A/N: Thanks so much for your reviews last chapter; I'm glad that most of you agree with me and you all can be sure that Sun Gone Lost will NOT be turned into a romance.

"Whatchya drawing?"

Puck looked up from his notebook to see that Tyler had straddled the chair across the table and was leaning forward, trying to peer at what Puck was scribbling. "How many times do I gotta tell you? It's fucking private."

Tyler craned his neck. Puck snatched the notebook and stuck it onto his lap underneath the table. "What did I just say, Rooney?"

"Yeesh, relax, man."

"Dude, I have a personal space bubble, and I'm not gonna relax until you're outside of it."

Tyler held up his hands in a mock peacemaking gesture, leaning back in his chair. "Why are you so secretive about that shit anyways?"

Puck remained tense. "What?" he said tightly.

"Are you planning an escape or something?" Tyler's eyes glinted. "'Cause dude, that'd be awesome. Are you gonna fill me in? You'll need someone to help; you'll need a partner. You should pick me, I'm really good with a pickaxe."

Ha, pickaxes can do a lot of damage.

Especially in the neck region.

Lots of blood!

Puck's head spun a little, though he wasn't sure whether it was from his meds, his voices, or the rush of words falling from Tyler's mouth. "I'm not planning a breakout, okay? And even if I was, you'd be the last person I'd pick to help."

"Aw, cuts me deep, buddy."

"I'm not your buddy."

"Do you even have a buddy? Any friends at all? You don't strike me as the kinda guy who's got friends; you strike me as the lone wolf type."

Puck stared at him. He wasn't usually the kind of guy who was affected by the shit people said about him, but that had stung. "I have friends," he said lowly.

"Yeah? Where are they?"

Not coming.

"They're at home, dumbass. None of them are mental cases like you."

"You mean like us."

Puck grimaced. He didn't like being rolled into a collective pronoun with Tyler. "Whatever," he retorted lamely.

Nice one, shithead.

Shut the fuck up, he thought.

Make us.

"So I was walking by the nurse's station this morning, and Reggie winked at me," Tyler said, grinning widely. "She winked, man – I'm as good as laid."

"Seriously?" Puck said flatly, still clutching his notebook under the table. "You want to get down and dirty with her?"

"Yeah, why not? She's hot."

You should probably make a move on her too. After all, who else would fuck you after this?

"She's also the spawn of Satan."

"Then she'll probably make for one hell of fuck." Tyler's grin widened. "Get it? She's the spawn of Satan and she'll be one hell of a fuck?"

"Yeah, I got it," Puck drawled. "Can't you find somewhere else to fantasize? I'm busy here."

"Doing what?" Tyler asked.

"We already went over this."

"Did we?"

"Yeah, we did," Puck snapped. "Now get the hell out of here and leave me alone!"

"Yeesh. You are way uptight. I'll see you later." Tyler rolled his eyes and sauntered off to talk to Nurse Regina.

Uptight; got a stick up your ass.

Shut up, Puck thought again, placing his notebook back on the table and flipping back to the page he'd been working on. He briefly noticed that his handwriting had started to get even messier.

Next time that fucker comes near you—

—you should punch him—

—hurt him—

—blood; he'd look good in red—

SHUT UP. Puck didn't notice that he'd dropped his crayon and was staring a hole into the tabletop as he fought to push the voices to the back of his mind.

Wouldn't be too hard—

—the guy's a beanpole—

You could snap him like a twig!

Crunch go the ribs.

And the spine.

He'd look good in red.

Santana shivered as she climbed out of Mr. Schuester's piece-of-shit car, staring up at the brick face of St. Clair's Psychiatric Institution. "This is it?"

Mr. Schue nodded solemnly, locking the car. Santana pulled her coat tighter around her torso (she'd exchanged her Cheerios uniform for jeans and a shirt) and followed her teacher towards the entrance, wishing for the thousandth time since they'd left Lima that Brittany was with her. But she'd thought that bringing Brittany to a mental hospital was a bad idea, and as she and Mr. Schue walked through the front door, she became sure of it. This was not a place for someone like Brittany, who fiercely believed that rainbows were made of Skittles and unicorns could play leapfrog without injuring each other. Brittany would've just been confused and upset. Santana took a slow breath, staring down the long hallway behind the receptionist's desk.

"You okay?" Mr. Schue asked.

"I'm fine."

Mr. Schue stared at her for a second, as if he was trying to figure out whether she was lying or not, before turning his attention to the ancient receptionist. "Hi, we're here to see Noah Puckerman," he said. She handed them their Visitor IDs and Mr. Schue guided Santana down the corridor.

"Why is it so cold in here?" Santana asked, not really sure why she was speaking so quietly. "Aren't sick people supposed to be kept warm?" Mr. Schue didn't answer as they entered the Day Room. Santana shivered again, crossing her arms over her chest. She hated this place already.

They only had to wait about thirty seconds before a doctor came in from another door. "Good news," he said to Mr. Schue. "Noah's been doing better. He should be pretty coherent today."

Mr. Schue sighed in relief. "Thank God," he said. Santana swallowed as she pictured what 'not coherent' might look like.

The doctor led them down another hallway and they were suddenly in another room like the Day Room. It was brighter and warmer in here, and the walls were painted sea foam green with white paneling. There were couches and cushy armchairs occupied by various patients, and Santana noticed that very few of them actually looked insane. There was only one young woman sitting alone and muttering to herself. The rest of them looked normal. There was a group of three guys playing poker and exchanging candies for the betting pool, and a few people were reading quietly on their own. Santana wasn't sure which was more unsettling – the fact that these people were mentally ill or the fact that they didn't look the part.

"There he is," Mr. Schue said, drawing her attention away from the other patients.

Puck was sitting at a table by himself with a notebook in front of him, though he wasn't writing in it. He was completely zoned out, staring into space, and he didn't see them as they approached.

"Puck?" Mr. Schue said.

Puck didn't move. Santana fleetingly wondered if the doctor had been wrong about him being better, or if this was better for Puck, in which case Santana was sure she never wanted to see him worse.

"Puck," Mr. Schue repeated.

Puck blinked, snapping out of his trance. "Huh? Oh. Hey, Mr. Schue." He coughed and closed his notebook, moving it onto his lap under the table. Mr. Schue pulled out a chair and sat down, gesturing for Santana to do the same.

"How are you doing?" Mr. Schue asked.

Puck sighed, scratching at the back of his head. "I dunno. Okay, I guess. I don't really do much."

Santana studied him, saying nothing. He looked worn out and exhausted. There were dark shadows under his eyes and it was clear he didn't get much sleep. The chiseled look to his facial features made it look like he didn't eat much either.

"How's Britt?"

For some reason, the question threw Santana a little off-guard. She wasn't sure why, but she'd thought that Puck wouldn't be concerned with the goings-on back at school. "Uh, she's fine. She wanted to see you today, but she had a dentist appointment," she lied.

Puck nodded in understanding.

"What were you working on just now?" Mr. Schue asked.

Puck's eyes hardened. "Nothing," he bit out.

"Sorry," Mr. Schue said, realizing that he'd overstepped a boundary he hadn't known was there. "The doctor said you're doing better."

Puck shrugged. "I guess. Not drooling as much, so I call that a win."

Santana winced. She didn't like that mental picture.

"Have you made any friends here?" Mr. Schue inquired. Santana could tell he was forcing the small talk.

"Hell no. All these people are nutjobs."

Santana blinked, thrown off-guard again by the callous and slightly hypocritical statement. Puck seemed to have forgotten he said it and was staring out the window at a flock of swifts passing by.

"Mr. Schue?" Santana ventured after a few moments of silence. "…Can I talk to Puck for a bit?"

"Yeah, sure," he said. "If anything happens, just call one of the orderlies." He stood up and went to talk with the doctor for a bit, leaving Santana to wonder what he meant by 'anything'.

Puck was still looking out the window and hadn't noticed Mr. Schue leave. Santana rested her hands in her lap and tried to figure out what to say. Eventually she settled for a halfhearted, "How are you doing? I mean, really?"

He turned around at the sound of her voice and scrutinized her with a strange expression that she couldn't quite read. Thinking that maybe he hadn't heard her, she repeated her question. He stared at her for a few more seconds and then said, "I'm sick and life sucks."

Santana twisted her fingers together nervously. "I miss you," she said softly.

He blinked in confusion. "You do?"

She shrugged and wouldn't meet his eye, unused to feeling this exposed. "You were the only person besides Brittany who really liked me."

Puck frowned, though Santana couldn't tell whether he was thinking about what she'd said or if he was listening to something she couldn't hear.

"How long do you think you'll be in here?" she asked, hoping for a quick change of topic. Puck didn't respond, still frowning. His eyes were out of focus. "Puck?"

Then several things happened in quick succession. Puck lurched to his feet and jumped across the table, slamming into Santana so that her chair tipped backwards and in the blink of an eye, she was on her back and Puck's hands were clamped around her neck. Panic began to boil in her stomach as his thumbs pressed painfully against her windpipe and her lungs screamed for air. As her legs kicked desperately, she could hear the orderlies and Mr. Schue yelling and she could see a pair of orderlies' arms trying to pull Puck off her, but her focus was on Puck's face.

He didn't look like Puck.

Her mouth stretched wide as she tried to breathe, to no avail. Then, just as the edges of her vision were turning dark, the orderlies yanked Puck back and the pressure disappeared from her windpipe. She reflexively sucked in a massive gulp of air, doubling over in coughs, and suddenly found that Mr. Schue was holding her and frantically asking if she was all right. She managed a weak nod, still coughing violently, and realized that she was crying at the same time. Mr. Schue drew her into a hug, and, forgetting the HBIC façade she so stoically maintained, she didn't push him off, collapsing into sobs.

Puck was yelling as the orderlies held him back, thrashing against their hold with all the strength he had. His legs kicked against the linoleum and his arms were lashing out, reaching for her as he screamed at the top of his lungs, "SHE'S GOT A KNIFE! THE BITCH HAS A KNIFE!" One of the orderlies reappeared from the nurse's station with a syringe and another one pulled Puck's pajama bottoms down to expose his hip. Santana turned away, a hand over her eyes as the needle pierced his skin.

"It's okay, it's okay," Mr. Schue was saying, and she wanted to argue that no, it really fucking wasn't.