This is a response to a prompt for the Glee Angst Meme on Livejournal, but I am too embarrassed to post it under my normal name. Anonymous commenting has been disabled on the meme. Would some lovely person be so kind as to link the prompter here? I would be eternally grateful! (Prompter, if you are reading this, thank you the great idea. I hope I can do it justice.)

Watch out for Kurt abuse, Puck/Kurt, Santana/Brittany, Artie/Tina, and tons of Burt Hummel (in the future).

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Find Me
Chapter One

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Most of them had died a little inside when they found out Mr. Schuester had signed them up for Open Mic Night at the community theater, citing it as an "invaluable opportunity to gauge a reaction from a live audience." (Artie hadn't helped much, either: "It's cool, dudes, I go there every Wednesday to do my poetry slams.") But Friday night rolled around, and all twelve of them had climbed bravely into their cummerbunds, armed with a sarcastic Black Eyed Peas set list and the knowledge that at least it couldn't get any worse.

Of course, they hadn't realized that it had been a very slow month for Lima's drama community. They hadn't realized that Principal Figgins had pull with the lighting tech, and that theater's sound system was good, like, Carmina Burana good. And, speaking of Carmina Burana, no one could have predicted that Sue Sylvester's nefarious plan to get them banned from the venue would involve a "FREE BEER" sign at the door and a never-ending supply of Budweiser.

In the end, the whole thing played out like some primetime Fox comedy serial: Schue and Sue yelled at each other a lot about Ohio liquor laws, Figgins found a loophole that okayed them to go on, and the McKinley High Glee Club performed 'My Humps' to a full audience of very appreciative drunks.

"Was it just me, or was that seriously fun?" Finn asked, as soon as they had vacated the stage.

"It was fun," agreed Matt. He sounded baffled.

Rachel cleared her throat importantly. "I still don't think that a Black Eyed Peas song will really allow us the vocal freedom we need to win regionals," she said, when everyone had finally glanced over at her. Then she broke into a wide, off-the-record smile, belying the three-hour tantrum she had thrown two days before. "But 'Shut Up' needs to be the highlight of our winter concert. And we have to learn the dance-battle part, too."

Mike Chang responded with an especially eloquent series of knee-drops, and Santana leapt in, whooping. Just like that, they dissolved into another post-performance jam session right there in the hallway. Puck rolled his eyes. Great. The glee club had energy like Sue Sylvester had reserves of alcohol.

Parched from his Taboo-inspired excursions on the stage, Puck wandered away in search of a drinking fountain. The doors had just opened up behind them; the audience spilled out of the auditorium in a cheerfully buzzed haze, laughing and chattering as they charged Coach Sylvester's abandoned beer booth. A tall man in a dark coat bustled past Puck, moving with purpose. Puck sidestepped into the wall to get out of his way. It was something he'd long since learned as a courtesy to his male compatriots: never get between a man at a show choir concert and his beer. Not that he'd ever had cause to observe this adage until today, of course.

But the guy was walking in a straight, determined line, and as he passed, Puck noticed a distinct absence of alcohol on his breath—he smelled minty instead, as if he'd just brushed his teeth. He was clean-shaven and wore nice trousers, a ring on his right hand. He looked like he was going on a date or something.

He went straight for Kurt Hummel.

Tina and Artie had just started the first verse of 'Don't Phunk With My Heart,' and Kurt was laughing and backing up to give them room. He bumped into the man, turned, and flinched a little in surprise. The man was standing a good six inches inside his personal space; Kurt had to pull away to meet his gaze. "Um, hi. Did you enjoy the show?"

"You are beautiful," said the man.

Kurt's smile faltered. "Sorry?"

"You were beautiful up there. I couldn't take my eyes off of you."

"Oh," said Kurt, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His smile had grown nervous. "I wasn't doing anything special, but that's nice of you to say. Thank you."

"No, thank you," said the man, with strange emphasis.

Kurt glanced over his shoulder. The dancing and singing had carried the rest of the group farther down the hall; Mercedes, the closest, was a good fifteen feet away and far out of earshot in the room's noise. Kurt licked his lips and made a desultory gesture to his left, already toeing the first tentative step of his escape. "Well, we're getting ready to go, so I better…"

The man stayed right with him and took his elbow, making him wince. "I would love to see you again. You aren't with anyone, are you?"

Okay, that was it. Puck didn't normally give a tin shit about Kurt, but the man had to be at least thirty years older than him, and Kurt was apparently too polite or freaked out to extricate himself from the guy's grip. Not cool. Puck pushed away from the wall and strode over to Kurt, swinging one protective arm around his small shoulders before he had a chance to reply.

"Hey, baby," said Puck, trying to sound like he wasn't about to barf inside his mouth.

Kurt's jaw went slack for a few beats. Then he pasted on the world's fakest smile and put his arm gingerly around Puck's waist, somehow barely managing to touch him at all, and said, "Hi, Puck, m…muffin. Cake. Muffin-cake."

Puck resisted the urge to gag and gave the man a critical once-over. He didn't have to fake the contempt in his voice. "Who's the scrub?"

"He stopped by to tell us that enjoyed our performance," said Kurt. "We were just saying goodbye."

"Well, bye, then," said Puck, fluttering his fingers in front of the man's face. He hauled Kurt around and began walking him forcefully to the door, where everyone else was zipping up their coats and stepping into the cool evening air. The guy's eyes followed them all the way down the hall; Puck could feel his gaze hot on their backs. Or, rather, Kurt's back.

"I hope to see you again," the man repeated.

"Have a good night," Kurt called, giving him a little wave over his shoulder.

Puck seized his wrist and held it down to his side down under the guise of trying to hold his hand. "You blow hardcore at this whole 'dissuading dirty old men' thing, you know," he said, as soon as they were out of earshot. "I thought he was going to ask you for a kidney or something. Creepy much?"

"Him, or you?" asked Kurt, just as quiet.

"You're welcome, muffin-cake."

At least Kurt had the good grace to blush a little. "Thanks, really," he amended, and there was no adornment in his voice at all—no defensiveness, not even a trace of sarcasm. "I just don't get much in the way of rejection practice, you know. At least when I'm not playing the rejectee."

Puck felt a soft pang of guilt and shrugged it off. "Whatever. I hope you realize we're not, like, exclusive or anything."

Kurt clasped his hand over his mouth and laughed out loud. His unselfconsciousness actually made Puck grin a little bit, and they paused to glance at each other, startled by the moment. Puck raised an eyebrow. Kurt arched one of his in response, a smile flirting at the corners of his mouth. Then Puck realized that they had made it to the outside stairs—barely two feet in front of Finn Hudson, no less—and they were still linked at the elbow. Puck flung Kurt's arm away at the same Kurt cleared his throat and began fussing with his hair, the color in his face not entirely a result of the cold.

Finn gave Puck a weird look. "Nice of you two to join us."

Puck was floundering for an explanation when Mr. Schuester materialized in the doorway, looking cranky and harassed.

"Great job tonight; you guys nailed it," he said. There was a round beer stain on the front of his shirt that looked like a shotgun blast. "Now let's get out of here before Sue starts lobbing Jäger Bombs at us."

They didn't need to be told twice. Mercedes was halfway through 'Boom Boom Pow' and Brittany and Santana had already disappeared into the dark, their laughter audible all the way from the sidewalk. Kurt gave Puck one last significant gaze, then grabbed a wheel of Artie's chair to help Tina ease him off the curb. Puck stayed where he was and watched Kurt head toward the coach. He felt stupidly content. Feeling like a hero never got old, even if the combatant was only a creepy man in a dark suit.

"Hey, what's up with you, man?" asked Finn, stepping up beside him. "You're not getting secondhand-drunk, are you?"

"It's all good, bro," said Puck. And, for once, maybe it actually was. "Race you back to the bus!"

They followed Schuester into the parking lot, riding on a peal of laughter and the Glee Club edition of Fergie's second chorus. Even with the shitty acoustics, it was about a thousand times better than Carmina Burana.

*

Two weeks passed, and things had changed. Not between Puck and Kurt—they weren't beating the hell out of each other anything, but their interaction was still limited to nods during passing period, the occasional wave. Puck called Kurt "muffin-cake" once, when he was fairly confident no one was paying attention. And Kurt did get away with referring to him as "pinup Jew" and "bad-daddy-winky-dink," but only because Puck had been laughing too hard to muster up suitable comebacks. They didn't go out of their way to talk, and they sure weren't making dinner dates and singing soppy mashups to each other under the guise of "love ballad practice" (Santana and Brittany, thanks).

Yet people were still treating Puck differently. Finn kept giving him these knowing looks, and Mercedes glared at him every time he made some characteristically sexual comment about their choreography. Even Mr. Schuester pulled him aside to question his romantic priorities. It was like everyone at McKinley knew something he didn't.

In fact, Kurt was the only one who hadn't gotten all weird around him, because, really, the terms of endearment were benign enough. Puck had no problem with anyone calling him "Big Squeeze." Even coming from a dude, it was…sort of flattering.

Which was the only reason he noticed that Kurt was absent on Tuesday.

"Have you talked to him lately?" Mercedes asked, her face drawn with apprehension.

"No," said Puck, frowning. "It's not like we ever talk outside of school."

Mercedes muttered something about relationships being a two-way street and stomped off to find Tina. Two classes passed, and Puck slept through both of them in the nurse's office, unperturbed.

But then it was lunch time, and suddenly Puck was being pulled to the glee table and bombarded with questions, all of them pertaining to Kurt: when was the last time they'd spoken? Did Puck drive him home yesterday? Had they been planning to do anything that evening, and what had Kurt been wearing the night before? Puck answered everyone as best he could, confused but cooperative, willing to ignore the mildly offensive insinuations of their queries. Did Kurt spend the night at your house? was one of them. Another was, Did you two meet up around midnight to be alone?

Rachel Berry was ultimately the one who pushed him over the edge, surprise, surprise. She had been poking at her uneaten fruit cup with a plastic spork all lunch period. After Puck explained for the fortieth time that he didn't know where the hell Kurt went on Mondays, she slammed her palms down on the table, poking the utensil accusingly at Puck's face.

"That's a lie, and you know it! You're his boyfriend! If you're not keeping tabs on him, who do you think is?"

"What?" Puck yelped. "We're not together!"

"Sorry, did something happen between you two?" asked Artie.

"No, nothing happened. Nothing ever happened! I'm not into dudes." He glared at Rachel, who was still pointing that goddamn spork at him. "You of all people should know that, Berry."

Before they could really lose themselves in that shitstorm, Mercedes' phone went off; some terrible flashy Beyonce song that made Puck's head throb. Mercedes yanked it out of her purse and checked the caller ID. "Burt," she said, sounding strangely choked-up. Everyone froze. Then Mercedes drew in a sharp breath, flipped her cell open, and held it to her ear. "Mr. Hummel, hi, I was just talking to Puck about—no, what? Who the hell gave you that idea?"

"What's going on?" Puck demanded. Everyone at the table shushed him immediately; he threw up his arms in frustration.

"Oh my god," said Mercedes. She lifted one trembling hand to her mouth. Tears coursed down her cheeks; she made no attempts to wipe them away. "Oh my god…of course we will. Oh, god. Just let us know when. Please keep us updated, please."

She hung up slowly. The shock and helplessness in her eyes were palpable; that, more than anything, was what drove it home. Mercedes Jones was all about the composure. Mercedes never lost control.

"Tell us," Tina pleaded, seizing her arm.

Mercedes wept behind her napkin. Her voice was barely comprehensible. "They found his car on the street by the gas station, so they picked up the surveillance footage from the parking lot. It shows some guy with a gun grabbing him off the sidewalk, forcing him into his truck. Kurt's been abducted."

Perfect silence at the table. The world behind Puck had gone quiet. He could only hear Artie's ragged breathing beside him, the words Mercedes was saying.

"The police need to talk to all of us as soon as possible. Need to get a timeline or something. Mr. Hummel says that there's this crucial twenty-four hour period for gathering information now, because…after a day, most kids who get kidnapped—and since Kurt's been gone since about eight-thirty last night—"

Puck did the math in his head. Sixteen hours had already passed. That meant there were only eight hours left.

"I can't handle this," Mercedes sobbed. "I just can't!"

"Mercedes," said Rachel, also crying. She shoved her lunch tray aside and enveloped Mercedes in a hug; Mercedes leaned back into the embrace with uninhibited need and held her hard. Artie sat in shock, hands still poised in his lap. Tina touched his knee and let her eyes drift shut, shaking her head in quick, firm bursts.

They sat like there for the rest of the lunch period, and when the bells began to chime, none of them even stirred.

Puck stood up. His shaking legs were barely supporting him, but he managed to trash his untouched tray and head toward the exit. He walked down the hall. Straight through the common area and past the science corridor, right by the Cheerio trophy case. He might've passed Finn along the way, because someone called out to him in confusion, but Puck just kept moving. Nothing felt real. The people around him were pale and prop-like, walking with too much focus, as if by stage direction.

By the time Puck reached the choir room, his body was completely numb with guilt and dread. No, he wasn't dating Kurt Hummel. No, he hadn't seen him last night, and hell if he knew what he'd been wearing when he disappeared. Puck didn't pay that much attention to Kurt because Puck wasn't like that.

But the memory of Open Mic Night was still vivid in his memory, and he remembered the ease with which his arm had fit around Kurt's shoulders. He remembered the way everything had paused when they looked at each other, just for one indisputable second, and unexpected reward of Kurt's teasing upon their return to school. The loaded looks they shared in the hallways. The tiny thrill it gave Puck whenever Kurt laughed back.

The others were probably still sitting in the cafeteria, united in frail comfort. They were justified in their grief because they had cared openly about Kurt while he was around to appreciate it.

We're not exclusive, Puck had said. And that was right. His distress didn't make sense because he and Kurt weren't anything.

Puck sat alone in the dark choir room without moving.

Somewhere during that time, the eighth hour drained away.

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