Disclaimer: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.
Author Notes: Really just testing the water with this one, which is why it doesn't get it's own story and is just being tacked onto the end. This is set, obviously, towards the beginning of Sugar Daddy. I wrote it in the hopes of clearing one or two tiny details up, and it is not the prelude to a sequel.

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"You bought another car," Alan stated, scrolling down on his PDA and arching an eyebrow at his boss. "A Lincoln Navigator. Registered with Ohio plates."

"Who are you, my accountant?"

"Insured with the usual company," Alan continued, "who list the primary driver as a 'Mr. Kurt Hummel'. Age sixteen."

"Ah, I see," Noah drawled, watching the other man from over the top of a tumbler full of ice and amber liquid. "You're my parole officer."

Alan Stace generally liked his job. He liked his salary, he liked the free tickets to gala events and the heavily discounted designer suits. The medical was good. He got regular holidays. He could leave in the middle of the day for a three hour lunch as long as he took his phone, his notebook, and picked up the boss' dry cleaning on the way back. The downside had nothing to do with the hours or the menial tasks he was often expected to perform - Alan wasn't complaining about spending four years in college just to become a glorified messenger boy. The downside was that he actually liked his boss, which meant not wanting his boss to wind up in court or in the middle of a money-draining PR disaster.

The downside was all about Noah's attraction to young ingenue types, and his unfortunate habit of never bothering to ask for ages until after the fact. Knowing about, and even covering for, the sometimes-underage girls that Noah tended to pick up was the downside.

The boys were worse, Alan mused. That was two layers to the potential scandal - the words 'underage' and 'boy' when put together beside a businessman's name tended to be the end to that man's career.

It didn't matter how willing they were. If they were under eighteen the state still called it statutory rape.

Alan stood leaning against the wall in Noah Puckerman's office, a top floor corner suite with tinted windows and an amazing view. It was technically after hours or they never would have been having this conversation, though office hours was never a hundred percent guarantee that Noah wouldn't have been drinking. Alan was also still technically on the clock, but he would have been here to discuss this little tidbit he'd found even if he wasn't.

"Sixteen," Alan repeated dryly.

"Don't knot your panties," Noah replied, leaning back against the luxurious leather of his office chair. "State law. Look it up and leave me alone on this one."

"I hope you haven't made it obvious. Even if it's legal there it's still going to be heavily frowned upon here."

"It's fucking Lima," Noah replied, stressing the word. "We're talking about the town that wouldn't notice if Donatella fucking Versace waltzed into the local Starbucks and asked for a decaf soy latte and six small dogs."

"Have you considered that you might be followed?" Alan pressed, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

"You mean by anyone who isn't you?"

"Have you even thought this thing - this relationship or whatever it is you think you're having - have you even thought it through?"

"I know exactly what I'm doing," Noah replied. Alan arched an eyebrow at his boss, and his boss replied with a roll of his eyes. "I'm going to keep him in Lima until he's eighteen, buy him shit 'til he can't see straight and be the shoulder he needs to cry on. Then, if I haven't got bored yet, I'll give him a leg up, he can join the scene as New York's favourite gay little sweetheart, and everyone's happy as can be."

"You're essentially paying for an underage boyfriend," Alan translated dryly.

"A secret, sexy as sin, sad little virgin boyfriend," Noah corrected. "All the way in sleepy little Lima where you don't have to worry about covering up hotel bills and scouting for paparazzi."

Alan frowned. He was mustering his thoughts to put forward another sensible argument when Noah got an odd look on his face, then stood up and shoved a hand into his pants pocket. He pulled out his mobile phone, the screen lit up and displaying the name of a caller.

"Speak of the devil," Noah chuckled. He downed the last of his drink and set the glass down on the desk (Alan suspected him of purposefully missing the coaster), cleared his throat, and answered the phone with a crooning; "Hey baby. You caught me just as I was about to leave the office."

"I guess this means you're not taking my advice," Alan said, snapping the slider of his PDA phone shut. "Again."

"Go suck cock," Noah stated. After a pause (during which Alan could hear the startled 'excuse me!' even from half way across the room) he added into the phone; "My PA. He's being a whiny bitch."

"Goodnight, Noah," Alan called pointedly, walking himself out of the office suite.

He wasn't going to say anything and he would cover for Mr. Puckerman if required. But that didn't mean he approved.