Shake the Rust

By: RavenHeart101

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The title is taken from "Six Weeks" by Of Monsters and Men.

Summary: When Puck was arrested he was given two choices: Juvi or Dalton – a fancy private school full of preppy boys that his grandmother is willing to pay for to get him cleaned up. After a talk with his mother about how she doesn't want him to become his father, he decides to take a chance with Dalton. There he's given a tracking anklet, a radius, a roommate, a tutor, and a tour guide. And, even though he swore it wouldn't happen, he finds himself drawn to the show choir and their lead singer, who seems just a tad too perfect to be real.

A: N – OMG JOY. A NEW STORY. OMG. LET'S HOPE I ACTUALLY UPDATE. OMG. Special thanks to my beta, Mel. Fabulous person she is.

The road was rough under his feet, his breath coming in quick sharp gasps. He glanced over his shoulder at the officers following behind him, their voices yelling at him to stop. But he wouldn't stop. He was determined to at least get three miles away before they caught up to him. He had age and athletic skill on them. Maybe, if he was lucky enough, if he pushed himself enough, they wouldn't be able to catch him at all. And maybe he could run out of Ohio and into some state like California or something, and change his name and become this famous guy. He would send his mother money each week, half of his pay check, and he would take a third of his money and start a college fund for Beth. And then he would be shown on the news one day, and these cops chasing after him would be thinking to themselves that it was a good thing they didn't catch him. Or he wouldn't be able to be the person he is today.

He stuck his hands in the metal of the fence in front of him, pulling himself up and over the metal. He could hear the feet of the officers following after him, and he could hear his breath panting in his ear. Maybe he should have stopped. But what good would that do for him?

So he kept on running, stumbling every now and then, tripping over invisible cracks in the ground. It was night and he lived in a shady part of Lima, so it really wasn't all that surprising that he, of all people, was being chased after.

They all assumed it would be him in the end.

His mind flashed to Quinn; her beautiful face and sparkling eyes and twinkling laugh.

He flashed to Rachel and her ambitious nature.

He flashed to Finn and his righteous anger.

To Mister Schue and his misguided attempts to make him better.

And he just kept running; pushing it all away and pulling it all close at the same time.

What more was he supposed to do? They all expected this of him. He might as well give them all he was good for.

A car horn blared from his right and he had only a moment to register what was happening before the metal slammed into his side. He went flying and landed on the concrete. Weakly, he pushed himself back up and started running again; his feet running over glass and grass and pointless things. He was free. He was safe. He kept running until he couldn't run anymore. And it seemed as though he had made it over the border, and he wasn't being followed anymore.

With a sense of relief, Puck let out bellowing yell, his arms flying out at his sides and welcoming the world.

"We need a bus!"

A hand was hitting his cheek, stinging it against the sting that was already there. He blearily looked up at the man hovering over him, the man's stern brown eyes and frowning face filling his field of vision. "Stupid kids," he muttered to himself. "Why couldn't you just stop running, huh?" he asked him with anger coating his voice. Puck tried not to flinch. "What's the point in running?"

He didn't expect Puck to answer, so he didn't. He just let his eyes flutter shut and his breath fall from his lips as he fell into oblivion.

Freedom was overrated.

The court room was silent as the judge peered over her glasses at the young man at the defendant's table. He had a cast over his right arm and a bandage on his temple. Perhaps the thing that unnerved her about this young man was the lack of remorse on his face. He didn't look sorry for anything he had done. He didn't even look sorry that he had been caught.

He looked numb.

That was a dangerous look for a teenage boy. She looked back down at the notes in front of her, frowning at the name that looked up at her. Noah Puckerman. It was a nice name. It had a nice ring to it. She could see it having a nice future.

It seemed, however, that the boy before her was willing to travel along the same path his father had so many years ago. Teenage pregnancy, delinquency, robbery, petty crimes; build his way up into a gang, work his way into a domestic violence suit, and then running from the crimes he had committed. It was sad, really, when she thought about it. How many children had been brought into her court that were doomed for cursed futures? She loathed thinking about it.

"Your honor, my client's grandmother is willing to pay to send him to an all boys' private school. The contract, if my client were to agree to it, would include a year's worth of community service and a tracking anklet set to a radius that's up to your honor," The defense attorney said with a clipped voice. He obviously wasn't all too fond of his client, most likely he was hired by the same grandmother willing to pay to send him to a private school.

The judge stared at the boy in front of her for a long moment, not saying a word to either confirm or deny the possibility of this actually happening. She could make him go, and maybe he would actually reform. Or she could leave that choice up to him. It was a proven fact that unless a delinquent wanted to be reformed they would not be reformed. There was nothing the courts could do to change that. Early intervention didn't work most of the time.

But there was this part of her telling her not to give up on this boy. Not to send him to a juvenile detention center without offering him the chance to change who he was. Maybe he could be one of the few to prove her instincts wrong. Maybe he could be her success case.

"Mister Puckerman." The boy blinked up at her, his brown eyes lazy and unconcerned with the punishment he would receive. "The way I see it, you have two choices."

The boy's mother was sitting on a bench behind him, her face as stern as steal. She was probably cursing herself like so many mothers do at the thought that she had done nothing to stop her child from becoming this. "You can either go to a juvenile detention center for the next six months of your life, having it permanently written onto your record. Or you can take your grandmother's offer to be put in an all boys' private school. You would have a tracking anklet issued to you and weekly check-ins with your parole officer."

She paused for a moment, staring at the boy before her. Staring at the way his eyes seemed to be looking right through her rather than at her. Had he even heard a thing she had said? "The choice is up to you, Mister Puckerman. But, if within your first year at this private school, you do not show some improvement you will be put into a juvenile detention center. Do I make myself clear?"

"Wouldn't it be easier to just ship my ass off to juvie for six months and leave me there?" The boy finally spoke, his voice venomous. She leant back in her seat, raising an eyebrow at the boy before her. Maybe she was making a mistake by giving him the option of a private school over juvie.

"How about you think it over for a bit, Mister Puckerman." She banged her gavel against the wood, the defense attorney sighing with stress and rubbing a hand over his forehead, glaring at his client out of the corner of his eye. "For your sake, I hope you make the better decision."

"Bailiff, for the next two weeks Mister Puckerman will be staying in Columbus' Juvenile Detention Center. After that two week trial he will be brought back to my office to go over his decision."

The boy was grabbed by the guards, not roughly but with force, warning him not to fight back. And he didn't. He seemed resigned to his fate.

That was perhaps the worst thing a person in his position to be.

The judge sighed as he left the court, she would be seeing this boy in two weeks' time. And she had a feeling that he would be deciding to stay with those like him rather than taking advantage of the generous offer given to him from his grandmother.

While it was disappointing, it was what was written by fate to happen. And no one could fight fate.

Puck was huddled in the corner of his "bed" in his "room". He hadn't gotten one visitor within the past few days. No calls, either. He wondered if it was something that the judge had told people to do. Not to visit him, not to call him, not to contact him. Make him feel as isolated as possible. Or maybe he really was as much of a screw up as he had been repeatedly told. Puck wasn't sure. But he was sure that he didn't want to go out and eat dinner with the rest of the guys on his block. He didn't want to play basketball with any of those guys.

He wasn't strong here. He wasn't anything here.

And while it was a nice change to not have to intimidate anyone, it wasn't a nice change that he was the one intimidated now. He had all of maybe one friend, and that was simply the skittish boy he was stuck rooming with. The boy with the eyes that darted around the room and talked to himself. He was nice enough. He didn't deserve to be in a place like this. Puck did.

He ran a hand over his Mohawk, looking at the single picture of Beth he had pinned up on his wall. The only mail he had gotten was from Shelby. He didn't know what to make of that or what to make of the letter she had sent along with the picture.

Then again, Shelby was the only one out of everyone else to even make an effort to contact him.

But that was unfair of him. He had never given anyone in the New Directions any reason to miss him. And, really, they must have all have seen this coming. It wasn't surprising that Noah Puckerman was in Juvie. And it wasn't all that surprising that he wasn't having the time of his life here.

It wasn't surprising that he was scared to leave his room for meals or the down time they had. It wasn't surprising that he kept mostly to himself. It wasn't surprising that on his first day there they had ripped out his nipple ring and pounded him to the ground. None of this was surprising.

Heck, sometimes Puck wondered if it would have even surprised anyone if he had died.

There was a scuffle outside of his room; a group of five guys walking by, jeering and insulting one another. None of them turned to see him, none of them glanced inside. But they did comment about the other inmates. About Tom and his "faggy ass". About Hans and his "bitch".

Puck figured he was lucky to not have gone through any of those initiation techniques just yet.

He wasn't naïve. Never had Puck had the image of prison being a "cool" place. He knew it wasn't. He knew it was cruel. His old man used to tell him stories about it over dessert when Ma was working.

Puck's eyes floated around Beth's face, tracing it and committing it to memory. Her blue eyes. Her blonde hair. Her cheeks. Her smile.

He glanced down at the letter Shelby had sent him, his name written in her nice, curvy handwriting.

Would it be worth it for him to make the decision to go to that preppy school instead of staying here?

But this was just a six month term. Not a year and then possibly more like that prep school was. Puck wasn't a prep school kind of guy. He wouldn't survive there.

"Dinner, Perkerman," Kiren, his roommate, poked his head down to Puck's bed to inform him. Kiren and his inability to pronounce his name right. The only person Puck would allow to not pronounce his name right. "They're a servin' greena beans today."

"Sounds great, Kay." Puck slid off his bed, stretching his arms above his head to relieve them from some the tension that had settled in them. He patted Kiren on the back and led him out of their room. He may not be the most badass of the bad asses here, but he was more than Kiren, and he wasn't about to let someone try to kick his boy's ass. Or do anything to his boy's ass. Kiren could be considered his bitch by the rest of the guys for all Puck cared, so long as Kiren was safe and managed to get out of here intact.

Kiren was in juvie because he had taken a gun to his step-mother and killed her when she tried to put her hand down his pants like she had so many times before. He hadn't deserved jail time, but no jury believed him. His mother was a decorated doctor. She would never hurt her child like that.

Well, that was fucking crap. It was always the ones that people didn't expect that did the most damage.

"Maya visited todaya," Kiren talked excitedly. "She said that she gonna get me a'outa here'a."

Maya was Kiren's supportive older sister. She wasn't hot like the girls Puck usually went for, but she was determined, and she had a brain on her. And Puck had made a silent promise to her that he would keep Kiren safe until she could take over the reins.

"Hey'a. You have any'a visitor's yet'a, Perkerman?"

"Naw, Kay. Not yet." It was a dull pain in the pit of his stomach when he thought about it. Why hadn't they visited, exactly? What had he done to make them not come? Not to write? Not to do anything? Well, Puck could tell anyone exactly what he had done to each person in his life to make them not come.

He had gotten Quinn pregnant. He had gotten Quinn pregnant when she had been Finn's girlfriend. He had slushied Rachel, and dated her and slushied her again. He had used Mercedes to get his reputation back. He had bullied Kurt to no end. He had never talked to Mike or Matt. He had insulted Brittany. He hadn't given Santana what she wanted. He had pushed Artie down the stairs. He had slushied Tina. He had used Glee as his new pick-up space and refused to give Mister Schue the respect he deserved. He hadn't been a good brother or a good son.

He was, basically, a fuck up.

So he got it. He understood why no one would visit. But that didn't exactly make it not hurt.

He sighed when all the good food was gone, yet again, and he and Kiren were stuck sitting in the worst corner of the cafeteria, alone, and away from all the other inmates. But, as far as Puck could see, it was the best place to be seated. No one bothered them here. They were out of the way and safe. For the time being, that is.

Puck remembered how on his first day he had gotten pissed when some guy had stolen his lunch. He remembered how he had started a fight, swinging at the guy and breaking his nose. He remembered how the guy's protectors had come to his rescue, pulling Puck off him and wailing on Puck themselves, their fists flying at him so fast he wasn't prepared.

He had been in Fight Club. He knew how to defend himself. But that was against one guy, not against ten of them. The guards had to break them up, and, in the end, Puck had ended up with countless bruises and cuts on top of a concussion that lasted him four days.

He remembered how he had been cornered in his bedroom when Kiren was out, and this big, burly guy had caught him with his shirt off. He remembered how the guards turned a blind eye as they held him down onto his bed and ripped his nipple ring out, laughing the whole time.

He remembered curling in on himself, and crying and praying in the first time in a long time that God would finally do him a favor and let him die before he was humiliated more.

It didn't happen.

So Puck figured he would just have to fight his way through the days. Using that method that he had learned about so many times in school from the people he had bullied into submission. Non-confrontational, keep his head down, don't look anyone in the eye. Let everyone else get their food before you, go to the bathroom before you, visit the library before you.

And make one friend, and have that friend be your roommate.

This last one would be a problem if his roommate was anyone else besides Kiren. Kiren was a good boy, one of the ones that the guards doted on and loved because he was so full of life and light. Someone that couldn't be torn down by a place like this because he knew he was going to survive to see the light on the other end.

"You want my green beans, Kay?" Puck asked after eating his spaghetti. He wasn't feeling up to much more of the food tonight. And Kiren seemed so eager to eat the green beans on his plate and only the green beans.

"Really? Why'a thank ya, Perkerman!" He reached over with his fork and shoveled them into his mouth, smiling brightly at Puck in thanks. Puck just nodded back and took both their trays up to the washing station, smiling slightly at the woman behind the counter that was cleaning them off.

He offered her a thank you, with which she returned with a shocked look in her eye. Did the guys here really have no manners to thank a lady for cleaning up their mess? Assholes. Puck might be a delinquent, but even he knew that it was respectful to do that.

There was a commotion that started behind him, and Puck stumbled forward onto the washing station as a boy collided with his back. There was yelling and swearing, and the guards flying into the room, their sticks brandished like the weapons they were.

There was yelling about getting the nurse in there and calling an ambulance, and when Puck turned around he saw why.

There he was, innocent Kiren, lying in a puddle of his own blood, a crudely made knife sticking out of his chest. He wasn't breathing, and the guards seemed to not have caught the guys that did the stabbing in the first place.

So Puck looked over to his right, where a boy around his age was wiping his hand on another's shirt, and congratulating another on a job well done. He saw red. Puck went flying, grabbing a tray and smacking it against the guy's head.

He didn't care how many guys tackled him to the ground. He didn't care if he got tasered. All he cared about was Kiren and how he didn't deserve this. How the one friend he had made in this place had been killed. And what for? Simple satisfaction and gang initiation.

The next day found Puck with a visitor.

His mother stared at him from her side of the table, her face expressionless. She was cradling a letter in her hand, a pamphlet, something that looked official. She didn't say anything as she pushed them across the table at him.

He didn't say anything as he took them. One was a letter from his sister. And the pamphlets were for the school his grandmother must have picked out for him to spend the rest of his life in. His "second chance".

What bullshit that was.

Dalton Academy for Boys was written across the top in fancy navy lettering, made to accent the red background it was printed on. It was everything Puck had grown to hate.

A fancy school made of brick and jewels. Had been open since the 1900s. Had a stunning reputation. Zero-tolerance policy. Award winning students and faculty. A fencing team. Polo, Rugby, Soccer, and Lacrosse. An a cappella show choir. Blazers, ties, uniforms.

Puck hated it. He hated the fact that it existed. He hated that his grandmother had yet to speak to him herself, but was willing to pay for his education just to "straighten him up".

"This is crap, Ma," Puck insisted, pushing the pamphlet off to the side with determination.

She just stared at him, taking in the way his eyes were rimmed with red. The way he sat favoring his uninjured leg. The way his hand was balled into a fist. At the way his cast from the accident was damaged. "You're so much like him you know. Your father."

Her voice was low when she spoke, and it held an air of resignation to it. She had given up. She had given up on him. But that was okay. Puck had given up on himself too. "Seems fucking up runs in the blood," he stated dryly, picking at his finger nails.

"You act like him," she stated once more. "It's disgusting."

"It's disgusting how much you compare your kids to him."

"How can I not when you're becoming him right in front of me?" she snapped back as she stood up. "You have a good thing, Noah. A chance your father was never offered."

"Why should I take it if you already know that I'm going to be back here!?"

She didn't answer him, and instead she continued walking out, leaving the room and not turning back. Puck sighed and leaned back in his seat, tracing his fingers over the letters on the pamphlet and the fold in the letter Sarah had written him.

He thought back to the letter Shelby had written him, to the picture of Beth on his wall, to the tone of his mother's voice, to the feeling of his feet pounding against the pavement.

His eyes slipped shut for a moment before snapping back open.

He knew what he was going to do.

He had made his decision.

A: N - Chapter two will be up... probably next week?