Startled, Rachel drops the glass she's scrubbing in the sink and shards plink against the basin. She runs to the living room, where she had just heard Noah's roar.

Mr. Puckerman is standing in the front doorway. Actually, it's more like he's leaning against the doorjamb unsteadily, and -

Oh dear.

Drunk. Bloodshot eyes, slurring words, stumbling drunk.

Puck's jaw is set tight, his hands in fists, eyes narrowed to almost indistinguishable slits.

"My son," Mr. Puckerman starts towards him, hand outstretched, and Puck slaps it away.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

"I'm not allowed to pay condolences, and grieve, for my wife?" Mr. Puckerman's eyes opened wide. "Why so angry, son? You weren't so angry last time we chatted." He paused and swept his glance around. "This was my house once too. You and Becca were mine. Are mine."

His words reverberated as they bounced off the walls of the still room.

"She was not. Your wife," Puck talked through clenched teeth, fists balled up tight. "You are not my father. You never were my fucking father, you piece of shit. Now get the fuck out of my house."

Mr. Puckerman turned towards Nana Connie. "Connie. Our poor Rina. My Rina. She was gone too soon." Nana Connie took a step away from him.

"I swear to God, get the fuck out of my house, you motherfucking low life drunk piece of -" Rachel reached for Puck's arm.

"Noah," she whispered. "Noah, please…"

"Listen to your girlfriend, son," Mr, Puckerman spat the word with derision, and tripped over a side table. "I'm grieving too, you asshole." He started towards Becca. "My girl. You grew up to be such a pretty girl, my Rebecca."

And that was it, because hell fucking no is this bastard going to try to pull any kind of shit with his sister, the fucking daughter he never even saw after she was 3 years old. Everything exploded all at once.

He landed a firm punch squarely on his fathers jaw, hard, knocking him over the coffee table, and then another and then all he could see was his father's shitty ass face in front of him and he just wanted to keep hitting and punching and fuck, someone grabbed him, someone is pulling him away and he all he could see is rage, white hot, pounding in front of his eyes.

Becca is screeching a tirade of "fuck you's" and "get the fuck out", and his dad is screaming and Nana Connie is crying and everyone is yelling and it's Rachel, Rachel is the one pushing him into the laundry room off the side of the kitchen and sliding the door closed.

He's shaking so fucking hard and he can't catch his breath and his heart is about to pound out of his chest and he is going to fucking KILL him he is going to wrap his Goddamn hands around his lying, fucking, deserting throat and twist and choke until he turns eleven fucking shades of blue and then he will still keep twisting. He cannot believe, of all the fucking people to walk through that fucking door, and what the fuck does he even think he's doing here and he was never, ever a fucking husband to his mom and , he is going to rip his fucking head off and shove it up his ass and how dare he, how mother fucking dare he-

"Noah."

He feels Rachel's hands on his face, solid, still. He can't focus, everything is spinning and pulsing in front of him.

"Noah. Look at me." Her voice is quiet, calm. "Not here. I know, Noah, I know how much it hurts. But. Not here. Not now."

His head is going to explode, his eyes, his eyes hurt, the tightness in his chest is twisting and turning and suffocating him. He is going to fucking KILL him -

"Breathe, Noah. Breathe." Her hands are still on his face. He tries to steady himself, to stop the shaking, the throbbing.

It just fucking hurts. It all hurts so fucking much and he just can't...he just can't do it. His mom, his mother, she's gone, he can't, and his dad is such an asshole and he was never a father and everyone always leaves him, they always fucking leave and he's trying so hard and he needs to keep it together he needs….he needs…

Something inside him breaks. Something tears, something shatters. Something drops deep into the pit of his stomach and snaps, hard, and he can't stop it, he can't stop.

He closes his eyes and drops his head and he's crying.

Rachel still has her hands on his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks.

Oh God. Oh Noah.

Rachel's heart is breaking. She just holds him, and he lets her, rests his head against hers, and she feels his shoulders heaving and his breaths coming in and out raggedly.

She's not going to say it will be ok.

She's not going to say she is sorry for him.

She's not going to say anything. He's broken, so she's just going to be there, be here, be with him.

And hopefully that will be enough.

Fuck. Fuck. Calm down, Puckerman, get your shit together here.

"Shit," He breathed in. "Shit. Jesus. Fuck." He turned from Rachel and rubbed his hands over his face. "Dammit. Dammit."

Rachel doesn't know what to say. She just stands, waits.

"Fuck, Rachel. Fuck." He slams his hand down on the lid of the dryer. "Why the fuck did he show up here?"

"I know, Noah," She's whispering. "I know."

He paced up and down the length of the room as Rachel stood, watching him, wringing her hands, when Becca slides the door open to the laundry room. "Hey," she starts out, and bites her lip. "Dad's gone. Um. Puck. Are you...ok?"

"Yeah," he responded tonelessly. Then, with more vigor and anger, "Where is he? I swear to God, Bec, I'm going after him, I am going to fucking kill him."

"Uncle Rich dragged him out of the house, and Nana Connie locked the door. The cops are dealing with him right now outside." She tried to hide a grin. "Apparently someone called the cops when they saw him driving piss drunk and he hit a few parked cars. The cops were at our door within seconds of your escape." She allowed the patented Puckerman smirk to bloom her face. "Your left hook is banging, bro. That was fucking awesome. It's gonna leave a damn good bruise."

"Shit," He took in another deep breath. "Cops. Am I - is Nana Connie pissed?"

"Nah. She would have hit him if you didn't, I bet. And no one said anything to the cops about your punch, so I'd just stay in here till they leave." Becca turned, starting to pull the door closed with her before she looked over her shoulder with a sly smile. "And if anyone asks about you, I'll just tell 'em you and Rachel are macking it on the washing machine."

Rachel flushed a crimson red.

"Bec, seriously, the fuck!"

"Oh, please, Puck." Becca rolled her eyes. "Gimme a break. First of all, like anyone really believes the great Noah Puckerman could have a steady girlfriend...especially one who couldn't possibly even stay a full day." Becca paused. "Secondly, no one saw her yesterday at mom's funeral, but they sure saw Rachel holding your hand and then mysteriously disappearing from shiva at the same time as you last night."

Rachel grimaced.

"And thirdly? Quinn sucks. The End." Becca pulled the door shut.

Puck groaned and rolled his eyes. "Fucking teenager, I swear."

"Noah, I…" Rachel stopped, and then started again, looking at her feet. "I'm sorry Quinn left."

He hopped up to sit on the dryer, and shrugged. "Whatever."

"She shouldn't have, you know," Rachel starting gaining confidence, and her words came out more forceful, more deliberate. "You needed her here and she abandoned you."

"Geez, Rachel, I don't need anyone." He's not mad. "Q puts Q first and everyone and everything second and whatever, I knew that, it's always been like that." Ok, so maybe he is mad.

"Well." She doesn't know what's coming over her but she's...angry. Like, really angry now. And the words just start coming out before she could stop or think or act and it's just a flood. "Well. You know what, I'm not sorry that I hooked up with her boyfriend. You know that? I'm not sorry, I mean, if she was any other friend, maybe I would be sorry, maybe I would be guilty, that I was this brazen other woman, and I know, that was probably just a mistake, a one time thing and you're pretty much grief stricken and I can't hold you entirely, coherently, responsible for your actions and I'm sure that I was just a release for some of your emotions, and that's fine, you know what, I am ok with being a release. I enjoyed being a release, oh, did I enjoy it. But dammit, Noah, I'm not sorry! I'm not sorry it happened and I'm not sorry to Quinn and I'm not sorry to be some hussy, and she shouldn't have left you, and God, would you please just tell me last night was just nothing already, just a silly mistake fueled by grief and alcohol and hormones so I can move on and stop thinking about you and your arms and your mouth and just….just tell me it was a mistake and that's that! Ok? Ok!"

Now Rachel is the one breathing heavy, face ablaze, hands on her hips, looking at Puck defiantly.

Angry, passionate Rachel? Kiiiiiiiiiinda turns him on.

He cocked his eyebrow up. "I knew exactly what I was doing last night, Rach."

"Oh, please, Noah," Her defiance was tinged with a very slight hint of sarcasm. "You were pretty far drunk. My goodness, you're going through a terrible time right now. And, a girlfriend, you have a girlfriend! You must agree, our actions were most certainly a mistake."

So maybe he was drunk yesterday but really? It wasn't a fucking mistake. And it pisses him off that, always with Rachel, the stupid ass token excuse is always that he was "a mistake."

He slid off of the dryer and stepped towards her.

"Fine." He took a step closer. "Fine. So I was drunk. And so were you." Another step. "But I knew what I was doing."

He's standing right in front of her now. "And my girlfriend chose not to be here. So it's her damn problem, not yours." He paused. "And not mine."

She can feel his breath hot on her neck as he leans to whisper in her ear. "And it was not. A fucking. Mistake."

This bullshit. This fucking bullshit. Again. So maybe he can't stop having dirty thoughts about Rachel Berry and, ok, fine, he likes sex and everything that goes along with it, and fine, he has a fucking girlfriend (who isn't here, who's never here, whatever) but fuck, he's nobody's fucking mistake and he's sick of always being hers.

He leans his cheek against her head, inhaling her hair, her hair that always smells like vanilla fucking cookies and he just can't even.

Goddamn it.

In high school, he wasn't Finn, so he was a mistake. So many times, because he wasn't Finn fucking Hudson, he was Quinn's mistake, he was Rachel's mistake.

And he tried to prove himself to Quinn, and she took him, but, fuck, she's not here is she? She's never here, or there, and he is always second place and, that, ok, fine he will admit it, that fucking sucks.

Rachel is disarmed by his closeness, involuntarily rests her head against his face, and he feels her eyelids flutter closed. They stand there in silence for a few moments.

"Noah…" She whispers. "I know it was just once but...but what is it about you that it's so much bigger than a 'just once'? What are we really doing here?"

Fuck it if he knows.

Yeah. That's it. Fuck it.

Fuck it all. He's done.

"Don't know," he responds, tucking a piece of hair behind her opposite ear, trailing his fingers down her neck, her back, resting his hand above her waist as she circles her arms around his neck and tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder.

He's so tired of thinking. About the past few days. About everything. About everyone.

He could feel her take a deep breath. "If we start, I...I'm not entirely sure I'm going to be able to stop, Noah. I...I'm not entirely sure I'd...I'd want to stop. I...I know I should, but..."

It's on him. She's putting it all on him, she's telling him she wants it too.

Technically, he's the one making the mistake, for once. He's the one cheating on Quinn.

But fuck it.

He pulls away from her, hands on her shoulders. "Rachel. I'd never make you do anything you don't wanna do," He sighs. "But, Jesus, I can't stop thinking about you since last night."

Why the fuck is it always so wrong. To just. Want. Rachel.

She bites her lip, and looks up at him through dark lashes.

"Well...can we at least go to your room instead of here?"

Um, yes. Jesus, finally.

He's lucky as fuck that Becca and Nana Connie are somewhere else (and who the fuck cares where, cause, hello) as he and Rachel scamper through the living room and up the stairs to his room. He kicks the door closed and his hands are all over her, and she's gripping his arms, his shoulders, and he can't stop and he won't stop ever kissing her.

He backs her onto the bed and leans over her, fumbling, pulling his tie off and he's never been so fucking horny for a girl before and Goddammit, this fucking tie. Rachel is laughing, her eyes crinkling as she helps him pull it over his head and he legit rips off her sweater and who the fuck cares, it was an ugly sweater anyway and she shouldn't ever wear clothes, like, ever, so he's doing the world a favor.

She smiles into his kisses, she curls her tongue around his, she pulls his head, his body closer, and he's trying to think of ham sandwiches and dentures and whales and anything else that could get his dick to calm the fuck down because, oh shit, she's stroking her nails at nape of his neck he nibbles behind her earlobe and oh God and now she's unbuttoning his shirt and sliding her hands all over his shoulders and arms.

He wants to be like that Indian god with the eight arms because there is not a place on Rachel Berry's body that he doesn't want his hands on. It's all happening so fast. She shivers as he sweeps his fingers down her side, and sighs contentedly as he grips her waist tightly and Rachel arches her back to bring her hips closer to him and she feels his desire straight through his Dockers, which deliciously ignites hers even more.

Slow down, Puck, slow down, he chants to himself. Ok, slow, but that skirt needs to be on his floor right now, and those tights, under the bed, fuck that, get that shit off of this girl and now she's laying there under him, all ivory lace and olive skin and fuck, he feels like he's 14 all over again and about to blow his load because, fuck. She's fucking gorgeous and he's never seen her full blown underwear (except, you know, dreams and shit) and it's even better in real life.

He's trying to keep it together, his mouth on her neck, her chest, circling her tongue around her navel and he's got this, he's got this.

But then he hears a breathy, "Oh God, Noahhhhhhh," when he moves to nibble her over her bra and he almost loses it, and then she's undoing his belt and pushing his pants off his hips and sweet Lord almighty fuck she grabs him through his boxers and wraps her fingers around and fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

He lifts himself onto his arms, away from her heaving chest, "Rach, God, fuck, Rachel, I gotta stop," he pants.

She's all big bright eyes and swollen lips and flushed cheeks. "I...what?"

He's breathing like he needs a fucking paper bag and maybe he does (like a pussy, but really). "Rachel, you're so Goddamn gorgeous and I just, I'm gonna fucking blow my load if I don't stop." He drops his head, because, fuck his life, here comes his conscience at the worst fucking time ever. "Rachel. I want to, oh God, I fucking want you so fucking bad but…" he groans, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. "I know it shouldn't be like this. This way."

He eases himself off of her and sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Since when is he all honorable and shit. Fuck. He couldn't seal the fucking deal, what the hell is wrong with him.

He knows, though. He knows it shouldn't be a quickie like this. With all the circumstances surrounding them, with all this fucking history they have, it shouldn't be like this.

She's halfway between crestfallen and touched. "Ok," Rachel responds in a low voice, bringing herself to her knees. "Ok," she says louder. "Puck. Noah. I…" She scoots to the edge of the bed, still in just her bra and panties and tucks her legs underneath her, leaning her chin on his shoulder. "Ok."

He's talking into his hands. He's such a fucking loser. "Rachel, Jesus, fuck, I want you, fuck, I want you now, I fucking want you upside down and every which way but…"

"Noah. It's ok."

"Jesus Christ, Rachel. Fuck my life."

She can't help but grin, as a rather un-Rachel-like devilish thought crosses her mind. She can do this. She will do this.

"We don't have to have sex, Noah," She doesn't pause to analyze, to determine the pros and cons of her decision, and she starts to crawl off the bed and moves herself to face him. "And I appreciate your honesty and especially your gallantry."

No mistakes, no excuses, no cold showers. She kneels in front of him, her hands on his knees. "But I cannot possibly, with good conscience, leave things at this decibellic thundering crescendo without completion." She dances her fingers over the waistband of his boxers. "I am, if nothing, a woman of penultimate finis. So, please," She implores, her big brown eyes gazing up at him while she hooks her thumbs into his underwear and pulls down. "Let me...just…"

What the fuck, he's confused, hold up, what is happening here -

Rachel feels that language should accurately reflect the situation. She prides herself in finding and applying the perfect word for each and every situation, and she takes care in choosing and implementing compliments.

But the only word she can find when she sees Noah Puckerman like...like that, in front of her, is a whispered, "Oh, my fuck."

And, then it's oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck yes, holy shit, sweet mother of all that is holy and God damn and her mouth on him and everything and fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck and Rachelrachelrachelrachelrachel and her tongue is flicking and then she swallows around his length and all he sees is white and bright and light and he's not exactly sure how loud he is being but who the fuck cares and yeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssss Rachel fucking Berry, ladies and gentlemen.

Shortly after, she escapes to Noah's bathroom to freshen up while he's, ahem, "recovering." She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and leans over the vanity, staring at her reflection.

Who is this person I am becoming?

I cannot believe I just did that.

Rachel Berry. Rachel Barbra Berry, you are a saucy minx.

And she kind of, sort of...likes it.

It's hard to always be the good girl. To live up to these expectations that she, and everyone else, has for herself. She would talk herself into listening to her gut. She would wait in earnest, trying to tap into her intuition, trying to decode slivers of messages that, she thought, were delivered by fate. She'd absorb, analyze, turn over and inside out and upside down, her decisions, her options, and she whatever path she chose, she'd assume that was following her gut. After all, she'd waited, sometimes (often) impatiently for some sign to appear, to tell her what to do, where to go. And after this past year and a half, she pretty much decided her gut? Was broken. It always sent her in the wrong direction. She gave up on her intuition, because it had given up on her - NYADA, Funny Girl, that awful sitcom pilot...she followed what she thought she was supposed to do, and it betrayed her.

She smoothes her hair, touches her red, swollen lips, takes in the flushed cheeks, her bright eyes. This Rachel, she hasn't seen this Rachel in quite some time. This confident, take charge, go-get-what-she-wants Rachel.

In her career, her academia, she's back on track, thankfully being re-accepted into NYADA, just having lost a year of credits. So, if that's considered her endpoint, her result, well, at least that was correct. Although, her gut wasn't telling her to go back to Madame Thibodeaux with her tail between her legs, everyone else certainly was, and she was so angry at her intuition by that point that it seemed logical to follow someone else's. She's done following herself. She can't trust herself.

And then there was her love life. Her disastrous, explosive love life.

There was Finn.

Her intuition had told her to be alone, to be independent, to not tether herself to anyone, and for awhile, that felt good.

But then Finn was...gone.

And oh, the guilt. So much guilt. That if she was there, that if her last words to him were in love and not...well, not anger, but their last conversations weren't exactly love or even lust. That if she was enough for him, more for him, that maybe...maybe.

She never thought she was fully responsible, even indirectly, for his death.

But she never thought she was absolved of guilt completely.

Rachel just didn't know herself anymore. She had no confidence in her choices. No confidence in her direction. She played a decent part to the outside, convincing everyone that she was "ok", that she had a path, but really? She had this feeling of aimlessly floating, in black and white, for awhile now.

Until now.

Until she stopped thinking and analyzing and letting someone else make her decisions and second guessing her gut and waiting for banners in the sky and fireworks (although...yes, yes there were fireworks in this situation, this situation just then was certainly...electric).

No one makes decisions for Rachel Barbra Berry anymore.

She makes her own decisions.

She goes with it.

She listened to her gut this time and instinctively reacted and it was.

Amazing.

It wasn't without consequence.

And an unfortunate reality.

But moments in time like this, where the air is palatable and thick with lust and where her heart and her desire quiet her brain and her logic and even if it's just one moment, just this one moment, where she is on top of the world, then it was worth it.

Fortunately - and unfortunately - the consequences will be there tomorrow. But tonight?

Tonight is hers.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck yes, that was just. Shit. He's still in awe and. Fuck. Holy. Just. Wow.

What just happened here? What the fuck? Did Rachel just -

Damn. Fuck, his legs are still shaking and fuck, where did she go?

Shit. Holy shit and fuck and damn.

This girl.

This. Girl.

So of course, the minute she opens the bathroom door, he pounces on her. Noah Puckerman does not leave his women unfulfilled, especially after a performance as earth shattering as that. So fine, they don't have sex, but if she can make him moan like that with her tongue, well, you can damn well bet he's going to make that girl scream and fuck if anyone hears it and fuck conscience and mistakes and any of that horse shit.

Her taste, her touch, her moans, her gasps. Her breaths, her hands, the way she feels around his hand, the way she clenches and tightens and releases and reacts to his fingertips and his tongue and his mouth and everything about her is perfect, especially her face, flushed, lips parted slightly, eyelashes fluttered, as he brings her to the brink, and over it, once, twice, and one more time because he likes the number three.

And maybe they didn't have sex and maybe they won't have sex, but this? This is a-motherfucking-ok.

She's stretched out on his bed next to him, wrapped up in sheets and comforters, basking in the afterglow (even though the actual thought makes her blush), when he gets up and starts fumbling in his dresser drawers. He throws an old McKinley football t-shirt at her. "Stay."

The request takes her by surprise, and she sits up and stares at him.

"Stay?" She repeats.

"Yeah," He shrugged. "It's late, isn't it?" He cocked his eyebrow. "I tired you out enough, right?"

"Oh," She can't stop the blush rising in her cheeks. "Well, yes. Yes. Um. Stay. Ok. Sure."

"Cool." He walks into the bathroom and begins running water.

She twists the t-shirt in her hands, bringing it to her chest, and smiles.

Stay.

He wants her to stay. He wants to wake up with her, and ok, fine, maybe he wants to get her into his shower and fuck yeah.

And honestly? It was easy to ask her to stay. The words just kind of tumbled out.

Why was it so hard to ask Quinn to come home...but so easy to ask Rachel to stay?

Fuck.

Quinn.

Rachel's changed into his shirt (heh, niiiiiiice) when he comes back out from the bathroom, and she's sitting with her back against the bed's headboard. He flops down next to her, and Rachel suddenly is shy. She can't meet his eyes, she stares and fumbles with a hangnail, sitting up, stiff, rigid.

It's awkward again. Why is it awkward again?

She just gave Noah Puckerman a blowjob. And he...oh God, he was magnificent returning the favor.

And now she's laying in his bed, in his t shirt and….and…

And no matter how much soul searching she does, she's still Rachel Berry. And the sexual, lustful haze she was under is lifted, and no matter how hard she tries, she can't stop thinking about the potential consequences this "gut reaction" could get her.

"Rachel."

"Oh. Um. Yes?"

"You gonna sit up all night?"

"Right." She slides down the headboard and pulls the comforter up to her chin, curling into a little ball with her back to him.

He groaned. "Rachel. Seriously? After everything, you're embarrassed now?"

She rolled over to face him, eyes wide. "Was there something I should have been embarrassed about before?" Her hand clapped over her mouth. "My breath? Oh God. Did I bite too hard? What? Tell me."

Puck chuckled. "Baby, you were fucking dynamite. Absolute perfection." He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer.

"Oh, Noah," she sighed as she laid her head against his chest. "What are we going to do? What did we get ourselves into? What about Quinn, what about everything going on, what about -"

"Jesus, Rach," She could feel him rolling his eyes. "Just stop thinking for tonight, ok? Live in the moment just a little bit longer, 'kay?"

"But everything will still be there to worry about tomorrow," she mumbled.

"Exactly. Tomorrow," he replied. "Tonight just...stay."

"Ok," she repeated, breathing in Noah's smell of pine and soap and musk and strength and closed her eyes. "Ok."