakfast, if you're up for it. But I have a proposal."
"I do." Davis grinned at Carl's eye roll. "But it is kind of illegal in this state, sir."
"You're asking for a reprise of last night? Already?" Carl glanced at the tools - cleaned, he noted with approval - laid out on the table, and sighed at Davis' low chuckle. Fucking incorrigible. I'm going to have to call Tess for advice. "I really need to find you a lover. I don't have time to give you what you need."
"High maintenance doesn't begin to cover it, sir," Davis said, with a shameless grin. He sat up, gingerly moving sore limbs, and turned his head to inspect the lash marks on his legs and back. "Though I must say your aim is improving. Look at the spacing. It's like a work of art."
"I don't think we can display that one in the waiting room, though," Carl said, touching the welts on Davis' lower back. "I've seen that before, though, at Tessera. A live frame. It's really something else."
"Mmmm," Davis said, his blue eyes twinkling. "I really need to make time to fly down there some weekend. Knowing her, she's got exactly the kind of fetish rooms I like."
"Of course she does." Carl reached over to the table for the tube of antibiotic cream and gently applied some to the welts that had broken the skin. Davis didn't even make a sound. Probably still flying on endorphins. "Back to my proposal. Check out page five, at the bottom." He tossed the newspaper down on the floor next to Davis. The narrow chain made a subtle sound against the floor as he shifted to unfold the paper. He really would make a lovely picture.
"Jesus Christ," Davis muttered, reading the article. He looked up at Carl, his smile gone. "What do you want me to do, sir?"
"It's not you. It's all of us." He tapped the paper with one finger. "I thought we could attend the memorial. Show our respects."
"Oh, honey." Davis' eyes widened, and Carl felt his cheeks heating. "Sorry. Sir. You know that's a terrible idea."
"Yes... Angela said the same thing." He sat down on the floor and let Davis put a naked arm around his shoulder. "It's because she'll be there," he added.
Davis nodded. "But I'm certain you can come up with better, less obvious ways to watch her grow up than stalking funerals, sir."
Carl sighed. "I haven't said one word about her to Puck, or Finn. I've been... very good."
"And you'll keep being good, if you want to work in this town, sir," Davis stressed. "We agreed you would keep it quiet. You don't want to move again."
"No," he agreed soberly. "I like this house. And I'll put up with Lima for her sake. But..." He gave a bitter smile. "I also like those kids. I do. I wish we could just... be there for them."
"We will, sir," Davis said, squeezing his shoulder. "In our way. Just not out there. They'll come to us, and we'll help them."
Carl smiled sadly at his partner. "You're right, of course. Brat."
"You love me that way," Davis said, kissing his cheek. "Now, I seem to recall you owe me a spanking before breakfast. Sir."
Kurt climbed out of the limousine with a groan. He'd pay for wearing his dress shoes to the cemetery in this snow. It had been a long memorial, longer than he'd expected, with far more people attending than he'd ever thought Ruth Puckerman even knew. People had spoken on her behalf, said kind things. About her. It was hard to swallow.
Sarah had disappeared, but he'd barely had time to worry about her, and was relieved when Frances appeared out of nowhere, wearing shoes even less practical than his. She'd gone, somewhat unwillingly, to be where Sarah was, and they'd appeared at the back of the synagogue halfway through the service, clutching each other's hands like they were floatation devices.
But Noah still hadn't arrived. It had been a long sleepless night for Kurt, and he'd gone upstairs at 2 am to sit at the table, and his dad had appeared shortly thereafter and had sat beside him while he cried silently. Then his dad had made him warm milk, spiced with cinnamon - how he'd known to do it like that, Kurt had no idea, and it had made him cry all over again - and put him back to bed like he was six years old.
Finn had stood by him throughout the whole ceremony, shadowing him like a bodyguard, and Kurt was as grateful for that presence as he'd ever been for anything in his life. It was as though Finn being next to him was giving him strength. He didn't even need to touch him.
The whole Glee club was there, too, lending their support, and he'd been hugged more times than he could count. His dad was holding up remarkably well, considering this probably felt dangerously, scarily familiar to him. Even Kurt had memories of his mother's funeral, and he guessed he'd probably have bad dreams about the whole thing, but for now he was holding up okay.
The burial was simple, but he didn't know what to do with the shovel that Sarah put in his hands. "You're supposed to throw dirt on top of her grave," she said.
God. "Do I have to?" he whispered, looking around at everyone's eyes on him.
"No," she said. "Here, I'll do it." She took the shovel back, dug into the pile of dirt that had been cleared from the hole in which Ruth's casket was suspended on cables, and flung a substantial shovelful onto the casket. It made a dramatic thudding noise, like a drum, and Kurt gasped involuntarily. Rachel started to cry.
Sarah passed the shovel to Finn, and he dug in grimly before handing it to Burt, and on down the line. Finally Kurt stepped forward and took the shovel from Tina.
"I'm ready now," he said.
He knew what the sound reminded him of now. It was the slap against flesh, the smack of a hand on his backside, or of his own hand on another's. But the impact of the dirt on the simple pine box had the opposite effect. Instead of forging a connection, it was severing one. Kurt felt it in his gut. Noah should be here to do this, he thought.
And when he walked away, as the crowd began to disperse, he saw him across the street, sitting in his truck, watching from the driver's seat. Kurt broke from the throng, running into the snow, heedless of his shoes, reaching out a hand. "Noah," he called desperately.
The truck peeled away from the curb, skidding in the snow, and Kurt caught a glimpse of Frances sitting in the passenger seat before it fishtailed and disappeared around the corner. He came to a halt in the middle of the street, and didn't even bother to hide his sobs. Anyone who doesn't know what's going on by now just isn't paying attention, he thought viciously, and allowed his father to lead him away.
"I saw him too," Finn said to Kurt, helping him out of the car. "He was there. He saw the whole thing. I think he was just waiting for everyone to leave so he could come pay his own respects."
"I hope so," Kurt said, with a worried frown. He glanced up the sidewalk toward the synagogue, then paused. "Who's that?"
Finn looked to see an strange man standing by the double doors, hands in his pockets. He looked vaguely familiar, but Finn didn't recognize him - until he got close enough to see his eyes.
"Oh my god," Kurt whispered.
The man approached Burt hesitantly. "Is this Ruth Puckerman's memorial?"
"You missed it, buddy," Burt said. "Sorry. We just got back from the cemetery. Can I help you?"
"Maybe," he said. "How do you know Ruth?"
"Dad," Kurt said urgently. Burt glanced at him, startled, then back at the man. His eyes widened.
"I just wanted to come - I heard -" He took a step back. "Is Timmy here?"
"Did he call you?" Kurt's voice was tight and sharp, like a piano wire. "I can't believe it."
"Yeah," he said. "I know I'm not welcome. Timmy doesn't know I'm here. I don't - I don't think he wants to see me, either."
Burt took a slow step between the man and Kurt, but Finn put a hand on his shoulder. "Let me," he said. "You should go get Sarah back to the house." Burt's face went through several expressions before he finally nodded.
The man looked Finn up and down. He was short, shorter than Puck, but he had Timothy's narrow face, and what hair he had left was black and curly, like Sarah's. He didn't look anything like the imposing man Finn remembered from his youth.
"I'm Finn," he said, and he didn't hold out his hand. The man's mouth made a smile that was so familiar that Finn thought he might fall apart right there, but Finn held on to his sanity and just nodded. "I remember you."
"I remember you, too," said the man. "You were Noah's best friend."
"I was," said Finn.
The man looked over at Kurt with puzzlement, but when he saw Finn take Kurt's hand, his face cleared. "Is Noah here?" he asked. "I - I'd just really like to see him."
"He's not here," Kurt said. He was still angry, but Finn's hand in his seemed to be providing some source of calm. Conversely, as though they were equilibrating through their joined hands, Finn felt his energy level surge, and he fought to keep from glaring at Aaron Puckerman.
"Oh," he said, disappointed. "Well. You can - if you don't mind, you can tell him I said..."
"No," said Finn. "I'm not going to tell him anything. He's not even going to know you were here. You don't get to talk to him." He took one step toward the man, who stepped back, alarmed. "You don't deserve that."
"I - let me explain," he said, sounding a little desperate, and Finn recognized the tone. It was one with which he was intimately familiar. He tightened his mouth. I know what you need, he thought, but there was no satisfaction in it. And you're not going to get it from me.
"I don't think so," said Kurt. His chin was high, and he drew himself up, taller than the man, and took his own step forward. The man's eyes went back and forth between Finn and Kurt, and he backed up again, bumping against the concrete wall of the building behind him.
"Boys," he said, but that was all he got out before Kurt's fist came down on his jaw, knocking him sideways. Finn stood, stunned, as Kurt shook out his hand, wincing.
"You'd better get the hell out of here," he snapped. "I'm a bitchy queen when my boyfriend's at stake."
Aaron scrambled up from the ground, slipping in the slush, and shot one terrified look at the two of them before tearing down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. Finn didn't bother to watch him leave; he just swept Kurt into his arms, feeling him shaking, and held him, whispering, "Baby... it's okay, baby, you were good, you were so good..."
Puck tried to be as quiet as he could as he opened the door from the garage, kicking off his dirty boots onto the concrete steps, but before he could even shoulder off his wet coat, Kurt was out of his room and beside him in the dark.
"Sweetheart," he heard him say, and that was all, before their mouths connected and their hands were on each other. He was gasping, impossibly hard, and Kurt's fingers were fumbling desperately with the zipper of his jeans.
"I missed you so much," Kurt moaned against his neck, and slid his hands under Puck's shirt, slipping it over his head and tossing it to the floor. "You're freezing."
"You'll warm me up," Puck said, letting himself be led into the bedroom, chafing his hands together while Kurt stripped off his jeans and wet socks.
"I saw you." Kurt sounded sad and hurt, and Puck hated that, but he didn't think there was anything he could do about it, not tonight. "At the cemetery. Why did you run?"
The girl, Sarah's friend, had asked the same thing. "I don't exactly know," he said. "I didn't want to be there at the same time everybody else was. It felt way too fucking much like being on display. And yeah, I like that, but today I just wanted it to be us. I wish I could have just been there with you and me and Finn." He sighed, settling under the duvet. "That's what I wanted."
"We can go back tomorrow," Kurt promised. "Just the three of us."
"Okay," Puck said, feeling the lie pass through his lips, like a needle, pricking him. Kurt didn't notice. It was easy to ignore the lie and lose himself in Kurt's body, there under the covers, like mirrors of each other, one dark, one fair, equally matched in their passion. He loved the way Kurt sounded, unrestrained, not worrying about anything but the feeling of Puck's skin against him.
"Inside me," Kurt insisted, placing the bottle of lube in Puck's hand. "Please. I need you."
Puck had nothing to say to that but to press Kurt's body down against the bed, to sweep the covers back to make room for him between his legs, and to use his tongue and fingers in equal measures to prepare him. It was the most exquisite feeling to slide inside him, still chilly from the winter air, and to be shocked by the unbelievable heat of his body.
"Baby," he groaned, kneeling closer, gathering him up and plunging into him again and again. "I need this, too - need you, so much."
Kurt let himself arch back onto the bed, calling Puck's name, his real name, the one that Kurt had given him back. I'll never forget this, he thought, feeling the regret pour out of him. This time. This last time together.
They lay twined under the duvet, warming each other into drowsiness, and Puck even dozed a little before Kurt fell asleep.
At 3 am, he climbed out from under the blankets and dug into his drawer for a clean shirt and underwear. The rest of the contents of the drawer, he emptied into his duffel bag. He got the toothbrush from the bathroom, and his clippers, and threw them in on top. After a moment, he opened one of Kurt's drawers and chose a shirt that wasn't too girly, and he put that in, too.
Puck got his guitars from the guest room, opening the case to his Taylor, and sat at the foot of Kurt's bed, watching him sleep. The dry air of the basement wasn't good for his tuning, but he managed something passable, and strummed once through the chords of Kurt's and Finn's song before he began to sing. He couldn't do the descant the way he'd written it, but he could sing them one right after the other. It was his last chance to sing this song, his song, for Kurt, and he wasn't going to miss it.
Cool on the outside yet trembling inside
Wanting to run but there's nowhere to hide
Dancing with your smile, though I drown in your eyes
Can't resist or ignore, however I try
Leading me to ecstasy while leading me astray
Thought I'd lost all direction when you showed me the way
I convince myself I shouldn't then my soul says I should
This twisting romance will come to no good
I gasp for breath from your sensuous touch
the explosion of uncertainty is hurting too much
The strangest sensation, how odd is this notion
That one kiss could be full of such fear and emotion
These feelings aren't right, all I know is they're true
I'm a fallen angel who's landed with you
My heart skips a beat that lasts for so long
you're my right kind of wrong
Sing our song,
you are music inside me.
Your voice rising, reaching,
notes falling
like a bead of sweat
dripping down my neck.
Your melody burns deep
into my soul;
only music exists.
Sing to me.
Puck sang as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake him. He didn't think he could handle the questions, or Kurt listening, not just then.
He dug into his bag and took out a CD, and a letter, and set both of them on Kurt's desk. Then he made his way in the dark up the stairs to the kitchen. He figured he'd have to intrude on Burt's privacy in order to talk to him, but he was awake, sitting in the moonlight at the table, looking like he'd aged five years overnight. Puck imagined he looked much the same.
"I can't believe I'm saying this," said Burt, turning his mug over and over in his hands, "and it sounds a little creepy even in my head, but I'm gonna say it anyway: I never thought I'd be so happy to hear my son's boyfriend in his bedroom."
Puck didn't smile. "You're right," he said, "that does sound a little creepy. But thanks."
"You were missed today," Burt said. He looked hard at Puck. "I know you had a reason for being gone, but I can't say any of us felt good about it."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't think I can ask for forgiveness, though. It's something I needed to do."
Burt nodded slowly. "Yeah. Like I said, I figured."
"I need to ask you for something," he said.
Burt went on nodding, as though he knew what Puck was going to say.
"Sarah," he said. "I need you to take care of her."
"Puck," Burt said, like he had more to say, but Puck cut him off.
"I can't stay," he said, and suddenly he was closer to tears than he'd been in the last 48 hours, right on the verge, and he thought, if I let myself go now, I'm never going to stop crying. "I can't stay and I need to know - I need to know that she's going to be okay. That somebody will be here, taking care of her."
Burt put his hand across the table, reaching right for Puck's. It was warm, and if not large, then definitely strong. "You don't even have to ask," he said, his voice gruff. "This is her home, if she wants it to be. And yours."
"It's not my home," said Puck quietly. "I thought it might be, once, but it's not. I can't live here."
"Maybe..." Burt paused, then sighed. "All right."
They stood, together, and Burt came around to the other side of the table. He grabbed Puck in a tight embrace.
"Thank you for understanding... for getting me," Puck whispered.
Burt's eyes were wet as he watched Puck walk out the door, but he didn't stop him. Puck got into his truck and drove to his next locale.
There was no way he'd be able to climb Finn's roof in this snow, so he slipped in through the sliding glass door off the back deck, which he knew was never locked. The house was dark and quiet. He carried his guitar up the stairs to Finn's room.
Puck knew he could have played Finn's drums and probably Finn would have kept on sleeping, but he kept it quiet nonetheless.
I wanna go home
This is not a house I can live in
I need space of my own
This is not a place I feel free in
I'm anchored in water that's over my head
I'm filled up and choking from the lines I've been fed
I suppose I could suffer
I'm leaving instead
I gotta be me
I gotta make sure that I can remember
How to be real
Gonna mail myself return to sender
I'm tied up so tight that I'm torn at the seams
I'm drifting off course of my visions and dreams
If I had the guts, I'd be down on my knees
I wanna go home
There ain't nothin' here that can keep me
I made a place of my own now
And the seeds that I've thrown rooted deeply
I'm anchored in water that's over my head
I'm filled up and choking from the lines I've been fed
I suppose I could suffer
I'm leaving instead
Puck pulled a letter, but no CD, out of his bag and left it on Finn's desk.
He paused next to Finn's sleeping form and leaned over his face, feeling his breath on his mouth. "I fucking love you," he said, and kissed him, fiercely, passionately. Finn responded in his sleep, moaning in response, but Puck turned away before he could wake, closing the door behind him.
Halfway down the stairs, he heard, "You're leaving," and he turned to see Sarah at the end of the hall, standing in the door to the guest room.
"Yeah," he said.
She approached him, put a hand on his chest. "You're not coming back," she said.
"No," he said.
Sarah wrinkled her eyebrows and made a sour face. "That sucks."
"Yeah," he agreed. "Burt said you could stay with him. It could be your home."
"Really?" For a moment, her face lightened. Then she scowled again. "Why can't it be yours too?"
"Because I don't know where my home is," he said. "I've got to go find it. I just know it's not here."
"Okay," she said, because she got him, too.
"I love you, squirt," he said. He squashed her in his arms, as tight as he could squeeze, because he knew she loved that.
"Come back when you can?" She sounded hopeful.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm not sure when that'll be."
"It's okay. I'll be waiting."
She wasn't crying, and neither was he, but he could feel their hearts parting, stretching thin between them like gossamer, and finally splitting with a snap. It was more painful than anything else he'd done that night.
The sky was starting to move from black to hazy gray as he stopped at Pat's Donuts and Kreme for coffee. He bought a half-dozen blueberry and a half-dozen peanut cake donuts.
"Puckerman," he heard, and it was fucking Sue Sylvester standing next to him in line. He did the only thing he could do. He grinned.
"Hey," he said. "What are you doing up so early?"
"Why else?" she said, taking her bag of donuts and her own coffee. "It's the only time I can find for myself, when I'm not being hounded by munchkins. You and your little friends aren't the most important thing in the world, even though you seem to think you are."
He couldn't help himself: he had to ask. "What kind of donuts do you have?"
"My favorite kind," she said, firmly. "I was sorry to hear about your mother, Noah."
He nodded. "Thanks."
He called his last stop as soon as he was back in the car. It rang a long while, and there was a fumbling sound once he did pick up, but his "Hello?" was absolutely Mr. Schue.
"It's Puck," he said. "I'm heading out of town, and I was hoping to see you before I left."
"Puck?" Mr. Schue sounded like he was waking up a little at a time. "Are you okay? We didn't see you at the funeral yesterday."
"I'm okay," Puck lied. It was an easy lie. "Can I come by? I have donuts."
Mr. Schue was waiting on the porch of his apartment complex when Puck pulled up in the parking lot, shivering in the early dawn. He held the door open for Puck, looking worried.
"What's going on, Puck?" he said, escorting him up the stairs. "You're heading out of town? Is this about your mother?"
"Not really," said Puck, because the ways in which it was about that were hard to describe. "I just wanted to talk to you before I left. I'm not sure when I'll be back."
"Come in," he said, though there wasn't really much of a place to go in his tiny apartment. Puck sat down at the dining table and took a sip of his coffee, handing Mr. Schue the donuts.
"Blueberry cake," said Mr. Schue, taking one. "My favorite."
"I kind of figured," Puck said, trying not to smirk.
They sat in silence for a moment while Mr. Schue watched him eat his donut. "Kurt," said Mr. Schue, "uh, Kurt and Finn..."
"Yeah," said Puck. He gestured vaguely past Mr. Schue. "And you and Toby."
"Uh," said Mr. Schue, blushing. "Yes, that's right."
"I read his letter to you," he said. "I'm sorry about that." Another lie. He wasn't sorry, though he supposed he should be. Mr. Schue was beet red now.
"It's okay," he said quietly.
Puck played with the rim of his coffee cup. "So I'm heading out west, and I know Toby's out there somewhere. Boulder?"
"Denver," he said, with a smile. "I just got back myself. You think you might need a place to crash? I can call him."
"I need to play, Mr. Schue," said Puck. "I need to play my guitar. Like, a lot. I kind of get the idea it's not going to get any better. Maybe I could find a place out there in Denver to play... an open mic or something?"
"Let me give him a call," he said. "He's probably still awake. He's a terrible night owl, and it's two hours earlier there."
Toby was indeed still awake, and apparently aware of an excellent open mic in just two days time. "He says he'll meet you there," said Mr. Schue, scribbling down the address and handing it to Puck. "I'm glad you're not going to be alone. Traveling across country all by yourself - I don't feel good about it."
"I don't, either," Puck said. That wasn't a lie, at least. "But I think I have to do it anyway."
He bid Mr. Schue farewell, climbed into his truck, and pointed himself west on I-80.
Kurt woke from a pleasant dream to find himself alone in his bed, the space beside him cold. He was almost dressed by the time he found the CD and the letter on his desk. He hesitated, a sick feeling in his stomach, but eventually he ripped the letter open and read it first.
Kurt,
This song is the one I told you I was writing for you. I didn't know it was going to be a real song until you and Finn went on your date. That's when I did the lyrics. Maybe the two of you together inspired me, I don't know. Anyway, this is Mercedes and me singing, and Brad on the piano.
I've never been good at saying goodbye, so I hope this is good enough.
Love,
Noah
He read it over three times, trying to make sense of it, and then he took the CD with trembling fingers and slid it into the CD player. There was no talking; the only track on it could have been a professional recording, except it was Noah, his Noah, doing the singing. And the lyrics broke his heart.
He didn't know what to do except listen, and cry.
Finn woke later in the morning, but he saw the letter right away. It wasn't as though he looked at his desk every day, either, but for some reason it leapt to his attention.
Finn,
I'll already be gone by the time you read this, but I wanted you to know I came by last night and said goodbye. I can't stay at Kurt's, and I can't stay at your place. Neither one is home. I'm trying to figure out where home is.
I told you once that you were my missing piece. I still feel like that, but I think I need to figure out how to become my own missing piece. For my daughter, I have to do this. I don't think I can come back until I've discovered how to do it on my own.
I'll never forget you.
Yours,
Puck
Finn sank down onto his bed, clutching the letter. Then he closed the door to his room. He didn't come out for the rest of the day.
I'm working on a morning flight to anywhere but here
I'm watching this evening fire burn away my tears
All my life I've left my troubles by the door
'Cause leaving is all I've ever known before
It's not the way you hold me when the sun goes down
It's not the way you call my name that left me stranded on the ground
It's not the way you'll say you'll hear my heart when the music ends
I am just learning how to fly away again
And maybe you were thinking that you thought you knew me well
But no one ever knows the heart of anyone else
I feel like Garbo in this Late Night Grande Hotel
'Cause living alone is all I've ever done well
It's not the way you hold me when the sun goes down
It's not the way you call my name that left me stranded on the ground
It's not the way you'll say you'll hear my heart when the music ends
I am just learning how to fly away again
- Nanci Griffith, "Late Night Grande Hotel"