(Author's note: I wrote the first scene in this chapter at the top of a 32-story building in Toronto. This has happened in enough cities now to make it a tradition. The cold, misty day was perfect to reflect both Puck's and Blaine's confused states of mind. Also, modified quoting from 2x08.

Warnings for Noah angst and Blaine angst and Finn angst and Dave angst. And singing. -amy)

Puck woke up, as he usually did, in the middle of the night, wondering where Beth was. Today it didn't take him long to climb out of dreams and return to waking awareness, because the handcuffs around his wrists provided a solid reminder of what he'd been doing last night. The collar rubbed pleasantly against his neck.

With careful movements, he extracted himself from Kurt's embrace and crept down center of the bed. The hooks on the rings on his cuffs jingled quietly, but neither Finn nor Kurt stirred. He waited until he'd closed the door to turn on the light in the bathroom that connected Finn's room with Kurt's.

Puck stood aghast before the mirror, admiring the dark black-and-blue bruises that striped his back and thighs. The welts had subsided and were no longer raised or hot, but several of the stripes were rimmed with threads of red. Touching them made him feel a little awed, and so oddly proud. Lauren gave me these, he thought, and he wanted to hug her.

He considered sneaking back into the bedroom and seeing if he could find that little whippy tool Finn and Kurt had been discussing last night, but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to interrupt their sleep for something he could ask when they woke up in a few hours.

Instead, he exited the bathroom through Kurt's room, borrowed Kurt's fluffy white robe, and made his way through the dark hallway to his own bedroom. Being this far away from Kurt or Finn while wearing their collar wasn't easy, but he managed it long enough to appropriate his guitar, his music notebook, and his phone. As an afterthought, he slid a hand into his jacket and pulled the prepaid phone out, too. The clock on the desk read 3:47 AM.

Puck took several uncertain steps back and forth through the bathroom between Finn's dark room and Kurt's empty one before he decided being in Kurt's room was close enough to his sleeping boyfriends. He mostly-closed both bathroom doors and turned on Kurt's desk lamp, then settled on the floor beside the closet to tune his guitar.

He strummed the changes, humming the tune to himself and scowling over the lyrics that had given him fits. The only line he was sure about was the one Hunter had suggested he write down, those weeks ago in Oregon: Hard to say how your own thoughts can hurt you.

All the things Cy had made him remember, they simmered in his memory all the time now, right on the surface, ugly and raw and so numerous that he was sometimes surprised his brain had room for any other thoughts. He could cower before them, or look at them directly, or scream at them, but no matter what he did, they refused to retreat into his dreams, where they'd apparently lurked since his childhood.

You're not your memories, he reminded himself firmly, and touched the cuffs, tucked under the sleeves of Kurt's robe. It was only a little comfort, just like Adam and everything else was, but he appreciated each little comfort, just the same.

Then he called Adam. It went to voice mail again, but Adam was almost surely asleep, it being only eight in the morning in Europe.

"I think some of the stuff I said to you yesterday should be lyrics," he said. "But hell if I can remember exactly what I said. Hopefully you haven't erased that voice mail yet. And, uh, some good stuff happened last night. I think…" He felt his cheeks heat. "Maybe you'll be proud of me. I love you so fucking much. 'Night."

He set his phone on the rug and picked up the other phone, the one he hadn't told anybody else about. He wasn't sure why he hadn't.

You probably shouldn't text him, he thought, examining the tiny screen on the prepaid phone, but on the heels of that thought was Lauren's voice: Good boys get whatever they want.

Then he typed a text: Hope you sleep better than I do.

Then he flipped back in his notebook, backward through time, through months of memories and song ideas, until he reached the appalling lyrics he'd scribbled during the weeks before he'd left for Santa Fe. The memories of what he and Finn had done together in Kurt's bed were definitely off limits to his rebellious brain, but the songs he'd written about that time were safe. He thought of Adam's encouragement, and then of Kurt and Finn's arms around him last night, took a deep breath, and began revising.

Puck wasn't sure how many minutes had gone by when his phone buzzed with a reply. He picked it up, confused at the blank screen, before realizing it had been the other phone. With a jolt of adrenaline, he read Blaine's words.

Looks like the answer is no.

He tried to suppress the anger he felt, the protectiveness at Blaine being up in the middle of the night, on a school night, but—really, what could he say about that?

Dreams again?

Sort of? This is going to sound really weird, but I woke up thinking I need to feed the baby.

Puck pressed a hand to his mouth to muffle the sound that threatened to emerge. When he thought he would not cry, or scream, he typed, You don't have a baby, do you?

No! So, yeah, weird dream. What about you, J?

Never slept well, he said, hoping Blaine wouldn't notice he was ducking the question. Even when I was a kid.

What would you do to get back to sleep?

This was easier to answer than it had been before Oregon, because now he actually remembered what he would do, before Sarah was old enough to talk to him. My ma would come sleep with me, sometimes. Or my dad would sing me songs.

Oh, that's so sweet. Would you like me to sing to you?

Puck stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the words. A second text followed: Sorry, maybe that was too forward of me? I'm a pretty good singer.

"Yeah," he muttered, "a—a pretty good singer. Fuck." He wiped the sudden tears off his cheeks. You want to call and sing to me over the phone?

No, of course not, that was stupid.

Knowing Blaine was even thinking that was worse than the consequences of doing something about it. I would really like that, he typed quickly, and pressed Send. He sat there for several long moments, trying to breathe.

Hang on, said Blaine. Then Puck jumped as he felt the phone in his hand buzz. CALL FROM WESTERVILLE, OH, read the screen. He fumbled the phone before managing to press the right button.

"Hello?" Puck whispered.

"Hi," Blaine said softly. He giggled, and Puck melted, slumping down the wall into an unsteady heap.

"Hi," he managed.

"Thanks for letting me call you, J. I know this whole thing is a little unorthodox."

Puck listened to him hungrily. Blaine sounded uncertain, and maybe a little flirty, but he sounded like himself, which was more than Puck could have hoped for. He kept his own voice as soft as he could, glancing at the bathroom door. "No, it's… it's okay. It was nice of you to offer. Thanks."

"So, um… what can I sing for you? I'm in the community room, so I won't bother my roommate or anybody."

Puck had no idea what to say. What would happen if he requested a song that Blaine had sung as Patrick, with Labyrinth? Or one they'd sung together at his own house, that summer?

"Anything," he finally said. "You pick."

"Well, okay. This is a song we're practicing right now for show choir sectionals." Blaine cleared his throat, and Puck jammed the phone right up against his ear, desperately listening to the sweet, liquid notes that poured from Blaine's mouth.

Your lipstick stains on the front lobe of my left side brains
I knew I wouldn't forget you, and so I let you go and blow my mind
Your sweet moonbeam, the smell of you in every single dream, I dream
I knew when we collided, you're the one I have decided who's one of my kind…

He could hear Blaine's guitar in the background, strumming along, but it was the sound of every consonant Blaine spoke, his delicious, meticulous diction, that landed on Puck's skin like gentle rain, making him tremble. He could feel Blaine's resonant vowels vibrate along the scabbed stripes on his back.

Just in time, I'm so glad you have a one-track mind like me
You gave my life direction, a game show love connection we can't deny
I'm so obsessed, my heart is bound to beat right out of my untrimmed chest
I believe in you, like a virgin, you're Madonna
And I'm always gonna wanna blow your mind…

Puck refused to let himself make any noise, lest he miss one second of Blaine's serenade, but it wasn't easy. When he finished, Puck sat there, wide awake and panting, wondering what he could possibly say.

"That was… so good," he whispered. "You're so good."

"Oh," said Blaine, with a little surprised gulp. "Uh… th-thank you."

He struggled to it up, gripping the edges of Kurt's rug and trying to maintain some muscle tone. "Do you think… maybe you could go back to sleep now?"

"I'm, uh. I'm pretty awake." Blaine laughed, and Puck smiled harder, his face hurting with the effort of it. "Maybe one more song? If you don't mind?"

Puck bit back the impulse to offer to sing to him instead, because wouldn't that be hard to explain if he was discovered? "One more," he agreed. "Then we'll both go back to bed."

"Okay," Blaine agreed complacently. "We sang this one last spring at Nationals. It's kind of special to me."

Puck made himself close his eyes, pulling Kurt's robe closer around himself, and looped his fingers through the rings in his cuffs as Blaine crooned:

I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand…

He could only think about his flogger-inspired vision from yesterday afternoon, and the cobbled pathway leading into the empty clearing in the woods, the stone bench, and the message he'd left for Blaine.

And if you have a minute, why don't we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go somewhere only we know?

When he was finished, Blaine let out a wistful little sigh.

"I guess it's a depressing song," he said. "But I always felt… I don't know, hopeful, when I sang it. Having a place like that, a safe place, it would mean, like…"

"What would it mean, Blaine?" Puck murmured, when Blaine fell silent. Saying his name felt dangerous, but Blaine still sounded like himself.

"Like no matter how bad things got, how… lost I felt, that…" He sighed again. "That it was going to be okay."

"Oh," Puck managed. "Oh—yeah. It will be, baby."

He heard Blaine sniffle. "It's so funny, hearing you say that, I almost… it's like I believe you. I believe you, and… and I don't even know who you are."

"Just somebody who cares about you." For one brief moment, Puck saw what was happening from the outside, Blaine's trusting nature, and—who the fuck was he, to prey on it? He clenched his teeth. "Thank you for this. It was… thank you, so much."

"It was my pleasure, J. Thank you for letting me do it. I hope you can sleep now."

"Good night… Blaine. And hang in there."

"Like the kitten on the poster," he agreed. "I will."

Puck shoved the phone into the pocket of Kurt's bathrobe and lay flat on the floor, staring up at the dim ceiling above him, feeling his heart pound in his chest. He placed his hand on the tattoo over his heart, wondering what in the world he might find to hold onto when he felt like this. It was the opposite of how he'd felt in Oregon, where nothing felt real and he couldn't get a grip. At the moment, everything felt too real. He heard Blaine's voice, singing for him: You see, I can be myself now finally, in fact there's nothing I can't be, and he wanted to cry in desperation and joy and wild hope for what might happen next. But he couldn't.

With an effort, he shed Kurt's robe on the floor, abandoning his notebook and guitar where they lay, and stumbled back through the bathroom into Finn's room. They both stirred as he crawled into bed and huddled there, shaking.

"Sweetheart," Kurt whispered, and Puck let himself sob into Kurt's neck for as long as his angry stomach would let him. Eventually, he had to abandon the bed again and make a dash for the toilet.

Finn came in while he was brushing his teeth. "Here." He handed Puck two yellow capsules. "For your head. If you think you can keep them down."

"Thanks." He spit the toothpaste, then tossed them back without water, grimacing. "Sorry about that. Kurt—"

"Kurt's dealing," Finn said. He bumped Puck's bare shoulder with his own. "You're the one doing all the work here. We're just loving you a whole lot."

He leaned on Finn for a moment, considering how Finn might feel if he knew about the phone call he'd just had. It was hard to know if he should trust his own judgment, but he thought, maybe, Finn might be glad that Blaine had someone to talk to in the middle of the night. Someone to sing to.

"I think it was good," he told Finn, not looking at him. "What we did last night. Even though it didn't—I think it was good. Good for me."

"That's awesome," Finn said hoarsely. "It was so good for me, too."

Puck nodded. "I think… I should go back to my own room now."

Finn unbuckled the collar and cuffs. When he reached around and gave Puck's ass a pat, Puck felt his cock jump.

"Thank you, sir," he muttered, and escaped through Kurt's bedroom.

"I don't know why we're bothering to practice this at school," Kurt said, shaking his head as he unlocked the door to the dance studio. "It's not like we don't have miles of floor in the basement to dance on."

"Because the wedding is in less than a week," Burt stressed. He beckoned Finn and Puck into the room in front of him. "And I'm not any closer to being able to pull off the first dance with Carole than I was last week. Trust me, it wasn't the sangria that was to blame at my brother Andy's 40th birthday party."

Kurt gestured to Puck, who immediately sat at the piano and played the first several measures of House of the Rising Sun. Burt raised an eyebrow.

"That song doesn't really have the most positive lyrics?"

"Better than Bruno Mars," Puck called back, but he settled down when Finn shot him a look.

"Okay," soothed Kurt, steering his dad into the center of the room, "we dance to the beat, not the words. Have the two of you chosen a song?"

Burt tried to untangle his limbs from Kurt's. "Carole's thinking Stairway, but I was hoping for some Bublé."

"Well, the two of you will have to duke it out over that one. So either way it's basically one-two-three-four…"

Finn stood by the piano, feeling suddenly sentimental, as Kurt helped his father lead a rudimentary box step. He rested a hand on Puck's shoulder, and felt him shiver.

"Hey, look at me, I'm dancing!" Burt gave them a goofy smile. He and Puck smiled right back at Burt. "My feet are moving. And there's music. That's dancing."

"Okay, Noah, you come over here," Kurt said, shooing his father off to the side, "and you help him practice. Finn? Your turn."

Finn could tell Kurt was enjoying himself, no matter that this scene had been set up for specific effect. He took Kurt in his arms, smiling tenderly at him, and watched Kurt catch his breath.

"Sure you don't want me to close the door?" Kurt said. "You don't mind people watching?"

"No, baby," Finn said gently. "I don't mind even a little."

"What are you talking about?" Burt snorted. "Didn't he dance in front of, like, a thousand people at Regionals?"

Kurt was singing under his breath, continuing the one-two-three-four in the absence of Puck's piano playing. Finn grinned bigger as he realized what song it was:

The word's on the streets and it's on the news
I'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you
He's got two left feet and he bites my moves
I'm not gonna teach him how to—

Finn stumbled a little, but Kurt widened his arms, keeping his back straight the way Toby had taught him, and they didn't miss a step.

"I promised you," said Finn. "Didn't I? That someday, I'd dance with you in front of everybody, and it wouldn't matter who saw. Well, looks like we've got a chance to do that. Nobody would think twice about us dancing together at our own parents' wedding."

"Incredibly creepy," Kurt whispered, making a face, and Finn busted up laughing.

He glanced over at the door to see Dave, standing there in his letterman jacket, out of sight of the rest of the room, watching them with the oddest look on his face. It wasn't any kind of disgust or anger. Finn probably wouldn't have known what it was a few weeks ago, but now, he thought he might. Their eyes met, and Dave sighed, letting his gaze slip to the floor. Then he squared his shoulders and moved into view of Burt and Puck, making an obviously mocking limp-wrested gesture before continuing down the hall.

Burt looked after him curiously, coming to a stop. "What the hell was Dave doing just then? He wasn't making fun of you, was he?"

Puck bit his lip, watching Kurt's face fall.

"Tell him," Finn said.

Burt looked even more confused. "Tell me what? I thought you guys were friends now."

"Finn," Kurt said, obviously conflicted.

Finn put a little steel into his order. "Tell him. Or I will."

"Finn…" He shook his head slowly. "I… don't think I can tell him this."

Finn knew exactly what Kurt meant: I can't throw Dave under the bus.

"He used to shove you, and give you a hard time, right?" his dad demanded. "Is that happening again?"

"He broke Kurt's wrist freshman year," Finn announced. Kurt's eyes went wide as Burt swore softly, advancing on the doorway.

"Burt," Puck called, giving Kurt a confused look. This is the plan?

It hadn't been, but Finn wasn't about to let Project Jailbreak fall apart just because Kurt had a case of the guilts. They followed Burt into the hallway, rounding the corner just as he was shoving Dave up against a locker.

"What the hell?" Dave said, looking legitimately startled.

"You broke his wrist?" Burt demanded.

"What?!" yelped Dave. He shot a panicked look at Kurt, who was doing his desperate best to pull his dad away from the crowd that was forming in the hallway.

"Please, dad, you're sick," Kurt begged. "Come on."

Burt pulled back, but the look he was giving Dave was appalling. Dave didn't stand a chance under a onslaught like that; he just folded, hunching down the hallway alongside them as Finn herded them to the main office.

"So much for reformed," Burt snarled. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was—" Kurt looked at Dave, then at Finn, and fell silent again.

Dave was escorted into Principal Sylvester's office, while the rest of them were offered a seat in the waiting room. Burt sat beside Kurt, glaring through the window at the back of Dave's head. Kurt himself was pale and silent. Puck appeared to be the least concerned, but he was watching Dave carefully.

It seemed to take forever for Dave's father to appear, worry lines creasing his forehead. Principal Sylvester summarized the situation for Mr. Karofsky ("Call me Paul"). He didn't seem surprised by any of it, but looked very sad.

"Paul," Burt said, pointing at Dave, "your kid harmed my son."

"That's not true," Dave insisted, all bluster. "He's making it all up!"

"It is," said Finn. "Dave broke Kurt's wrist freshman year. Last year he shoved Kurt into a locker. Left a big gash on his head."

Kurt got even smaller in his chair. "He threatened me. Said—said he would kill me if I told anybody he was picking on me."

The conversation got more heated until Principal Sylvester stood up. "David, after hearing both sides of the story, you are hereby expelled. I will not have one student harming another. If you don't think this is fair, you can appeal to the school board. You'll leave campus immediately."

Dave followed his father out the door. They watched Paul confiscate Dave's phone before they'd even exited the building.

Burt rounded on Kurt, his face stony. "This is not over, Kurt. We will continue this conversation at home. Now get back to class."

There was no further conversation between the three of them, but within minutes, they'd regrouped in the attic room. Finn found Puck standing by the window, his arms around himself. Kurt was pacing back and forth, clearly livid.

"Why did you tell him that?" he cried as Finn entered the room. "I didn't want to expel him. Now Dave doesn't have anybody."

"Kurt, that was the risk he took," Finn said, as calmly as he could manage. "This was for Blaine. Dave doesn't care about what happens to himself."

The tears were already welling up and spilling over Kurt's cheeks, wet and messy. "Well, he should," he sobbed.

He let Finn take him into his arms, holding him close while he cried. Puck's gaze continued to vacillate between the two of them and the window.

"You think I should go after him?" Puck asked. Kurt wiped his eyes and looked at him in astonishment.

"I'm sure his dad wouldn't let you," Finn said.

"Yeah, but—I mean, I could sneak into his house. You know I could." Puck gazed out through the window across the schoolyard, toward Dave's faraway house. "He's gonna need someone to talk to, right?"

Kurt's crying didn't lessen, but the tone of it seemed to shift, and without even checking to see if Puck was ready for it, he moved from Finn's arms to Puck's. Puck didn't look upset by this, but he kept his concerned eyes on Finn.

"Bad idea?" Puck murmured. "Cause I can't tell."

"It's a nice thought," Finn said. He let Puck see his smile, and watched with relief as Puck flushed and nodded, still holding Kurt. The thank you, sir was implied, but Finn heard it all the same.

"Reckless thought," Kurt added. He sniffled and took a deep breath. "And—oh, Noah, you are the best boy."

Puck let out what sounded like an hysterical laugh, but he looked pleased. "Best boy, huh? Worst man, more like."

"I didn't say that." Kurt held him at arm's length and gazed at him with watery eyes. "To answer your question, I think Dave could absolutely use someone to talk to, but let's not complicate his life further right now, okay? He was prepared for this possibility. He's been managing alone for years without leaning on friends in a crisis. He can handle this right now."

Kurt let Puck go and took a step away, watching his face, and when Puck nodded acquiescence, he turned to Finn.

"And you…" Kurt closed his eyes, letting out a frustrated groan. "You're right. I almost messed up our plans, and you fixed it. I'm just sorry you had to lie for me."

"I didn't lie for you, Kurt," said Finn. "Dave did hurt you freshman and sophomore year, over and over again. He did bully you. Just because you forgave him doesn't mean it didn't happen."

Kurt nodded, gazing at the floor. "I think it's hard for me to feel upset about any of that anymore, because I know how much of that was Dave hating himself. It wasn't really about me at all."

Finn moved into the center of the room and watched Puck and Kurt shift their positions, like satellites orbiting him. The immediate crisis had passed, but the tension had not abated. The more Finn tried to breathe through it, the more intense it grew.

"I learned something," Finn said. "About Dave. Something I didn't realize about… who he's been feeling things for, all this time. Maybe even before Blaine." He watched them both consider this with thoughtful expressions. "I think I should probably keep it to myself, for now," he added. "But I think that's an additional factor here. Like, he feels extra bad because… because he wants to be somebody worthy of respect?"

"He is," Kurt said impatiently.

"Well, we know that, but he doesn't. I remember feeling that way last year, Puck, when you took off for Santa Fe. After you came back, you both tried to convince me I was good enough to be in charge of you again. But I was barely feeling adequate to care for myself."

Kurt's mouth quirked. "Nice SAT word."

"So, yeah, I couldn't believe you," Finn went on. "I had to find evidence I was worth it, myself, before I could agree with you. And, you might remember, convincing me took some doing."

There was a brief silence, and then Puck was staggering toward the door, a hand over his mouth as he choked out, "I—sorry, I can't—"

He was out the door in the next moment, heading down the stairs at a run, before Finn realized what he'd said. He sighed, rolling his eyes. Puck had done him, all right.

"I didn't even mean it that way," he insisted. Kurt moved in close, resting a hand on his chest.

"His brain interpreted that unintentional pun all on his own. I imagine right now, he's always trying to shut out those memories of the two of you together." Kurt gave him a sympathetic half-smile. "It would be hard for me to not remember, too. Don't worry about Noah, Finn. He'll work at the Lima Bean this afternoon, and Lauren will manage him after that, and… we can follow up with him tonight."

The memories of the handful of times Puck had Topped him were fresh in his mind all afternoon, and Finn had to use all the tricks Carl had taught him to stay focused enough to get through the rest of the school day. He sat in his car after school, considering calling Carl and cancelling their scheduled time at the firing range, but eventually he shoved the key into the ignition with a sigh and made his way across town.

Carl was as gracious and patient with him as ever, but there was no way he could fail to notice Finn's short temper. It was clear that Finn's own ability to calm himself was affecting his aim. Finn grimly worked his way through fifty rounds in fifteen minutes without coming close to the bullseye.

"How about we take a break," said Carl.

Finn ignored his eyes, keeping his focus, such as it was, on the target. "I'm okay."

"Okay isn't what you're showing me." Carl didn't touch him, but he unloaded his gun, set it down, and moved back to sit on the bench, waiting for Finn to join him.

"I can't talk about it here," Finn said through tight lips.

"Well, we can walk to my office, then. It's only four blocks." He stood up and held out his hand. "But you're done shooting today."

Finn unloaded his own clip and handed the 9mm silently back to Carl. The whole way there, he remained a pace behind him, ignoring Carl's efforts to make eye contact.

When Carl held open the door to his office, Finn stalked right past Mark's desk and down the hall, past Davis working at his desk without saying one word, right to Carl's—fuck. He was not going to cry.

Carl paused beside him. "Go on in, Finn," he said quietly.

Finn angrily scrubbed at his nose with the side of his hand and turned the doorknob. There was no fire in the fireplace today, and he wasn't about to ask Carl to set one. Carl's beat-up black acoustic guitar was on its stand in the corner, as usual. His desk was neatly arranged with a few stacks of paperwork. A studded leather paddle sat on the coffee table, and a length of chain protruded from under the couch. Finn wondered if he should tuck it away. Then he was annoyed at himself for thinking that. Then he was angry for being annoyed.

He stood, staring at the wall, at the selection of Carl's framed landscape photography. Some Finn recognized as pictures of the grounds near Tessera, while others were of places he didn't know. Places from his past. Probably places I'll never know about, now. He growled ineffectually at the wall.

"I received an invitation to Carole and Burt's wedding," said Carl.

Finn blinked, then turned to look at him. "I didn't—"

"Don't worry." Carl gave him a gentle smile. "I sent our regrets. Emma and I will be out of town that weekend."

He felt his lip twist into an unpleasant sneer. "So are the two of you taking it slow, too?"

"Finn, you know Emma doesn't want that from me." He poured a small amount of golden liquid from a crystal decanter into a round glass, swirling it. "She's happy with our relationship the way it is."

Finn turned back to the wall, moving into the corner. "And what about you?"

"I'm giving her what she needs. You get to a certain point in your life, Finn, when others' happiness becomes more important than your own."

He shook his head, feeling the irritation bubbling inside him, like carbonation. "Bullshit," he muttered.

Carl's voice remained quiet, but his next words had a clear edge. "What was that?"

Finn blew a harsh breath out his nose. "I was expressing my opinion about your statement."

"Perhaps you'd like to turn around and express it to my face, then."

He swung around. "Fine," Finn snapped, putting his hands on his hips. "What you just said, I think that's bullshit, and I think you know it."

Carl set the glass, now empty, onto the desk, and took three slow steps toward him. "You're out of line, boy."

Finn thrust a finger at him. "I'm not your boy anymore!"

Carl reached out, taking hold of Finn's outstretched hand, and when Finn tried to wrench it away, Carl brought his other arm around and did—something, Finn wasn't sure, but there was a flurry of movement and Finn's arm was behind his back and Carl had his leg pinned and his body immobile against the wall. He struggled for about two seconds before it became clear he wasn't going anywhere, but as soon as he stopped moving, Carl let him go. They were both breathing hard, staring at one another.

"You'll always be my boy," said Carl, his voice breaking. "I'll never…"

Finn didn't let him finish saying what he would never do. He just seized Carl's face and kissed him hard, letting his hands rake through Carl's hair. It occurred to him, seconds later, that Carl could simply have dumped him on the floor and demanded he leave, but Carl was kissing him back with equal fervor, and his hands were busy sliding under Finn's sweater and tossing it on the couch. In fact, Carl had Finn's jeans off and Finn was working on the buttons of Carl's shirt before either of them said anything more.

"You're not telling me to leave?" Finn asked.

Carl gave him a disbelieving look. He maneuvered Finn around to the front of the couch, pushing him down and straddling his legs as he cupped Finn's face and kissed him again, more thoroughly this time. Finn gazed up at his unsmiling expression.

"I'm not telling you to leave," Carl said. "But I will give you a minute to think about it."

He climbed off Finn's lap and stood, walking shirtless to his desk, picking up the studded paddle with him as he went and sliding it into a drawer. Finn watched him open a second drawer, the one he knew held Carl's personal tools, but the tool Carl drew out was unfamiliar to him. It had a long coil like a single-tail whip, but the end split into several tails instead of a single cracker. Finn licked his lips as Carl set it on the desk, regarding him calmly.

"You made a decision last spring about what you didn't want from me anymore. I have tried to respect that decision."

"Even though you think it's the wrong one?"

"You still have the right to make it, Finn." Carl tilted his head. "Could I use my influence to convince you that I know what's best? Maybe. But that's not what I want for you."

"What about what you want for you?" Finn asked softly. "Doesn't that count for something?"

Carl was silent for the time it took to walk around to the front of his desk and hold out his hand. Finn stood and came around the coffee table to stand before him, taking it.

"It does," he said. "Trust me, I think often about the conversation we had, about what we might do in another city, after your eighteenth birthday. And until then…"

Finn waited, but that seemed to be all Carl was going to say. He looked past Carl at the unfamiliar tool on his desk while Carl waited quietly.

"Is that for me?" Finn asked.

"Do you wish it to be?" Carl replied, gazing up at him.

He hesitated. "Are you saying it's my choice? You're not going to tell me to go home, and if I want that—what is that?"

"It's a galley whip."

"If I want you to use that galley whip on me, you'd take me upstairs and—what?"

Now Carl gave him a predatory smile. "I was just going to chain you to the couch and work you over right here."

"Oh," Finn said. He was not going to turn around and look at the edge of the couch where Blaine had knelt, where Finn had made him come from nothing but the slap of his hand on his flesh. "And—and then? I still get to choose?"

"Are you going to be happy with the options available to you?"

"I don't know," Finn said honestly. "I just know I'm not happy without them. And… yeah, I want you so much, but…" He swallowed, thinking of Puck and his declaration of what he wanted and what he needed. "I also know it's not fair to you for me to keep changing my mind."

Carl nodded. "Well, I can see three possible outcomes here, tonight. One, you choose this whip. We deal with aftercare professionally, and I send you home. Two, you choose… a less impact-oriented solution. We negotiate that privately, here, or at my home. I suspect you would still go home afterward, seeing as it is a school night."

"Naturally," Finn whispered, feeling the tingling flush of desire.

"Or three…" He squeezed Finn's hand. "We wait two months, until you are eighteen and we can negotiate a more public, personal arrangement. And you go home now, and employ other methods to manage your distress."

Finn felt his forehead crease in concern. "What about you? That doesn't sound all that great for you."

"No, but it might leave a better taste in your mouth." Carl's smirk came and went quicker than Finn could track it. "In a manner of speaking."

"You're saying I can be your client, or your, uh, or—or none of those?" He touched Carl's chest, where the tattoo rested, twin to his own. "And if I asked you to choose?"

"I would choose the last one, being the choice that has the least consequence to you and our future." Carl bore his touch without obvious response. "Patience is a virtue that has come to me late in life, but I'm well served by it."

Finn trailed a finger down the center of Carl's chest. "Good things come to those who wait?"

Carl's eyes widened, clearly amused. "Why, Finn, are you flirting with me?"

"I don't even know," Finn admitted. Carl laughed out loud.

"This." He took a step forward and wrapped Finn in his arms. "This is why I love you."

He kissed Finn again, but Finn's fervent need from before had dimmed, and he was able to look at their situation more rationally. When they broke apart, Finn took a reluctant step back and sighed. "Okay. I'm listening. I pick option C. And two months isn't all that long, I guess."

"Good boy," Carl murmured. He turned, picking up the galley whip, and placed it in Finn's hands. "Here. I got this for you."

Finn stared at the tool in his hands. "I—really?"

"Really. It's short enough to use indoors, and relatively safe to use without eye protection, as long as you're careful. I thought Puck might appreciate it."

"Yeah, I bet he would. Although Lauren got him a really heavy flogger and it did a serious number on his back. It might be a while before he wants anything again." Finn uncoiled the whip, letting it hang, feeling its weight. "This is so beautiful. Thank you."

"You are very welcome," Carl said, smiling. For the first time that evening, it reached his eyes, and Finn smiled back.

As he was getting dressed, one other thing occurred to him. "Kurt was teaching his dad how to dance with Carole today? Well, really, it was a setup, to try to get Dave in trouble, because Kurt—it's complicated. But Kurt was teaching him how to dance. And me."

Carl looked at him quizzically. "Don't you know how to dance already?"

"A little? I'm really bad at it. I think worse than I am at Spanish." He grinned at Carl's expression. "Yeah, I'm not kidding. But, uh, I was thinking… Kurt's been working so hard at making this special for our parents. I'd like to try to make it special for him, too." He touched Carl's hand. "Do you think you could ask Davis to help choreograph a dance for Glee to do at the wedding, for Kurt?"

Carl clasped his hand firmly, nodding his approval. "Let's go ask him right now. I bet he would be honored."

Finn stepped inside the test prep center and looked around the nearly-empty meeting room in confusion. "Is this Dave's SAT class?"

"Today it is," said Santana. She placed a notebook on the table in front of her. "Don't think we'll be here long, though. Dave'll be back in a minute. They're giving him a talking to." She made air quotes. "Probably about to fire him."

"Because—"

"Because," said Dave, pausing heavily in the doorway, "they don't think it's appropriate to hire a kid to do test prep if he's been expelled from school."

Finn sank down into a chair. "God, I am so sorry, man."

"Don't be." Dave's mouth was fixed. "You know I deserve it."

"Whatever," Santana said, waving a hand. "That's such BS and you know it. You think Blaine deserves what he's getting, too?"

"Blaine didn't do anything to deserve it," protested Dave. "It's not his fault."

"Well, I gotta assume somewhere along the way, somebody told you you don't deserve anything good because gay guys don't look like you. Well, I give you: exhibit A." She made a Vanna-gesture at Finn. "Gay guy. And believe me, I know, Britt and I tried having sex with him, and he was absolutely not interested."

Dave's face was red. "Like you said. Gay guys don't look like me."

"Santana," Finn said, trying to put some warning into it, but she ignored him.

"What the hell? Look at the two of you. Same height, same haircut, same letterman jacket. You both work out, you're both hairy, you're both freakishly large." She shrugged. "Practically carbon copies. Now, Blainers, on the other hand, he's cut from a much more compact cloth. But, also, trust me. Completely gay."

"What, did you try having sex with him, too?" Dave muttered.

"No, I just made him grab my boob. And I kissed him. But he wasn't having any of it." She glared at Finn as he started laughing. "What? You got to home base with me, Finndowpane, and don't forget it."

"No, I just—I forgot that Blaine told me about that. About his best friend who made him touch her boob. I had no idea it was you." He smiled, and she scowled, looking away. "I'm kind of relieved it was, to be honest."

"All right, all right," she said, waving both hands. "Enough reminiscing. We have to figure out our strategy for the next step. How are we going to get Kurt to Dalton?"

"That, I don't know," Finn admitted. "I'm thinking we need to wait before talking to our folks about it. Burt was almost more angry at Kurt than anybody else today. Or maybe he was angry at me, for not protecting him more?"

Dave stared at him. "He thinks Kurt needs protecting?"

"Yeah, well, we've established Burt kind of has blinders on when it comes to Kurt. He thinks he's fragile or something." Finn shook his head. "So, I guess we'll wait until after the wedding, and… we'll see? I can call you guys and let you know how it goes."

Santana stood up, clutching her notebook. "And I'll talk to Ms. Pillsbury tomorrow and see if she has a brochure for Dalton School for Freaked Out Gay Guys. Don't worry, Dave. We're gonna fix your boy. Okay?"

He nodded, then watched her saunter out. "My boy?" Dave shook his head. "Santana really doesn't know anything about the stuff you do, does she?"

"If she does, she thinks it's a game. Maybe she thinks you do it, too." He realized Dave was watching him closely. "What?"

"I don't know. Are you okay?"

Finn laughed in disbelief. "You're the one who just got expelled, man, and you're asking me that?"

"Well, when Santana said Ms. Pillsbury, you kind of… I don't know. Flinched."

He looked at Dave, then at the wall, on the other side of which was Carl's office. "Yeah. I guess… this is my last secret. It's probably the biggest one we've got."

Dave's eyebrows went up. "Bigger than Adam Lambert."

"In a way, yeah." Finn sighed. "I'm sorry. It's only partly my secret to tell, so…"

"Hey, no, I'm not prying." Dave put up both hands. "I already know too much shit about you guys."

"I just don't want you to think I'm hiding it from you because I don't trust you," Finn said. "Because I do. We do."

Dave nodded, letting his gaze fall to the table. "I think I got that." Then he added, employing what was clearly an enormous effort, "I… trust you, too."

"Yeah," Finn said softly. He nudged Dave's hand with his knuckles. "That seriously means so much to Kurt. He was a wreck today at school, after you and your dad took off. Tore me a new one for throwing you under the bus, because now you won't be able to come hang out in the attic with us."

Dave flushed, but he was clearly pleased. "Yeah. That attic, I think it saved my life a couple times this year."

"Mine, too," Finn agreed. "Anyway. I thought I'd invite you to come to our house. Like, after school sometime. Maybe not as life-saving as the attic, but it's pretty cool, and Burt has a big TV."

"I remember. Kurt made me watch RENT on it, after their show." Dave was staring at him again.

"What?"

"I'm just wondering, what makes you think Kurt's dad would ever let me come over again, after what happened today?"

"Because Kurt forgave you," Finn said. "So will Burt. He's forgiven me for worse. But maybe let's wait until after Kurt convinces him he has to go to Dalton." He offered Dave his hand, and Dave took it, accepting the bro-approved shoulder-pat that went with the handshake. "Thanks for everything, man. I know it can't be easy dealing with getting expelled, what with your academic record."

"Yeah, maybe that's what's going to save me, in the end. Good grades make people overlook a lot. I'll have my pick of schools." Dave shrugged, ducking his head. "Anyway, it's for Blaine. I know he's important to you."

"I love him," Finn said simply. After a moment, Dave nodded.

"Yeah," he said, his voice barely audible. "Me, too."

Will closed his South Pacific score with a sigh. He eyed the pile of potential songs for sectionals and the stack of music Glee club was preparing for the Hudson-Hummel wedding, considering which one he should take home, when his phone rang. He would have let it go to voice mail, but it was Toby.

"Hey," he said, leaning back in his swivel chair. The smile came unbidden to his face, even before he heard Toby's voice. "Don't you have late rehearsal today?"

"That's partly why I'm calling," Toby said. "Before I go getting all fancy for Kurt's father's wedding next weekend, I wanted to ask what song you're singing."

"We're singing a couple of them…" He flipped through the stack of sheet music. "Burt and Carole wanted that Bruno Mars song for the processional, and—"

"No, Will, I'm asking about for the reception. You got a song picked out, right?"

"Oh. Uh, Burt wanted Sway by Michael Bublé, so I think that's the one I'm doing."

"Great." Toby sounded cheerful, even relieved. "That's a stellar song for your voice, William."

"Do I even need to ask what you're going to sing?"

It was a fair assumption. Of all the times Toby had been asked to sing at someone's wedding, the couple would choose You Were Meant For Me. Toby chuckled.

"I think you can bet you'll be hearin' that song at the wedding. And what about Emma? I think you mentioned she has a nice little voice, doesn't she?"

Will chose the sectional songs, sliding them into his briefcase. "As it happens, Emma won't be making it to the wedding. She and Carl had prior plans."

"Oh." Toby sounded uncharacteristically flustered. It made Will pause.

"Everything okay?"

"Well, sure. I just assumed you already had a plus one."

"I think I'll mostly be there with Glee club. To be honest, I hadn't thought about it." He imagined walking into the church with Toby on his arm, and felt himself flush. It didn't feel impossible. "Did you want to—? I mean, would you like—"

"I asked someone else already."

Will set his briefcase down slowly. "Oh." He hesitated. "Is it someone I know?"

Toby laughed awkwardly. "In a Biblical sense. It's, uh. Darius."

"Oh," he said again. There was a long pause. Will swallowed. "I, uh… haven't gone over to the Lima Bean to see him yet."

"Yeah, he said. Hey, I'm sure he wouldn't mind, if I told him that you wanted—"

Will forced a laugh. "Are you kidding? No way, the two of you should plan to come together. Like I said, I'll be wrangling teenagers all night. It's more of a job than an occasion."

"All right. I'd better head into the studio. I can hear the kids warming up."

"Call you soon," said Will. Toby had hung up before he could tack on an I love you, but really, Toby had never been one for long goodbyes.

That's what you're telling yourself, he thought as he made his way out to the parking lot. The briefcase full of music felt especially heavy tonight.

Quinn intercepted Finn in the hallway. "Can I talk to you about something?"

"No, I don't know how to fix the soda machine either."

"It's not that." She fell into stride beside him. Somehow walking with Quinn never felt nearly as awkward as walking with Rachel. "It's about Sam. Something is going on with him."

"Trust me, I'm not the one who told him his impressions were any good."

"Finn, stop trying to be funny. It's just painful." She frowned up at him. "Has he been falling down a lot? Or is he doing exercises that might cause marks?"

He glanced around them, but no one seemed to be listening. "Marks?"

"On his back. And—his behind." She looked a little embarrassed, but her frown intensified. "I think someone is hurting him."

"And you're asking me, why?"

"Because you're his friend. And because you're in the locker room with him on a daily basis, and could legitimately ask him about things you happen to notice."

He hesitated, then shook his head. "Sorry, Quinn. I can't help you here."

"Can't or won't?" she snapped.

"The truth is, I was told not to tell you. But you might ask Lauren. It's possible she might say the same thing, but… maybe she can give you some insight." He smiled encouragingly. "For what it's worth, I like him. He's not the smartest dude, and from me, that's saying something, but he really thinks about what's best for you."

Her outraged expression fell away into something like confusion. "Okay?"

He patted her shoulder. "Good luck."

Finn didn't think about Quinn's question again until after lunch, as he was cleaning up his tray. She came to sit beside him, inspecting a little bottle which she held between two fingers.

"I looked it up," she said. "Arnica. It's homeopathic, which means it's pretty much worthless for anything except hand lotion. But in theory, it's supposed to help with swelling and bruising."

He shrugged. "Where'd you get it?"

"Lauren told me I should give it to Sam. Then she gave me something else to look up." She handed him a scribbled note. He choked a little when he read it: domestic discipline. She raised an eyebrow at him expectantly.

"Did you try asking Sam about the, uh, marks?" Finn asked.

"He just said it's private." She pointed at the note. "Which, if I understood what I read about this, would make sense. Only he's not seeing anybody else, Finn. I know it."

"No, he's not." He stuffed the note into the pocket of his jeans. "Look, I don't want to break any confidences, okay? I think the best path forward here is to keep trusting him, and give him a chance to trust you enough to tell you more. He really, uh, admires you."

"Yeah," she said. "I noticed that." She shrugged, still looking perplexed. "It's just weird."

"Maybe don't say that to him. Give him the arnica, even if you don't think it'll do anything. He'll feel cared for."

As she walked away, Finn considered giving Sam a heads-up about Quinn, but then he thought about the Coach's clear warning, and decided not to. Whatever Quinn decided to do or not to do about Sam's marks, as the Coach had directed, she would have to do on her own.