Puck

He had known, seeing Santana Lopez's name flash across the screen of his phone and hearing the mostly tongue-in-cheek refrain of Buckcherry's "Crazy Bitch" for her particular ringtone, that something must be wrong. For one thing, it was earlier than nine am, a time when Santana, with her late shift at the strip club and her tendency to party on nights she wasn't working, would normally be dead to the world with absolutely no intention of even talking, let alone calling up an ex and former Glee-mate just to shoot the breeze. Puck himself was awake only because in less than ten days' time, he was reporting to basic training, and as soon as he had made his decision to sign up, he had started to push himself to be more serious about becoming disciplined with his workouts, waking up early to run and lift and push himself to get more in shape than he already was, developing endurance as well as strength. For another, Santana wasn't one to randomly call anyone, particularly Puck.

The only reason he could think of for her name to come up in his phone were if there was some Glee-related reunion or news that Rachel Berry had instructed her to tell him, and even that seemed a stretch, for Santana to take orders from Rachel of all people. Another possibility could be that she was drunk, weepy, and calling up every single person on her contacts list, particularly all her exes- and for Santana Lopez, if she was going back all the way to her high school days, that could be a rather extensive list. If this was the intention behind her call, to hold Puck hostage while she alternated between sobbing and sniffling and then yelling and ranting down the line, then he had no desire whatsoever to even touch the phone, let alone answer her call.

Puck was highly tempted to ignore the call and let her leave a long, rambling message on his voicemail, to which he would simply pretend he had never received it. She'd forget when she sobered up anyway exactly who it was she had called, and he would escape the wrath of Lopez all together.

But. Maybe Puck wasn't the world's most sensitive guy, and maybe he really wasn't in the mood now, or pretty much ever, to deal with Santana and her issues, especially when she was in the mindset to want to blame each and every single one of them on him, at top volume. But she was still his friend, one of his Glee girls- NOT that he would ever say the phrase aloud, where anyone might hear. He rarely saw her as it was and it would be a lot longer until he saw her next. And weird as it was, he did actually miss her, suspected he would miss her more than he already did when he left for basics. If she really was having a genuine problem of some kind…well, if any of his girls really did need help, and it was the kind where he could actually do something about it, whether or not he ever told them to their faces, Puck knew he would make every effort to be there.

So with a loud sigh and a rolling of his eyes, Puck picked up the phone, speaking into the receiver.

"What's up, Lopez. You drunk off your ass and yammering or just crying into your sleeve?"

"I don't have time for this, Puckerman," Santana's voice was terse, tight, and very sober indeed. Just from its tone Puck's eyebrows lifted, and he found himself frowning, puzzled and already paying closer attention. This sort of introduction to a conversation from Santana was rare indeed, so rare as to actually never have happened before.

"You got time to call me barely past the crack of dawn on a Saturday though. What's going on, Santana?" Puck asked, and then, after a pause, added a somewhat awkward, if genuine, "You all right?"

He heard her breathe in sharply on the other end of the receiver, release her breath out so it crackled in his ear, and he realized distantly that his muscles, formerly stretched out and relaxed from his earlier workout, were now drawing together, tensing in anticipation of her words. It seemed that something genuinely was wrong, from Santana's strange behavior, and though Puck wasn't one to overanalyze or think ahead too much to the future, this was odd enough behavior from her that he was in fact concerned.

She never answered his question about whether or not she was all right, and when she finally spoke, her voice was rushed, harsh, almost angry in tone. She threw her words out at him like a curveball she didn't care whether or not he caught, giving him little time or preparation at all.

"Finn's dead, okay? Finn…he's dead. He fucking died, Puck, he died."

Whatever Puck might have unconsciously been expecting to hear from her, this was the last, least, and most unbelievable of the possibilities. Santana being hurt in some way- pregnant, diseased, finding herself married after a wild night in Vegas- that he could believe and deal with accordingly. Even something with Rachel or Kurt, as much as he might hate to hear it, it might make sense, and it could be handled. Everything could be handled and fixed, in some way, some how. Except this.

This could not be fixed or changed, if it were true, and it simply could not be. It was too unbelievable, simply too insane to actually be true. Finn Hudson was 19 years old. Finn Hudson was his friend, his best fucking friend, and he was no Santana Lopez with her crazy life and her sometimes reckless ways….he was no Noah Puckerman and never had been. Finn was FINN, and there was no way in hell he could be dead. It was impossible.

"That isn't funny, Santana," he growled into the receiver, barely aware that he was gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles were white, and barely hearing one of them pop. "That isn't fucking funny at all. Sober the fuck up and get a clue that it's no joke to call someone at nine in the morning and tell them their best friend died. Take a cold shower and sleep it off."

"I'm fucking serious, Puck, and don't you fucking yell at me!" Santana snapped back, although Puck was pretty sure he hadn't raised his voice at all. "He's dead, I'm not making anything up. I wish I was, believe me, I fucking wish I was, but I'm not. He's dead."

"Shut up, Santana," Puck snapped, his voice growing sharper, and he stood, beginning to pace the small confines of the room, even as Santana spoke over him, her voice rising in pitch and volume as well.

"No! No, you listen to me, Puck! Kurt's dad called, he called Rachel and he said it, he-"

"Santana, shut the fuck up, this isn't fucking funny-"

"He called, I'm telling you he called and he said that he's dead, he said-"

"Damn it, Santana, I told you to SHUT UP, THIS ISN'T FUNNY-"

"THIS IS FUCKING REAL, PUCK!" Santana nearly screamed, and the rawness of her voice, the obvious pain beneath her anger, the breathless sob that followed, was what made him freeze, stopping in his pacing, stopping in doing anything at all but standing still, listening to her words continue to slam into his ears, knocking against his denial and beating it down. "THIS IS REAL, THIS IS HAPPENING! Don't you fucking call me a liar, this is real, I've been watching Rachel cry until she pukes and Kurt cry until he can barely breathe and their parents have been calling every two minutes wanting to drive up here or get them a flight to Lima and it is REAL, it's all FUCKING REAL, FINN IS DEAD AND IT IS REAL!"

She went silent then, but Puck could still hear her uneven breaths on the other end, heavy and occasionally breaking, as though she were struggling to hold back tears. He could hear her breathing, waiting for his response, and he did not give her one. Instead, he ended the call, then shut off his phone. For several minutes he stood motionless, staring without seeing anything at all. Then he threw the phone against the wall with all his strength, not caring when it cracked, its screen shattering, as it hit the floor.

Sinking down onto his sofa bed, Puck covered his face with his hands, feeling the trembling begin low in his gut and gradually work its way up through his ribcage and arms, into his shoulders, until he was shaking all over, grief pressing against his throat and threatening to burst forth in an audible cry. He closed his eyes tightly, but it didn't stop the tears from gathering behind, and it didn't keep him from seeing Finn's face in his mind.

This was impossible. If it was ever going to be any one of them to go, Puck knew that his number would be the first up for taking, and that was the way it should be. The way it would be right and fair. But this…this was not the way it should be, this was not right, and he could not even begin to understand.

This was impossible.