Title: Sometimes Solutions Aren't So Simple
Rating: T
Characters: Puck, Quinn, Finn, some mention of other Glee clubbers.
Summary: Four times Puck's gotten away...and one time he's regretted it.
Other Chapters: Part I
AN: I am well aware that this seems to be a mislabeled Puck/Quinn story but I assure you it's not. At some point we will see him with other people, promise.
II. Anger
He manages to keep from speaking to her in full sentences for almost four months. With all the double dates and parties and post-football game pizzas they've been forced to share, it's impossible to stay completely mute. So Puck does his best to give one word answers: yes, no, whatever, bitch. And, as his friend Tony the Tiger would say it's going GRRRR-eat.
At least until after football practice one Saturday in September, he finds her leaning against the side of his truck. All worn out from Cherrios, that short little skirt pushed halfway up her thighs… He can see the sweat trickling down her red, hot skin. She looks so tired, pulling her hair down from their regulation ponytail. It sweeps in golden waves over her shoulders, so shiny and curly and…
"What do you want, Fabray?" He spits, throwing his backpack into the back. It comes pretty close to hitting her head. He curses when he misses, damn his bad aim.
"Where's Finn?" He should have known it was about tall, pale, and whiny. Quinn won't let me touch her boobs, Quinn says I can't wear green anymore, Quinn says you're a jerk to her.
"Do I look like a zookeeper to you?" He hisses and she grins. "What?"
"Noah had an ark full of animals, two of every species." She points at him, "Noah." She points at his truck, "Piece of crap, but I guess it could count as an ark." He scowls, she keeps grinning.
"It's a Ford F-150 actually," He opens the door, and she moves between him and the car to slam it. He tries not to notice her left leg grazing his right. Tries not to care how the material of her uniform brushes up against his thigh. Not to notice how pretty her eyes are up close, with the sparkling emerald color and those long, dark lashes.
Instead, he jumps back like she burned him. "What the hell, Fabray?" He demands. His back is pressed against the Isuzu parked next to him. The metal is cold from the wind. It feels good on his sweaty palms.
She just sighs, rolling her eyes, "Do you know where Finn is or not?"
He nods shortly, "His mom is having surgery…on her prostate."
She kicks him in the shin and he takes a minute to flinch, "Girl's don't have prostates, very funny dumb ass." She shakes her head in frustration and walks away muttering something about the idiots she has to deal with on a day to day basis. He watches the skirt of her uniform swish, swish, swish, for a moment. He takes a deep breath of crispy air, and climbs into the driver's seat.
Finn is walking along the side of the parking lot on the way back to his truck. "I looked it up. Chicks don't have prostates!" His head snaps up, and he sees Puck. The rest of his team surrounds him, paintball guns clutched in their hands. "You broke the rules. And for that, you must be punished." Suddenly the guns are in the air, ready to listen to shoot the supposed Benedict Arnold.
"Wait, wait, w-w-wait," Finn stutters, stepping backwards as Puck and the others advance. "You've got the power here. Y-you don't have to do this," He practically pleads.
Puck's finger is already on the trigger though, and he's watching the little green balls of paint splatter against his friend's jacket. Finn needs to be punished. Girls don't have prostates, girls don't have prostates, girl have short little red skirts and muscled thighs. He takes a step closer, no prostates. No.
Finn doesn't scream, he just stands there with his hands held spastically in mid-air and his face contorts the same way as when he thinks too hard. Puck runs out of ammo before anyone else, and finds it entirely unsatisfying to watch them keep shooting. He grabs Matt Rutherford's gun and aims below the waist.
It makes him feel a little better. Almost.
On Sunday night he and Matt nail all of Kurt Hummel's lawn furniture to his roof. On Monday, along with the rest of the team, they put wheelchair kid in a port-o-potty as a gift to Finn. All he has to do is push. Instead, he rolls the nerd away. As the rest of the team stands there in shock, Puck tries to think of a way to rationalize his behavior. More importantly, he tries to think of satisfactory revenge.
On one side of the field, the Emerald Dreams guy is hosing on fake green. On the other side, the Cheerios are practicing. He sees Quinn out on the field, doing backhand springs while Coach Sylvester looks on smiling. Words start forming hazily in the back of his head, until a plan springs into place.
He chooses cherry. Cherry because it smells like her plump, pink lips. Cherry because it'll match that fucking red uniform of hers that's tight in all the wrong places. Cherry because she needs hers popped badly. He pays the guy at Cumberland Farms his eighty-nine cents and takes a quick taste before sliding it into the cup holder of his truck and driving off towards school.
He watches her getting out of her car in the parking lot. Cherry-colored Punch Buggy, just another reason. She adjusts the strap of her backpack on her shoulder. And, what a surprise! It's red… Just another reason. She throws an insult at Rachel Berry, who just happens to be rolling her pink suitcase thing by. He falters for a moment, because he's usually out of the car in time to insult Rachel's argyle sweater and knee-high socks combo himself.
He regains his composure, kicking his door open hard. He makes his way over to doors, cutting her off as she tries to get in. "Puck, I'm late for AP Bio. Get out of my way." He stands still, glaring at her. "Seriously, I'm late. And we have a lab today, get out of my way." His fists curl and he realizes something is wrong. The slushie isn't in his hand. He feels his eyes go wide, he forgot the slushie. This has never happened to him before. Performance anxiety isn't high on his list of problems.
"Finn told me to apologize for my fucking behavior on Saturday," He says through his teeth, glaring back at his truck.
She looks away, "You know that doesn't count, right?" She mutters under her breath. And he wonders if it really bothers her, that he doesn't like her. That he insults her. That he's the one who got the whole football team to call her Virgin Mary.
"I know," He grumbles, and walks back toward his car. No use making her later if he isn't going to make her cry. He takes the slushie out of it's holder and throws it at the first person who walks by, Brittany Lawson.
Her bottom lip quivers, and she stares at him. Her brown eyes looking at him with the resounding question, Why? He just shrugs, and walks by her as Mike Chang comes rushing to the rescue, tucking his letterman jacket over her. She leans her head against Mike's shoulder and breaks into sobs.
Puck keeps walking.
They lose again on Friday night. Coach still takes them out for pizza, probably was going to head to Papa Gino's anyways judging by his waistline. He finds himself sitting at the corner booth, wedged in between Santana and Mike. Santana is babbling on about needing a manicure, and Mike is making love-struck puppy faces at Brittany across the table. He can hear Finn and Quinn giggling in the booth behind him.
He thinks he might be sick.
Somewhere between Brittany dropping her napkin, Mike rushing to pick it up, and Santana's detailed play-by-play of her leg waxing yesterday, he feels himself rising out of his seat. He wanders aimlessly to the corner where the Jukebox is kept. He presses the arrows, looking through the songs. There isn't much in there, just crappy one-hit wonders from the '80s and pop wash-ups from the '90s.
He chooses a Queen song and keeps flipping. Three for a dollar, what fun. At least the longer it takes, the longer he'll be away from Santana and her incessant squawking.
"Hey." He hears from behind him. He can't help but jump. "Didn't mean to give you a heart attack," Quinn walks out in front of him. She's wearing her uniform under Finn's letterman. The jacket looks ridiculously big on her tiny frame, he goes back to looking for songs. "I see you're not in much of a party mood either."
"We lost," He grunts. Flip, Britney Spears. Flip, Now 8. Flip, Rolling Stones. Flip, flip, flip, flip. Would it kill them to put some Radiohead in there? Maybe a little Coldplay?
She nods, smiling, "None of the other idiots seem to care." She motions behind them, to where all of their so-called friends are celebrating. He glances back, Matt has moved into his spot, and Mike is next to Brittany now. Looking at them, they're bright, smiling faces, you'd have thought they won. He returns his gaze to the selections, flipping back and forth half-heartedly now that Quinn has gone and ruined his solitude.
"You know you're kind of an asshole, right?" She asks, and he looks at her, expecting her bitch-face to be poised and ready. Instead, he's met with a frown, as if she doesn't quite know what to make of him and his biting remarks and permanent scowl.
He nods. Staring into her green eyes carefully as his head goes up and down. "And you know you can be kind of a bitch?"
She nods too, grinning up at him, "Yeah, but I'm pretty so it doesn't usually matter."
He smiles against his will, and punching in the numbers for Aerosmith's Walk This Way. "You might be able to bat your eyelashes at Finn and get whatever you want but that isn't really my deal."
She sighs, and he can feel her watching his fingers, "What is your deal, Puckerman? I mean, besides throwing kids into dumpsters and paint-balling your friends?"
He stops flipping. It's a solid question, what is his deal? No-one's ever asked him before. Usually people are too busy cowering in fear of him to ask him questions, and the ones that are stupid enough to do otherwise (Finn, Santana, the other scalpel jocks) don't spend a lot of time having conversations. "I don't know, I guess you could say-"
"Quinn!" Finn comes fumbling over, tripping over his own gigantic feet. "Santana's having an after party at her house. Her dad bought us vodka." Puck sighs, it isn't as if Finn can afford to lose the brain cells drinking will cause him to.
"Great, finish your pizza and we'll go," Finn follows her orders, wagging his tail along the way like a contented puppy. Puck scoffs, and Quinn turns her attention back to him.
"So you aren't going then?" Something about the way she raises her eyebrow makes his blood flow a little faster. Such a badass move for such a virginal little girl.
"Yeah, I'm going to turn up an opportunity for free booze," He smirks.
She smiles, shaking her head and walking back towards Finn. He turns his full attention back to picking a decent song. "I like Elton John," He hears from behind him, but when he turns to look at her she's still walking away. He looks through the queen's song because he's bored. He decides to play one to humor her.
He sits down at the booth just as his 2nd selection ends. Santana whines that he's an asshole for leaving her alone so long, but tries to curl into his lap none-the-less. He pushes her off and tells her to eat her pizza.
I'm a bitch,
I'm a bitch,
Oh, the bitch is back,
Stone cold sober as a matter of fact,
I can bitch, I can bitch,
'Cause I'm better than you,
It's the way that I move,
The things that I do…
He can hear Quinn stop talking mid-sentence behind him, she peels herself out of Finn's arms and glares over her shoulder at him. He grins so wide he thinks his mouth will get stuck like that, and takes a giant bite of pizza. The cheese doesn't taste as moldy as it did when he left it.
Two weeks later he's driving home from football practice when he sees a short red skirt swishing back and forth on the side of the road, blond hair whipping in the wind, and a red athletic bag slung over a shoulder. He sighs, and prays that it's Brittany as he pulls his car onto the side of the road next to the figure.
No such luck, the cheerleading uniform belongs to Quinn Fabray.
She doesn't acknowledge him nor the truck as he sidles up next to her, engine purring quietly. She keeps her head turned right, but he can see her jaw clench and her arms wrapping themselves around her body, and for once she doesn't have that stupid jacket of Finn's to keep her warm. It's September, but it's Ohio. He wouldn't exactly call it warm. "Quinn," She keeps walking, hugging herself tighter. "Quinn Fabray," He calls loudly, laying on the horn. She flinches slightly, but doubles her already quick pace. "Virgin Mary!"
She looks at him and then scrunches up her face, "Damn it," He hears just barely under her breathe. She looks up at him, her face red. He wonders if it's out of embarrassment or if she's been crying. "What do you want, Puckerman?" She spits out, avoiding his gaze again.
"Just wanted to see if you needed a ride," He shrugs, and he opens up the passenger door. "Your McMansion is on my way home anyways."
Her eyebrows furrow and she gets a little wrinkle in the middle of her forehead, her lips set in a grim line. He smiles, pushing the door open wider. "What is your problem?" She hisses, kicking the door shut. "You think you can just be a jerk to me all the time and then offer me rides home when you feel like it?" She scoffs, and keeps walking. "Go to Hell." She over enunciates the word enough to make you know she doesn't say it a lot.
The funny thing is, it does bother him to an extent. More than it should. What right does she have to bitch at him when he's trying to be nice? He pulls up in front of her and thrusts the passenger side door open again. "Get in the god damn car, Quinn, and stop acting like I owe you anything. You're Finn's girlfriend, okay? Maybe he has to worship at your fucking feet but I sure don't."
She spins around so fast he swears he hair gives him whiplash, "Oh, I'm sorry. I should let you treat me like crap just because girls who have no self-esteem like Santana do. Oh, and maybe tomorrow, I'll let you slushie me like you do to Rachel Berry. Won't that be fun?" Her eyes gleam with anger, shining gold flecks underneath the green that remind him of lightening. He was scared of thunderstorms as a kid. "And maybe tomorrow, you know what we can do? I can forget to wear underwear and you can go down on me in that disgusting truck bed of yours. Is that what you want, Puck? Do you want to get into my pants? God, it isn't going to happen. So just go to hell, please, okay? I don't have time to deal with your shit today." She slams the door and sulks off.
His blood boils, and he takes his truck and goes off so fast he forgets to turn at first and takes down the mailbox at the end of the road. He screeches off. Fucking Quinn Fabray, if Finn doesn't dump her soon he's going to have to fucking take up smoking just to deal with the stress she's building up. Who is she to act like she's better than him? Just because her daddy's rich and his is a deadbeat doesn't mean anything. She's just another fucking whore. Just another whore.
'I can forget to wear underwear and you can go down on me…' His breathe catches in his throat, and he imagines Quinn laying on her back in his truck bed, his tongue inside her. He imagines he begging him for more, that blond hair all sweaty and stuck to her shoulders, his hands on her well-toned thighs, her fingers reaching for his belt buckle…
He stops in the middle of the road. Oh god, she'd be good. He just knows, a girl with that much fight in her couldn't be bad in bed. Her cheerleading uniform on his floor, her cherry smelling lips leaving a trail on his neck, against his mouth. He can taste it now, and he likes cherry. Suddenly, the truck is turned around and he's heading back to Quinn, Quinn Fabray of all people in hopes of sex.
More images bombard his brain and he drives faster. Quinn Fabray in nothing but his letterman jacket, legs spread wide on his bed. Quinn Fabray in the school library, in the stacks of dusty old periodicals in the back trying not to make a sound as he slips his hand between her legs. Quinn Fabray on her pink bedspread at home, grinning as they get away with it right under her parents noses. Quinn on the phone with Finn, telling him that cheerleading practice is going late while he's right behind her thrusting.
Quinn Fabray on the side of the road, wiping tears away from her pretty green eyes. …Wow, what a buzz kill.
"Go away!" She snaps, sitting in the grass with her face barely out of her hands. "I swear to God, if you don't I'll kick you in the crotch this time."
He pulls the truck to a halt on the curve, turning the keys in the ignition, and hopping out of the car. It doesn't even feel like him, but he feels his legs moving so it must be. He pulls his letterman out of the bed and lays it in her lap silently. She stares at it for a minute, her fingers grazing lightly over the familiar red. Her lips purse as if she's about to object…
She looks up at him, her cheeks shining with wetness, and whatever was there seems to catch in her throat. She swallows, hard, and he really tries to push certain thoughts out of his head. He looks down at the dirt beneath his feet, he's standing in an anthill. Oh good, there's no way to make that dirty. "You can drive me home," He hears her sigh. He brings his head up, and sees her heading towards his truck. His jacket is hanging loosely in her left hand, and she throw her cheerleading bag into the back in it's place before climbing in.
He follows hands in his pockets, waiting for her to settle herself before he starts the ignition and shifts into drive. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Puck is too nervous something sexy will come on the radio to try and bother with it. Quinn just sits there looking out the window, her sad green eyes a million miles away. He glances over at her, the jacket is still spread across her lap as if she isn't sure what to do with it. Her hair is falling out of it's blond ponytail, the curled tendrils at the front framing her face.
He clears his throat, she stretches a little. "So, um, where's your car?" He mentally slaps himself for the lame attempt at small talk, usually he thanks his lucky stars when whatever girl he's with isn't yapping at him.
"Daddy took it away because he found out Finn and I had been using his hot tub," She mumbles, leaning her chin against her palm. "And now he has to have it cleaned."
"Why exactly?" She doesn't answer his question, but he sees her eyes linger a little too long on the mailbox they're passing and he grins. "Finn can't keep his swimmers to himself, huh?"
She looks in his direction just long enough to glare, then returns to the window, "Something like that," She breathes in heavily, and somewhere on the way out the air becomes a sob. "Oh…" She covers her hand with her mouth, and he begins to pull over. "No, keep driving," She tells him, tears falling upon her cheeks. "It's just, god, I think I'm getting my period or something. Oh god, I can't believe I just told you that."
"It's okay," He squeaks, but it isn't helping. He's been around enough to know how sensitive girls get down there around their time of month. "I…uh, have a sister." Oh good, Delilah. She's a good distraction. He has a little sister, he should not send her the wrong messages by sleeping around. Especially when the girl happens to belong to his best friend.
She nods, swallowing the tears again. "I'm sorry. Can we just be quiet for a few minutes?" He nods, and turns toward the road. Between there and her house the only sound she makes is that of her heavy breathe, he tries to ignore even that. She breathes, he taps his fingers on the steering wheel. She breathes, he whistles a little while he turns. She breathes, he turns on the radio and finds some obnoxiously loud death metal. None of it does any good, it's all he can hear. So he tries not to hit anything as he drives a little to fast to her McMansion.
He pulls the truck into the driveway and she sits still in the passenger seat, breathing.
It takes every inch of self control in his body not to smack his head against the dashboard repeatedly. He knows he's being selfish. He knows it's wrong to expect her to breathe silently, but somehow he really just wants to talk for once. And she won't give that to him. "Well, um, bye," He mutters, waiting for her to get up.
She sits in the passenger seat and nods, looking at his jacket in her lap, but she doesn't make any effort to move. He attempts his best at patience. Does what his mom told him to when he was little, count to ten. 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi-
"Do you, uh, want…?" She trails off holding his jacket at him and he takes it, throwing it over the back of his seat. "I guess, I'll see you," She opens her door, but she sits there on the edge of her seat, not leaving.
"What Quinn?" He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "You want help with your bag?"
She looks at him and shakes her head, "I was just…um, I…"
He rolls his eyes, "Spit it out, Virgin Mary."
She narrows her eyes, "Forget it, Lima Loser." Suddenly she's out of the car and slamming the door in his face. "Forget I even thought of it."
"Thought of what?" She slings the duffel over her shoulder and huffs toward the house. "Seriously Fabray, what?" She ignores him and he finds himself climbing out of the car and chasing her. She starts running, he cuts her off at the door. Thank god he's running back for the football team, she's fast for a girl. "What the hell is your problem? I was actually being nice, do you know how hard that is?"
"Oh, you're right. I apologize for the fact that you can't act like anything but a donkey's rear end unless a girl cries," She snaps at him, her hand goes to his chest and he falls back against the door, because she's surprisingly strong…for a cheerleader.
"You know, I don't think God will eternally smite you if you use the word ass," He hisses, trying to regain his stature, but damn, her hand is like a vice grip. Must be from holding up other people all day everyday.
"Maybe, but it's not like you're really worth risking it," She has a sly little grin on her face. He breaks her hold for a minute and she slams him back. "What's wrong, the big bad football player scared of the little blond girl?"
"No," He grunts. "Are you afraid of me?"
She hesitates for a minute, and he takes the minute to break his back away from her door. "No…No," She repeats, but he sees her bite her lip and her eyes dart away.
"Really?" He smirks, trying to meet her eyes. "Have you seen my guns? Pretty scary."
"Do I need to shove you against my door again?" She threatens, glaring at him, but he thinks that her cheeks are just a little bit too pink.
He takes a step closer to her, and motions over to the driveway, "What about my truck?" She snorts. "Oh c'mon, I know you think it's a piece of crap but it's pretty big."
"Over compensating much?" She's giggling now, but her cheeks turn redder and she steps back so she's against the railing.
"What about my Mohawk?" He moves closer, so that there's only about three inches between them. "Does that scare you? Or do you like a little bit of a bad boy Fabray?" He raises an eyebrow.
Her breath intakes sharply, and she stares at him. He runs a hand over his patch of hair and wiggles his brows now. "N-no," She answers uncertainly, gripping the white wood behind her a little too tight for it to be true.
"The grin then? You think it's pervy, maybe a little un-Christian?" He leers at her pointedly, and she flinches away from him. "Or maybe you like it just like the hair."
She clears her throat, no longer looking at him. "It's more than a little un-Christian, but it doesn't scare me."
He's touching her now, her skirt against his jeans, his hand trailing a line up her side. "There's only one thing left then, it must be the eyes." His fingers run along her neck, and up to her jaw. He uses it to turn her face towards him, so her green orbs are pointed up. "What is it? What could possibly scare you about this?"
She shaking now, and he can see her legs are practically giving out without the strength of the railing to support her. "It's everything," She whispers, meeting his gaze. "Every last bit of you is terrifying."
He feels something rise inside his chest, something fragile and vulnerable he buried a long time ago when his dad walked out. "Every thing about you is too." She opens her mouth to respond, but he cuts her off with his lips.