I've Been There
Disclaimer: I Don't Own Glee.
Chapter 1: Uncle Nono Understands
Noah Puckerman never expected to find five-year-old Tracy Anderson standing barefoot in the middle of the road near his mom's house. He pulled over and ran toward her, scooping her up in his arms. "Tracy, what are you doing out here? You trying to get yourself hurt, Squirt?"
She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and whispered, "I ran away because Daddy was going to hit me like he hits Papa."
Puck's heart dropped into his stomach. The joke he was about to crack died in his throat. He didn't live far from Kurt and Blaine's place and had only just gotten back into town. He texted Kurt immediately:
"Tracy is here, Kurt. I'll understand if you can't come get her."
Kurt arrived a couple of hours later, wearing sunglasses despite the cloudy sky. As soon as Noah opened the door and saw him, he gently took the sunglasses off Kurt's face. His stomach turned when he saw the two black eyes.
"How long's this been going on?" Noah asked, voice low.
Kurt glanced toward the living room where Tracy was curled up on the couch watching The Avengers: Endgame. "Since she was a baby. Your mom saw me at the ER more than once. I thought she might tell you or Carole, but I guess she didn't want to betray my trust. Tracy's come here before. This is the first time you were actually in town. She broke into the house a week ago, and I made Sarah promise not to tell you."
Noah nodded, jaw clenched. He disappeared for a bit and came back an hour later with Kurt's and Tracy's clothes in duffel bags.
"I took care of Blaine for now," he said simply.
Kurt blinked at him. "You didn't call the cops?"
"I didn't need to," Puck said. "You know my history. I've been where you are. Cops don't always fix things. But I made sure he won't be hurting anyone for a while."
Later, when Tracy was asleep in the guest room and Kurt was curled up on the couch holding a warm compress to his eye, he asked softly, "You still doing okay, Puck?"
Noah nodded. "AA meetings, therapy, all that. The military messed me up. But I'm here. I'm better now. Tracy calling me 'Uncle Nono' again helps."
Kurt gave a faint smile. "She thinks you're the Hulk."
"I mean, I do smash." Puck smirked, then quickly added, "Not like that. Don't make it weird."
They both laughed for a moment—just long enough to let the tension melt before Kurt leaned back against the couch.
"You're a good man, Puck," Kurt said. "Thank you."
Before Noah could respond, his phone buzzed. It was a comment on a Facebook photo he'd posted of him and Tracy eating peanut butter sandwiches. He had captioned it, *Papa Hulk saves the day.*
Burt Hummel commented, "Good to see her smiling again. Call me later, kiddo."
Beth Corcoran commented, "OMG Tracy still eats like a puppy! Love her."
Rachel St. James replied under the post: "Jokes help, but don't forget how serious this is. I'm calling you later, Puck."
Quinn Fabray-Puckerman's name popped up next: "We're coming by tomorrow. I love you. I'll tell you everything when you get back."
Kurt blinked at the last comment. "You and Quinn…?"
Noah smiled faintly. "Yeah. Married now. I'll tell you everything after you rest. Let's just keep Tracy safe first."
Kurt nodded slowly, emotion catching in his throat. "I don't think I ever said it out loud, but thank you. For always showing up."
Noah clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, you've done the same for me. That's what friends do."
Tracy mumbled something from the next room. Kurt stood to go check on her, but Noah stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Let me," he said. "Uncle Nono's got this."
Noah sat at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee, the early morning light cutting across the floor in slanted golden beams. Kurt stood at the sink, his movements slow and deliberate as he rinsed out Tracy's water bottle.
"She sleep okay?" Noah asked gently.
Kurt nodded. "Yeah. Woke up once. Said she had a bad dream. I stayed until she fell back asleep. She's strong, but…" He trailed off, voice cracking just a little. "No child should have to be that strong."
Noah looked down into his mug. "Neither should you."
Kurt didn't respond right away. The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. Finally, Noah cleared his throat.
"There's something I should probably tell you," he said, glancing up. "Quinn… she was pregnant."
Kurt blinked, stunned. "Was?"
Noah nodded, eyes clouding. "She found out the day I came back from deployment. It was early, maybe six weeks. We were over the moon. She even started knitting a blanket—told me she wanted to wait a bit before telling anyone else. But a month later…" He swallowed hard. "We lost it."
Kurt lowered the bottle into the sink. "Oh, Puck. I—I had no idea."
"She didn't want to tell you. Said you had too much on your plate already." His voice grew quieter. "I think part of her still carries guilt for what happened with Beth, even though it was out of her hands."
Kurt leaned against the counter, a hand pressed to his heart. "I wish she had told me. I could've been there for her."
"Now you know," Noah said softly. "You always show up for the people you love. That's what makes you who you are."
Kurt gave a half-laugh, shaking his head. "Not always. Not when it mattered."
He walked slowly over to the table and sat across from Noah. The early light hit his bruises, casting faint shadows that made them look even darker.
"I guess… I should tell you everything," Kurt began, folding his hands together. "It didn't start the way people might think. There weren't fists, not right away."
Noah stayed quiet, giving him space.
"It started with a misunderstanding—an audition I didn't tell him about. I wanted it to be a surprise. Something small, a cabaret gig, just one night. But he thought I was hiding it because I didn't trust him. We argued, and I said things I shouldn't have. He left the apartment for two days."
Kurt looked down at his hands.
"When he came back, he had that look in his eyes. I'd seen it before—years ago, when his dad had slipped. I didn't know he'd started drinking again."
Noah's jaw tightened. "You didn't cause that, Kurt."
Kurt gave a bitter smile. "Tell that to the part of me that tried to fix it every single day for five years. It was little things, at first. Doors slammed too hard. Hands grabbing too tight. Apologies always came after. Roses. Tears. Promises."
He looked up, meeting Noah's eyes.
"But then Tracy got old enough to understand. And that's when it started to feel like drowning."
Noah reached across the table, placing a steady hand on Kurt's.
"You're not alone anymore," he said. "And neither is she."
Kurt squeezed his hand. "I know. Thanks to you."
From the hallway, the soft creak of a door opening made them both turn. Tracy padded in, sleep-tousled and clutching her stuffed hippo.
"Uncle Nono," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes, "can I have pancakes?"
Noah stood, ruffling her hair. "You got it, Squirt. Hulk-style?"
Tracy nodded sleepily. "Big ones."
As Noah started pulling ingredients from the cabinets, Kurt watched him with a full heart.
Maybe, for the first time in a long while, they were all finally safe.
Kurt had just finished buttoning Tracy's tiny cardigan when a knock sounded at the door. He looked over, eyebrows raised. Noah glanced at the clock—still early.
He opened the door, surprised to see Santana Lopez standing there, arms crossed, her usual sharp confidence dulled by something heavier in her eyes.
"Hey," she said, quieter than usual. "Can I come in?"
Kurt stiffened, his hand still resting on Tracy's shoulder. She looked up at Santana, then back at her papa, unsure.
Noah nodded. "Yeah. Come on in."
Santana stepped inside, glancing briefly at Tracy. "Hey, kiddo."
"Hi," Tracy said, a little shy.
"Why don't you go watch cartoons for a bit, Squirt?" Noah suggested gently. "I'll make you another pancake in a minute."
Tracy nodded and padded off, hugging her hippo under one arm. Santana watched her go with a look of quiet heartbreak before she turned back to Kurt.
"I came as soon as I saw the post," she said. "I didn't know. Nobody did."
Kurt lowered himself onto the couch, his posture guarded. "I didn't want anyone to know."
"I feel like the worst friend alive." Santana sat beside him, hands wringing together. "I stood there in that stupid wedding venue in Indiana, watching you marry him, knowing something felt… off. But I ignored it. I thought you were happy…"
Her voice cracked. She rarely let it crack.
Kurt swallowed hard. "I wanted to believe I was happy. I kept telling myself it was just stress. That he'd get better."
Santana looked up at him, tears brimming in her eyes. "He turned into our parents, Kurt. And we let it happen. We watched him go cold, and we didn't say a damn thing."
Kurt's lip trembled, but he quickly pressed it shut.
"I know you didn't know," he whispered. "You couldn't have."
Santana leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I should've. I should've checked in. All I cared about was how good the photos looked on Instagram. How perfect it all seemed. You were my best friend, and I failed you."
Kurt shook his head. "No, San. You didn't fail me. Blaine did. And I did, for not leaving sooner. I kept thinking that if I just did one more thing right, if I just loved him a little harder, he'd remember who we were."
Noah, leaning in the doorway, spoke up softly. "That's what people like Blaine count on. That you'll blame yourself for their choices."
Santana wiped her eyes roughly. "I want to kill him. You know that, right? If you hadn't already handled it, Puck…"
"I didn't kill him," Noah said calmly. "Just made sure he's too scared or too broken to come back around. He'll be gone for a while."
Kurt looked between them, and for the first time in days, he felt a warmth he hadn't realized he missed: the heat of his old family—not blood, but soul-deep.
"Thank you for coming, Santana," he said quietly.
She smiled through her tears. "I'll always come. Even when I screw up. Especially then."
Tracy's voice floated in from the next room. "Uncle Nono? I think Mr. Hippo wants syrup too."
Noah chuckled, heading toward the kitchen. "Coming right up, little Hulk."
Santana watched him go, then leaned her head on Kurt's shoulder. "She's lucky to have you."
Kurt smiled faintly. "I'm lucky to have her."
For a few moments, they just sat there in the quiet, the sun slowly rising over the wreckage of what was—warming what was still standing.
The McKinley High choir room hadn't changed much since the glory days of New Directions. The trophies still shimmered in the cabinet. The rows of chairs were still scuffed from years of restless teenagers. The piano had a new coat of polish, but Sam Evans—now Mr. Evans to his students—still ran his fingers along the edge like it was sacred.
He was grading music theory journals when he heard it—the unmistakable clatter of something heavy hitting the floor. He stood quickly, heading toward the sound. As he turned the corner near the risers, he stopped cold.
Blaine.
Disheveled. Drunk. Slumped against the piano bench, half-empty flask in one hand, eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Blaine?" Sam said cautiously, stepping closer. "What the hell, man?"
Blaine looked up, blinking as if seeing Sam for the first time. "Evans… hey, buddy," he slurred. "Didn't expect a reunion tour, huh?"
Sam crouched down, grabbing the flask out of his hand. It reeked of cheap whiskey.
"You can't be here like this," he said firmly. "You know that. The kids—what if they saw you?"
Blaine waved him off lazily. "The kids don't know who I am anymore. Nobody does."
Sam exhaled slowly. "I do. I've known you since Dalton. What the hell happened?"
Blaine's face twisted. "COVID happened. My job went remote. I was stuck inside with him for months. He always had a to-do list, a schedule, a way of making everything about control. I couldn't breathe."
Sam blinked, taken aback. "So you hit him?"
"No!" Blaine snapped, then deflated. "Not at first. At first, it was just yelling. Doors slamming. Cold shoulders. Then, one day, I lost it. He wasn't listening. He *never* listened."
Sam stared at him. "And that made it okay? You put your hands on Kurt because he didn't listen?"
Blaine's lip trembled, but the self-pity came back fast. "You don't know what it was like. He wouldn't let up. I was stressed. Burnt out. Everything was falling apart, and he kept acting like if I just followed his checklist, we'd be fine."
Sam's jaw tightened. "You sound like my dad before my mom left."
Blaine gave a humorless laugh. "Guess I turned into someone I hate."
He tried to stand and stumbled. Sam caught him. Blaine leaned in too close, too fast.
"I miss the old days, man," he murmured. "You and me, singing, goofing off… You were always so good. So kind."
His breath hit Sam's cheek, and then suddenly—he leaned in and tried to kiss him.
Sam recoiled, holding him at arm's length. "Whoa. Blaine. No. What the hell are you doing?"
But Blaine's knees buckled, and he collapsed forward. Sam caught him again as he passed out cold, dead weight in his arms.
"Damn it," Sam muttered.
He dragged Blaine over to the old couch in the corner of the room and let him drop onto it. Then he grabbed his phone.
To Kurt: Just found Blaine drunk in the choir room. He tried to kiss me. I think he needs serious help, man. This isn't just anger. It's something darker.
He stared down at Blaine's unconscious form, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You need help before you destroy yourself too."
Blaine winced as the fluorescent lights overhead pierced through his throbbing skull. The distant echo of the morning bell barely registered over the pounding in his head. He sat up slowly, realizing he wasn't in the choir room anymore.
A cot. A thin blanket. The nurse's office.
Then he heard a voice. Familiar. Calm. Measured.
"You've got to stop, Blaine. This can't be your rock bottom."
Will Schuester stood in the corner, arms folded, disappointment etched into every line on his face. He wasn't Mr. Schue anymore—not to Blaine. Not to anyone. Principal Schuester, crisp shirt, pressed slacks, the weight of a thousand decisions behind tired eyes.
Blaine wiped his face. "So, what, you're here to lecture me, too?"
"No," Will said. "I'm here because Sam said you almost kissed him, drunk, after breaking into the choir room at 7 AM. That's not the Blaine I know."
Blaine laughed bitterly. "Maybe you never really knew me."
Will stayed silent for a moment, then pulled up a chair and sat across from him. "You're right. I don't know this version of you. I knew the boy who fought to transfer schools to protect Kurt. The one who led the Warblers with pride. The one who showed up for his friends no matter what."
"That boy died," Blaine said quietly. "Right around the time COVID started. When Kurt stopped looking at me like I mattered."
"Or maybe," Will said gently, "you stopped looking at *yourself* like you mattered. And you started blaming Kurt for things he couldn't fix."
Blaine turned his face away. "I wish I'd never met him."
Will sighed like he'd been waiting for that.
Meanwhile, across town, at Quinn and Noah's house
Kurt sat on their back porch wrapped in a hoodie, knees pulled to his chest, watching Tracy blow bubbles in the yard. She was laughing with Quinn like nothing in the world had ever hurt her.
He rubbed his hands together, even though the spring air wasn't cold.
Noah came out with two mugs of coffee and handed one to Kurt.
"Thanks," Kurt said softly. Then after a beat, "I wish I'd never met him."
Noah didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Quinn overheard from the kitchen and shook her head with a sad smile.
"They don't mean it," she murmured.
"I know," Noah said, sipping his coffee beside Kurt. "But man, I get it."
Inside the house, Sam sat with his head in his hands in the guest room after texting Will to check in. Quinn slipped in beside him on the couch.
"He said it too," she whispered.
"Who?"
"Blaine. Said he wished he never met Kurt."
Sam shook his head. "None of them mean it. They're just drowning right now. They think cutting each other out is easier than forgiving themselves."
Quinn rested a hand on his shoulder. "They're going to need all of us. Every piece of this is a messed-up puzzle."
Back outside, Tracy ran over to Kurt, holding up a bubble wand with a triumphant grin.
"Papa, look! I made a bubble that looked like a heart!"
Kurt blinked, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Of course you did," he whispered, voice cracking. "You always do."
He pulled her into his lap, pressing a kiss to her temple. And even though his world was shattered, Tracy made him feel, for a moment, whole again.
Kurt stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, keys trembling in his hand. Quinn was in the kitchen packing snacks for Tracy's school bag, her movements sharp with worry. Tracy was asleep upstairs, curled against Beth's side, unaware of the storm rolling back into her life.
Puck leaned against the banister at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed. He'd seen it coming the second Kurt walked in with that look in his eyes—haunted, restless, and unresolved.
"You're gonna do this?" Puck asked quietly.
"I have to," Kurt replied. His voice was tight, brittle. "He needs me."
Puck shook his head, jaw clenching. "No. He needs help. He needs to face what he did. What he's still doing."
"I'm not leaving him alone like that," Kurt snapped. "Not when he's at his lowest."
"And what about you, man?" Puck's voice rose, finally letting it crack. "You gonna pretend he didn't almost take you down with him? That he didn't drag Tracy into it?"
Kurt's eyes welled up. "It wasn't all him."
Puck took a step forward. "Don't do that. Don't *you* do that. My old man made my mom believe every bruise was her fault. Made *me* believe that, too. You think Blaine's different, but I've seen the same look in your kid's eyes that I used to see in mine."
Kurt flinched like he'd been slapped.
"I'm not my dad," Puck said more quietly, more dangerously now. "But Blaine? You keep giving him passes, and he's gonna end up just like mine. So no—you don't get to take Tracy back there."
"She's my daughter," Kurt said, almost choking on the words.
"Then act like it," Puck said. "Protect her."
Kurt's breath caught. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Just staring at the floor, eyes blurry with tears he refused to wipe.
Then, finally, he nodded—barely.
"I'll come back for her," he said.
"You'd better come back whole," Puck answered. "Or don't come back at all."
Later that night…
The apartment was dark. Blaine was passed out on the couch, the TV playing an old black-and-white film he wouldn't remember putting on. Kurt stepped inside quietly, setting his bag down.
He knelt beside Blaine and reached out, brushing hair from his face.
"I'm here," he whispered.
Blaine stirred. His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and confused. Then they landed on Kurt—and something soft broke through the haze.
"Kurt?" he rasped.
Kurt didn't answer. Just took Blaine's hand and held it tight.
Outside, the night pressed against the windows like it knew this was a bad idea. Like it wanted to scream through the glass.
But inside, Kurt stayed anyway.
Back at Quinn and Puck's…
Tracy stirred in her sleep and rolled over onto Puck's chest on the couch. He was dozing in front of the muted TV, but he opened his eyes and looked down at her.
"Don't worry, Squirt," he whispered, brushing her curls back. "I'm not gonna let him hurt you. Or your Papa. Not again."
Quinn stood silently in the doorway, holding a blanket, her eyes fixed on them.
"We have to help him," she whispered.
Puck didn't look up. "We are. Just not the way he wants."
It had been three days.
No one had heard from Kurt.
Not a single text.
Not a photo of Tracy's latest drawing.
Not even a read receipt.
Rachel's voicemails went unanswered.
Mercedes called every ten minutes like it was her job.
Even Will checked in.
Nothing.
Puck stood in Quinn's kitchen, his fist clenched around his phone. Tracy was at school, and the house felt wrong without Kurt humming showtunes under his breath or over-apologizing for taking up space. He wasn't okay—Puck knew that now. And Blaine? Blaine sure as hell wasn't keeping him safe.
Quinn watched from the counter, arms folded, biting back fear with every exhale. "Did you try his work email?"
Puck's eyes were already glazed. "Tried everything. Blaine's answering for him. Or no one is. Either way—Kurt's not."
There was a long pause. The kind that makes your heart clench because you already know what's coming.
"Maybe it's time," she whispered. "You know what to do."
That afternoon…
The police came. Two cruisers. Puck stayed calm. He gave them every piece he could without giving too much away. Blaine had a history. Kurt had once been hospitalized with "a fall" that didn't add up. There was a child involved. A lot of whispers. No hard proof.
Just the silence of a man too afraid to ask for help.
But when the officers returned from the apartment, one of them gave a sympathetic shrug.
"He says he's fine. Says he doesn't want to file anything," the cop told Puck. "He's lucid. Coherent. We can't pull him out if he won't say the words."
"He's scared," Puck snapped.
The cop's face hardened with helplessness. "I know. But the law's the law."
As they drove away, Quinn stood behind Puck and rested her forehead against his back. "They're not going to save him."
"No," Puck said. "They're not."
That night…
Blaine paced the living room. Fast. Restless. He hadn't slept. Hadn't eaten.
Kurt sat on the edge of the couch, rubbing his hands together the way he always did when he was trying to disappear into his skin. His phone sat face-down on the table. A dozen missed calls.
Blaine picked it up, waving it. "Who keeps calling you?"
"I don't know," Kurt lied.
"You're lying," Blaine hissed. "You always fucking lie when you're about to leave."
"I'm not leaving."
"Then give me the phone."
Kurt stood slowly, like the air had turned to glass.
"Blaine—"
"I SAID GIVE IT TO ME!"
He didn't shove Kurt. Not yet. But his voice cracked through the walls loud enough that the neighbor's dog started barking two apartments down.
Kurt didn't flinch.
He was too used to it.
Instead, he picked up the phone. And handed it over.
But his fingers were shaking.
Blaine grabbed it and threw it across the room.
"See?" Blaine said, voice breathless, eyes wide. "Now you don't have to lie."
Kurt stared at the shattered pieces of glass and plastic. "She's five. You know that, right?"
"What?"
"Tracy. She's five. And you are the reason she calls you 'The Hulk. '"
Blaine looked stunned. "What are you talking about?"
Kurt's voice broke, but it was sharp, full of steel. "Because when you're calm, she thinks you're Bruce Banner. But what if you yell? When you break things? She hides behind Puck and tells him not to let you 'go green again.'"
Blaine staggered back like those words had hit him.
Good.
But Kurt wasn't done. He'd had it.
"You think you're the only one hurting?" Kurt's voice was rising now. "You think you get to control the pain just because you're loudest?"
Blaine's hands balled into fists. "You don't get to throw Finn in my face—"
"I wasn't going to," Kurt whispered. "But you just did."
And just like that—Kurt snapped.
He lunged.
Fists. Swinging.
Blaine didn't even have time to react. The first punch connected with his jaw so hard he crashed into the armchair behind him. He stared up, dazed, mouth bleeding, more shocked than injured.
"You wanna see what I learned from Finn?" Kurt shouted, standing over him. "He protected the people he loved. Even when they didn't deserve it."
Blaine coughed, a bitter laugh bubbling up. "You think you're strong now?"
Kurt's voice dropped low. Dangerous.
"No. But he is."
The door slammed open.
Puck. Face like stone. Breath like fire.
And Blaine finally realized—this wasn't a rescue.
This was a reckoning.
Monsters and Men
The door didn't creak open—it slammed.
Blaine barely turned before Noah Puckerman barreled through like a man possessed.
The calm in his face was gone. Gone was the smart-ass smirk. Gone was the protective dad mode.
What stood in his place?
The Hulk.
Only this one didn't go green. He bled red.
"You don't get to touch him again," Puck growled. "You don't get to raise your voice. You don't even get to breathe near him."
Kurt flinched where he stood, arms bruised and fingers trembling, eyes wide and locked on Puck like he wasn't sure if he was about to be saved or sacrificed.
Blaine barely got out the word "Noah" before Puck *swung*.
One punch. Two.
A sickening crack as Blaine's nose broke.
Another blow sent him into the bookshelf, knocking it over with a thunderous crash.
The entire apartment groaned under the chaos. Frames shattered. Lamps hit the ground. The coffee table is split in half.
"PUCK, STOP!" Kurt screamed, grabbing at his arm—but Puck shook him off, never breaking stride, his eyes never leaving Blaine.
"You hurt him," Puck spat, dragging Blaine up by the collar. "Again and again. And you thought I wouldn't find out?"
Blaine wheezed, coughing blood. "You think this makes you a hero?"
Puck slammed him into the wall. "No. This makes me *Dad*. And *you* made my daughter scared of monsters."
Kurt froze—because Tracy wasn't even there.
She hadn't come back.
She'd stayed safe.
She was never coming back here.
Blaine had asked about her once when Kurt returned, slurring out something about "his daughter" and "his house," but Kurt had snapped, told him she was better off anywhere else.
And that was the one thing Blaine didn't argue with.
Kurt's hands were shaking so bad he could barely dial. But he did.
"911—what's your emergency?"
"I—I need the police," Kurt stammered, ducking as another crash echoed behind him. "Please, it's my fiancé—he's being attacked. My—my friend is hurting him. Just please send someone. He's not stopping—he's not—"
He barely finished the sentence before Puck threw Blaine into the dining table, snapping one of the legs off like it was balsa wood. The sound of Blaine's groan—broken and pitiful—made Kurt sick.
"STOP!" Kurt screamed again. "NOAH, PLEASE—STOP!"
But Puck didn't hear him.
He was too far gone.
Until—
"Police! Get on the ground! Now!"
Three officers stormed through the open door, guns raised. Quinn must've called after Puck left. Or maybe Rachel. Maybe even Mercedes.
Someone knew this would happen.
Puck dropped Blaine instantly, hands raised. His chest was heaving, sweat pouring off his skin like he'd run through hell.
"Don't shoot," he said quietly, not even looking at the cops. "I'm done."
One officer cuffed him, reading his rights.
Another checked Blaine—conscious, but barely.
But the third? He looked at Kurt.
"Is this the man who hit you?" he asked, pointing at Puck.
Kurt shook his head. "No. He saved me."
The cop blinked, then nodded. "You'll both need to give statements."
Puck turned to Kurt, blood on his knuckles, fire still burning in his eyes. "You coming with me or not?"
Kurt's voice cracked. "I want to. God, I want to."
"But?"
"I can't leave Tracy. And Blaine—he—he's still her dad. If I go, he'll twist it all. Make her think I abandoned her."
Puck shook his head. "You didn't bring her back here, Kurt. I didn't let you."
"I know," Kurt whispered, looking at the wreckage of what had once been his life. "I just—I thought maybe he'd changed."
"I did too," Puck said. "But this—this is who he is. And she's better off without that."
The cops led him outside, cuffed and bleeding.
Back at Puck and Quinn's house, Tracy sat on the floor in front of the TV, wearing one of Puck's oversized band shirts like a nightgown. Her hair was wild from sleep, her fingers sticky from popsicle juice.
"Mommy Quinn?" she asked, eyes never leaving the screen. "Why did Daddy Hulk go to help Papa?"
Quinn sat down beside her and pulled her into a hug. "Because sometimes when someone we love is in danger, we don't wait. We don't ask permission. We just go."
Tracy blinked. "Is Papa okay?"
Quinn's voice cracked. "I think so, baby."
Tracy tilted her head. "Then why do I still feel like the monster's not gone?"
Blaine's face was barely recognizable beneath the bruises—eyes swollen, jaw purple, nose taped up. He was stitched, bandaged, and quiet. Not a word since the cops dragged Puck out.
Kurt had sworn he wouldn't go back.
And yet, here he was.
The hospital let him in after he said he was Blaine's fiancé. No one questioned it. They probably should have.
"You should've stayed gone," Blaine rasped, not meeting his eyes.
Kurt didn't answer. He just sat in the hard chair next to the bed and wrapped his arms around himself like they could shield him from his own choices.
"I told them it was an accident," Kurt said softly. "Said Puck lost control. They believed me."
"You shouldn't protect him," Blaine whispered, voice raw. "Not after what he did."
Kurt looked down. "I'm not protecting him. I'm protecting Tracy. If I pressed charges against you, I'd have to explain *everything*. And I'm not ready to blow up her world."
Blaine looked at him then, eyes bloodshot. "So you're staying."
Kurt nodded. Slowly. Shamefully.
Blaine closed his eyes. "Okay."
Back in Lima, Puck sat on the porch of Burt Hummel's garage, a cold beer untouched in his hand. He hadn't planned to show up here. But Quinn took one look at his face when he got released—no charges, just warnings—and said, "You need to tell his dad."
So here he was.
Only Burt wasn't.
Puck pulled out his phone and stared at it for a long second before dialing. The call connected after two rings.
"Puck?" Burt's voice came through, gravelly and tired. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, no—no, not really," Puck said. "Quinn told you?"
"She texted. After you left." A pause. "You alright?"
"I don't know," Puck admitted. "I didn't plan to beat the hell out of him. I just… I snapped."
"I get it," Burt said, voice low. "But you can't go around solving things with your fists."
"I know," Puck muttered. "But it was the only thing I *could* do at that moment."
Silence hung in the line. Puck stared at the trees, swaying gently in the breeze.
Then Burt asked, "You ever want to tell me what that was really about?"
Puck laughed—short, bitter. "Which part? Watching Blaine do to Kurt what I saw my dad do to my mom? Or the part where I realized I never told *anyone* what it felt like to be the kid who had to sleep with a baseball bat next to his bed?"
Burt's voice softened. "You never told Finn either, did you?"
"Nope. He thought I was bulletproof. I let him believe it."
"And now?"
"Now I keep thinking… maybe if I'd told someone, *anyone, I'd have known how to help Kurt before it got this bad. Before he went back to that guy."
A breath on the other end of the line. "He called me."
Puck sat up. "What'd he say?"
"Said he's staying with Blaine."
"I know."
"You believe him?"
"Nope."
"But he said it."
"Yeah. Same way I used to say my dad wasn't hitting us."
Burt was quiet. "We can't drag him out, Puck."
"I know that."
"But?"
"I also know Blaine's not done hurting him. And next time, it might not be fists."
"What do we do?"
"We wait," Puck said. "And we stay ready. Because when it breaks—and it *will*—Kurt's gonna run. And when he does, we *make damn sure* he knows where home is."
Back at Quinn's, Tracy was coloring in the corner of the living room, a pink crayon gripped tight in her little fist. Quinn sat on the floor beside her, sorting through laundry.
"Mommy Quinn?" Tracy asked without looking up.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Does Papa love Daddy Blaine more than me?"
The crayon stopped.
Quinn's heart cracked, just a little. "No, sweetie. No, not more. But sometimes, grown-ups get confused. They think love means staying. Even when it hurts."
Tracy nodded solemnly, like she understood more than a five-year-old should.
"I still think Daddy Puck is The Hulk," she said proudly.
"Yeah?" Quinn smiled, brushing hair from Tracy's face.
"Yeah. But not the mean one. He's like the green one when he hugs people."
Puck ended the call and tucked his phone into his pocket just as the screen door creaked open behind him.
"Thought I heard a guilt-ridden grunt out here," came a familiar voice—deeper than Burt's, with a bit more gravel and a lot more sarcasm.
Mick Hummel stepped onto the porch, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that looked older than Tracy. He'd taken over the garage after Burt left for D.C., but he still kept the place running like it was his big brother's name on the sign. In a way, it still was.
"Hey, Mick," Puck said, forcing a tired smile.
Mick gave him a once-over, eyes pausing on the fading bruise near Puck's temple. "You get in a fight or fall into one?"
Puck snorted. "Bit of both."
Mick grinned and sat beside him with a grunt. "Well, at least you didn't break any of *my* windows this time."
Puck laughed—just once, quiet and hollow.
They sat in silence for a minute, the porch creaking under their weight. Then Mick reached over and grabbed the beer Puck hadn't touched, popped the cap off on the porch railing like an old pro, and took a swig.
"So," Mick said after a beat. "Talked to Burt?"
"Yeah. Just now."
"Good. Better him than your parole officer."
Puck raised an eyebrow. "You're assuming I've got one."
Mick smirked. "Kid, I worked in this town longer than you've been shaving. I know exactly how much trouble you've gotten into—and how lucky you've been."
Puck looked away. "Doesn't feel like luck."
"Trust me. If Burt had married your mom, *I'd* be the one bailing you out every other week. Thank God he dodged *that* bullet."
Puck choked out a laugh. "Jesus, Mick."
"Hey, I said what I said. I loved Fay in high school. But your mom? She had the temper of a hornet with a hangover."
"Still does."
They both laughed a little, the edge in the air easing just a hair.
Mick glanced sideways at him. "So. You beat the crap out of that fancy-haired husband of Kurt's?"
Puck's jaw clenched. "Yeah."
"Good."
Puck blinked. "Wait, what?"
Mick leaned back, beer bottle resting on his knee. "Come on, kid. You think just 'cause we're older, we don't see things? That boy's been walking around like he's trying not to break. You don't learn that kind of caution unless someone's teaching it to you, one blow at a time."
Puck was quiet.
Mick tilted his head. "Burt's not the only one who pays attention, you know."
"You always this observant?"
"When it matters." He took another swig, then added casually, "Figured out Kurt had a crush on Finn back in the day, too. Wasn't hard."
Puck's eyes widened. "Wait—you knew?"
"Course I knew. Everyone thought it was just idolizing. But you grow up in a family of mechanics, you learn to recognize when someone's holding tension in their chest that doesn't belong to engines."
Puck looked away, silent.
"He got over it," Mick said softly. "But not because anyone told him to. He had to figure it out. Same way he's gonna have to figure out Blaine."
Puck's voice was barely a whisper. "And if he doesn't?"
Mick finished the beer, set the bottle down on the porch. "Then we be here. Same place. Same porch. Holding the door open when he finally gets tired of bleeding."
Quinn sat on the edge of the bathtub, the pregnancy test balanced between her trembling fingers.
Two lines.
Clear as day. No room for doubt.
She blinked down at it, her reflection warped in the bathroom mirror across from her. She looked pale, lips parted like she was trying to speak but had no idea what to say.
Tracy was napping in the next room, her tiny snores soft through the open door. Quinn had checked on her three times already, more for her comfort than the girl's.
She placed the test down carefully on the counter like it was made of glass, stood up slowly, and wrapped her arms around herself.
It wasn't the first time she'd been in a bathroom, staring at a plastic stick and wondering what the hell came next.
The last time… she'd been sixteen. Terrified. Living in the Hummels' guest room while trying to keep a secret that was slowly unraveling at the seams.
She remembered the smell of laundry detergent, the scratch of the sheets, the way Kurt had snuck in late at night with a bag of frozen peas for her ankles because she was too bloated to walk right.
He had trusted her. Cared for her. Made her feel safe, even before he knew Beth wasn't Finn's.
And when she finally broke down and told him the truth—about the baby, about Puck, about the lie she was living—he hadn't even flinched.
He just pulled her into his arms and said, "We all make mistakes. But not everyone tries to fix them."
She owed him so much more than this silence.
Blaine's apartment still smelled like antiseptic and takeout. The couch had been moved, probably by a nurse or Kurt, to make room for the walker resting against the wall. The place was too quiet. Too clean.
Quinn knocked once before stepping inside. She hadn't told Blaine she was coming. Didn't care to.
He was on the recliner, legs bandaged, ice pack balanced awkwardly on his lap. The bruises on his face were darker now, fading to a sick yellow-green. His eyes sharpened when he saw her.
"You here to hit me too?" he asked, dryly.
"No," she said. "But I'm not here to pretend you're a victim, either."
Blaine looked away. "Guess everyone's got their pitchforks now."
Quinn didn't move from the doorway. Her arms stayed crossed, her voice calm. "You know, before I had Beth, Kurt used to talk about what he wanted more than anything."
Blaine stayed silent.
"He didn't say fame or fashion. He didn't even say love, not really. He said he wanted someone to *need* him. A family. One he didn't have to earn. One that didn't hurt him."
His jaw was clenched.
She stepped further into the apartment.
"And you gave him that. For a while, maybe. But then I started noticing things. The way he'd cover his wrists even when it was hot. The way he'd smile too quickly when someone asked if he was okay."
"I never—" Blaine started.
"You never left a mark where someone could *see.*" Quinn's eyes flared. "I know. I used to help him hide bruises, too. Back in high school. After some jerk shoved him into lockers or spat slurs in the hallway."
She let that sink in. Blaine swallowed hard.
"Funny, though," she said softly, stepping even closer, "some of those bruises didn't match locker height. Or timing."
Blaine's face froze.
"You ever wonder why I didn't go to your wedding?" she asked.
He blinked.
She smiled—tight, sad. "It wasn't because I was busy. Or mad. I just… couldn't stomach pretending."
Blaine's voice cracked. "It wasn't like that back then. We were happy."
"Were you?" she asked, her voice low. "Because I remember helping him cover a bruise the day before your engagement party. He cried. Told me it was nothing. Just a stupid accident. And I let him lie to me."
Blaine looked down, eyes glassy.
Quinn knelt beside him, not unkind, but unflinching.
"I'm pregnant," she said quietly.
His eyes snapped to hers.
"And I don't want to raise this baby in a world where people like you get away with hurting the people they swear they love."
She stood again, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans.
"I'm not here to punish you. That's not my job. But I am going to do *everything* I can to make sure Kurt and Tracy don't come back here. Not unless you're gone."
As she turned to go, Blaine called out, voice trembling. "Do you think he'll forgive me?"
Quinn paused at the door.
"No," she said, without turning. "But that's not the worst thing. The worst thing is, someday, Tracy's going to understand everything. And when she asks why her Papa stayed so long, the only answer left will be your hands."
Then she walked out.
Puck slammed the truck door so hard it echoed through the empty cemetery.
He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and trudged up the hill, his boots leaving heavy prints in the muddy grass. He stopped at a familiar headstone, one he hadn't visited since the day they buried Finn.
Elizabeth Hummel
Beloved Mother, Devoted Wife, Fierce Protector.
He dropped to his knees in front of the grave, the weight of memories slamming into his chest like a sucker punch.
"I never thought I'd come here again," he murmured. "But I guess I'm out of options."
He looked up at the stone, his voice rough.
"I'm Noah. Puckerman. The Mohawked Neanderthal that used to make your kid's life hell."
He huffed a bitter breath. "Yeah, that was me. The asshole who threw slushies and ran his mouth because it was easier than dealing with his garbage. But I changed. Not overnight. Not because I magically grew a conscience. It was the Air Force. Getting screamed at, knocked down, rebuilt from scratch. Watching people break. Die. It stripped the stupid outta me. Made me deal with everything I ran from."
His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.
"I thought about Kurt a lot. Over there. What I did. What I didn't do. What I *let* happen."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a weathered, leather-bound diary, its edges soft with age.
"I stole this," he confessed quietly. "Not from Kurt. From Burt's garage. After Finn died. It was buried in a box of his mom's stuff. And I shouldn't have kept it. But I couldn't stop reading."
He placed the diary gently on the grave like it was something sacred.
"It's yours. From when you were pregnant with Kurt. The way you wrote about wanting him to be safe. The dreams you had for him. You were scared, but you loved him already. You *knew* the world would be hard on him. And you wanted to protect him with everything you had."
His throat tightened as he stared at the name carved in stone.
"He needed you. He still does. Because Blaine's hurting him. Worse than I think any of us know. And Kurt—he's lying to himself about it. I saw him go back. I watched him walk away from people who loved him. And I let him."
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
"I haven't been here since we lost Finn. I couldn't. Not until now. But I need help. I need you to help me get through to him. He won't listen to me. He thinks I'm just some dumb thug from his past. But I'm not that guy anymore. The Air Force made sure of it."
Puck looked down at the diary, running his fingers over the cracked spine.
"He's breaking, Elizabeth. And I don't know how to put him back together. But I'll fight like hell to try. Just… give me a sign. Something. Anything."
He stayed there for a while, head bowed, the wind tugging at his sleeves, carrying the quiet sounds of the cemetery across the still air.
Finally, he stood, leaving the diary where it belonged.
A piece of her, for the son she'd never stop protecting.
That night, Puck tossed and turned on Quinn's couch, sleep coming in broken waves—half-memories, unfinished thoughts, the weight of everything he couldn't say to Kurt pressing on his chest.
Then the dream came.
He was back in high school.
But it wasn't his high school.
The halls were familiar in layout, like McKinley—but the lockers were pale yellow, the walls covered in strange flyers with dates that didn't make sense. The faces around him were wrong, too. He didn't recognize a single one of them. No Finn. No Kurt. No Rachel. No Quinn.
It was like walking into a parallel world where he didn't exist.
Puck wandered through the halls, searching for something—he didn't know what—until a sharp voice cut through the static of the dream.
"You got a name, sweetheart?"
He turned.
Down the hallway, near the trophy case, stood a younger version of his father. Nick Puckerman, with that same smirk Noah remembered from childhood. Same cocky lean against the lockers, same greasy charm that never landed the way it was supposed to.
But Nick wasn't talking to Fay, Noah's mom.
No—he was trying to flirt with a girl, maybe seventeen, her arm in a sling and one eye swollen.
Noah's stomach turned.
The girl didn't respond. Just flinched when Nick reached for her wrist.
Then another figure stepped in between them—broad shoulders, denim jacket, jaw clenched like it could cut glass.
"Back off, Nick," Burt Hummel said, young and furious.
Nick scoffed. "What? Can't talk to my girlfriend now?"
"She's not your girlfriend," Burt growled. "And if you touch her again—"
Puck watched, frozen, as the two men squared off. But it wasn't a fight. Not until Nick said it—
"Come on, Beth, don't be like that."
The girl flinched.
And so did Noah.
Beth.
No.
No way.
The girl—the bruised, quiet, trembling girl—was Elizabeth.
His breath caught in his throat.
And it turned out young Burt wasn't bluffing.
He swung hard—once, twice—and Nick went down like the coward he always was. Blood on the linoleum. A teacher is screaming. But all Noah could focus on was the way Elizabeth—*not Beth*—turned her head away when Nick hit the ground, her fingers tightening around her sling.
Even in dreams, she hated that nickname.
Puck stepped forward, about to say something—to her, to Burt, to anyone—but the hallway suddenly stretched out like a tunnel, walls spinning, faces blurring, and he was falling—
He shot awake with a jolt, chest heaving, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.
It took him a second to realize where he was. Quinn's couch. A blanket tangled around his legs. Dawn was barely starting to peek through the curtains.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair, still breathless.
That girl—that was Elizabeth.
And that name—Beth—he knew now why it shook something loose in his chest. Why, he'd always had a weird gut reaction to it. Not just because of his daughter. Because someone used it to break someone kind. Someone strong.
She hated it.
He'd seen it in her eyes.
Puck rubbed his face hard, trying to shake off the leftover pieces of the dream.
It didn't make sense. It wasn't real. Not *really*.
But it felt like a message.
Keep trying.
Kurt's not safe.
Get him out.
He stood up and grabbed his jacket. No more waiting. No more hoping Kurt would figure it out alone.
If his father could leave a trail of bruises across generations, then maybe it was *his* job now to break the pattern.
No more Beths.
No more lies.
Not this time.
Chapter 2 will be up soon.
