Feigning Normal
It's the last place he wants to be, but it's the first place he thinks to go. Because fuck him if he has anywhere else he's welcome.
He's pretty sure he's not welcome here, but fuck, he's never cared how she felt before. Why the fuck should he start now?
So, he knocks.
It's loud and maybe the alcohol coursing through him makes his fist a little bit heavier than usual, and he wonders for an instant if her homo dads are and fuck, what the hell is he doing here? He's halfway back down the driveway when he hears the creak of her front door and a sleepy, tentative, and possibly disbelieving, Noah?
He doesn't turn around and she doesn't invite him in.
He's not disappointed.
So, flipping her off, he continues walking (stumbling) back to his pick-up. He's pretty sure he hears a scoff before the door closes harshly and he kind of hates her more than he remembered.
Before he drives away he throws his last can of beer out of the window. The hollow thunk is makes when it hits her car eases the tension in his stomach.
He thinks he might have made her cry. He thinks he feels better.
Not even five minutes down the road, and everything he drank and the nothing he's eaten all day comes up. He's lucky he rolled the window down earlier.
The sound of the engine makes his head hurt.
It's three in the morning, a different night, and it's fucking cold. He doesn't feel the sting of the wind, though, sitting on the hood of his truck. He's on his fifth beer of the hour and he's outside her house again and really, what the fuck?
He thinks about knocking, thinks about throwing his beer in her face this time, but doesn't want to waste the minimal comfort he has, so he sends a text instead. Why? He has no fucking idea.
wht u wearin?
It takes him three minutes to realize she's not going to answer. And another five to realize he's staring at the screen fucking anticipating an answer. Not even a sexy one. Just anything, because it's cold and he's drunk and so fucking alone it makes him feel like the loser every one tells him he is.
She's probably the only person in this God-forsaken, Podunk town that can relate to that, because she's always alone and a bigger loser than he is.
And well, shit. He's sick of listening to his mother cry herself to sleep. Mourning over the grandchild she'll never meet and the son she never really knew.
He's seventeen with no friends, a disappointed mother, and a dead baby girl. And the only person willing to talk to him is the only person he can't stand to talk to.
Shit, his head is spinning.
Realization hits that he's waiting of fucking Berry to respond, desperate for any kind of interaction. It makes him queasy, so he throws his phone as hard as he can. The cracking sound it makes as it hits the ground some feet away loosens something inside of him. He hops off the hood, climbs into the cab and has the keys in the ignition when he finally notices her standing in front of his truck, and Jesus, his heart probably just stopped.
She doesn't give him time to process this before she's climbing in, sitting next to him, looking pissed and maybe a little bit confused.
He ignores her two whirling heads and closes his eyes.
"Fuck," he breathes. Because it's all he can think and he's not sure why she's here, why the fuck would she be here? She has no reason to be here.
Then again, neither does he.
She doesn't say anything, which is fucking weird, because it's Rachel fucking Berry and all she does is talk and now when he's desperate for something, anything, she is silent. And it's goddamn creepy.
Something cold is placed in his hand, and he cracks an eye open to see his phone pressed against his palm. He doesn't look at her.
"Fuck," he says again. Intelligently.
"So you said," she finally speaks. And it's short and simple and he has to close his eyes again because the world is still rocking on its axis and he's almost certain this is some weird, surreal, alcohol-induced fantasy and any minute she'll be taking off that sweater and, shit, his head fucking hurts.
The quiet is misplaced inside the cab of his truck. Between them. From her. He's fucked up and she's tired and what the hell is he doing here?
His eyes snap to her when she basically reads his thoughts.
"What are you doing here, Noah?"
Which is a damn mistake. Because now his head is pounding and his hands are shaking and he feels like puking but nothing will come up. Instead, he brings his hands to his skull and rubs his temples. He doesn't know how to answer that, because he doesn't fucking know, so he distracts himself with the circular motion of his fingers and how he can see his breath.
She sighs and he breathes another cloud.
The silence returns and he wants to tell her to get the fuck out, it was a stupid idea to come here, fuck you, Berry, let's make out, let me touch your boobs, Get The Fuck Out. He wants to say something to get her to leave, be he doesn't. The words are all right there, waiting, but they just can't seem to squeeze past his tongue.
"Come on," she says firmly. He doesn't move because he's not sure if she's demanding an answer or asking something else entirely.
Puff, cloud, puff, cloud. He should turn on the heat. He didn't even realize he was shivering.
"Come on," she says again, this time tugging on his arm. He relents, mostly because he has no energy and it really is cold (when the fuck did it get so cold?), and partly because he thinks this really might be a dream and she's about to blow his mind. And hot Jew sex is enough to get anyone moving.
He wants to make a comment, lewd and possibly offensive, but his mouth is just not working. Maybe he bit off his tongue at some point. It would explain why it's so difficult to move.
They make their way up the driveway to her front door. She's not really leading him, because his feet remember this path, but she doesn't let go of his arm and he doesn't really feel the need to remove her hold, because walking is damn hard.
They're in her room, finally, and he can now officially attest to the fact that stairs suck ass. He flops on her bed and he's still shivering and his face is ridiculously cold and she's watching him. She doesn't next to him or near him or even on the bed. She doesn't even sit.
"Fuck." His voice did not just break. He is not shaking. And he is definitely not crying.
He can't cry.
He won't cry.
Not in front of Berry. Not in front of anybody. Not even alone.
She doesn't move to comfort him and he's fine with that. He'd probably push her away if she even tried.
Because Noah Puckerman does not cry.
Fuck.
The next morning he wakes in the same position he passed out in, still fully dressed, feeling like absolute shit. Berry is curled up in her desk chair and he doesn't feel bad that she sacrificed a decent night's sleep for him.
No one fucking asked her to.
So he leaves through her window, ignores the urge to puke and the pair of brown eyes following his movements. He doesn't even think to say thank you. It never crosses his mind.
The rest of the day goes by with him curled up on his own bed, curtains pulled shut, nursing the worse hangover he's ever remembered having.
His phone is broken. He doesn't care. It's not like anyone calls him anymore. He only gets it fixed because he remembered the awesome pictures of Santana in some rather interesting positions.
He conveniently forgets that he deleted those months ago.
He definitely doesn't text Berry the moment it's back in his hands.
He's definitely not upset, or any pussy shit like that, when she doesn't answer.
He eats lunch alone, now, in the bed of his truck, and he asks himself why he even bothers showing up to school anymore.
Something about finishing off his already distraught mother.
Damn priorities.
But when Berry show up one day, packed lunch in hand, he doesn't question her as she pulls herself up to sit next to him.
They eat in silence, side by side.
He honestly didn't know it was possible for her stay quiet for so long.
This is their routine for almost two weeks, except with simple conversations sprinkled in here and there. He doesn't like it, but he doesn't tell her to fuck off and has stopped considering ditching.
One day she doesn't show up for lunch and he's alone again. He doesn't think about it, doesn't give a fuck, but when he sees her later that day, standing by Finn's side looking like she's just won the goddamn lottery, he's suddenly pissed.
She's smiling too big, laughing too loud. She talks too fast and bounces too much.
He punches the first freshman that has the misfortune of bumping into him.
He really doesn't know why he bothers.
He doesn't go to school for the rest of the week.
That Saturday, she's at his house. Her mouth is in a tight frown and she's wearing jeans. It's a fact he can't seem to get past. Rachel Berry does not wear jeans. He ignores the bags under her eyes and barely combed through hair because he just doesn't care.
"Why haven't you been attending school, Noah?" she asks before he has the chance to close the door in her face. She may be hot, and the only person that wants anything to do with him, but that doesn't mean he's willing to talk to her.
"Sick," he offers, adding a purposely fake cough to further prove his point. She gives him a look. You're lying, her eyes say, and this time he does slam the door in her face.
He's not lying, not really. He really is sick. Sick of this. Sick of school and the whispers and the assholes treating him like some freakish, social disease. He's sick of the absent Quinn and glowering Finn.
And he's sick and tired of Rachel fucking Berry.
He ignores her incessant knocking for almost five full minutes before he's back at the door, nearly ripping it off the brass hinges as he flings it open.
"What do you want, Berry?" If only looks could kill, man. If fucking only. She doesn't recoil, merely squares her shoulders and glares back at him.
"You're not sick," she states like it wasn't fucking obvious. "In fact, you look perfectly healthy. So why are you not attending school?"
She is one persistent midget.
"Why do you care?" he demands, nearly crushing the wood gripped in his fingers.
Her face softens and she just looks at him and he wants to punch something. Preferably her.
"Because someone has to," she responds so matter-of-factly. His body drains of energy and he doesn't look her in the eyes as he lets out a long, loud breath.
"I'm not some charity case. Leave me the fuck alone."
This time he just shuts the door in her face, quietly, and she doesn't knock again.
Twenty minutes later, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He knows who it is without having to look, because who the hell else calls him anymore?
As he reads her text, he smirks and wonders how many times she started it, only to furrow her brows, erase it, and start again.
I'll see you at school on Monday, Noah. Have a nice weekend.
His reply is almost instant.
the fuck u will
That Monday they eat lunch together in the back of his truck. He doesn't like it, but he doesn't tell her to fuck off.
She smiles at him in the hallways. He nods in acknowledgment. She doesn't walk with Finn anymore.
He doesn't know what happened, but he doesn't ask about it, because he doesn't entirely hate it.
No one gets punched.
Quinn returns to school on a Wednesday. She's skinner, quieter, worn. Everyone had seen her, everyone had whispered.
And everyone had witnessed Puck approach her only to be shot down instantly with a withering look and loud tears.
He finds himself in her room again that night. Berry doesn't question his presence. And he doesn't feel the need to fill her in.
Because really, she doesn't need to ask.
But she doesn't bring it up, and it's as surprising as it isn't, and he just lays on her bed while she rambles on about someone nodding to Tim or Tom and what that has to do with BroadGay, he doesn't fucking know, but he just lets her. When she runs out of things to talk about, she sings. Anything and everything that pops into her head. And he just lets her.
He doesn't say a single word the entire time he's there. She doesn't mention it.
It's two in the morning when Berry not-so-subtly hints that maybe it's time to go to sleep.
He doesn't move. She doesn't ask him to.
When he wakes the next morning, they're curled up together in her bed, under the covers, and it's so completely opposite of the last time he woke up in her room, and so fucked up because he doesn't entirely hate it.
He pulls his arms from under her small frame and he's not oblivious enough to not notice that she's awake, too. Neither of them speak.
Rising from the mattress, he shoves his feet into his shoes and heads toward the window. He's part way out when he pauses, mentally fighting himself, and clears his throat, breaking their highly guarded silence.
"See you at school." It's as much of a thank you he'll ever give and he doesn't give a fuck if she doesn't understand his intent.
"Yeah." And he's not oblivious enough to ignore the slight bounce and knows that she got it.
His lips quirk up, but he doesn't smile.
Finn approaches him later that day, right inside of the school's main entrance. He doesn't say anything, just stands awkwardly in front of Puck, staring just above his right shoulder at something Puck is sure doesn't exist.
"Hudson," he acknowledges.
The taller boy remains quiet. He's a package of clumsy shuffling and nervous fidgeting. He still stares past him, at a spot that is still not Puck.
"You're in the way, dude," Puck continues. Because, really. If he's not going to say anything, then why the fuck is he going to just stand there? Last time Puck checked, he did not have a vagina. Men didn't do this skirting around issues shit. The boy either needed to punch him or hug him. Puck does not have enough patience to wait around for him to decide. He is making his way around Finn when the previously quiet boy's voice halts him.
"Puck," is all he says, but it's enough to lift the overbearing weight that's been suffocating him for months. Finn's hand comes to rest on Puck's shoulder and it's not friendly, but it's not hostile.
Puck just nods back. Something catches in the back of his throat that he attributes completely to phlegm.
It's a beginning.
Glee is staring to become less awkward. The lines they had drawn earlier that semester are starting to blur. Sides that were picked clearly are starting to merge again.
Rutherford and Chang clap him on the back and give friendly nods before claiming their regular seats next to Brittany and Santana (who just smile and glare, respectively). Mercedes and Hummel argue over some unimportant fashion flaw, as they always do, but they suddenly turn to him and ask his opinion.
He just shrugs and they roll their eyes before going back to the heated conversation.
Artie and Tina wave, each offering small smiles. He just nods, because fuck if this isn't like some chick flick moment and he really needs to check the phlegm problem he's having lately.
Berry is all smiles, and he manages a small smirk back, before she sits front row, center.
Some things will never change.
Finn gives him a stiff nod but doesn't even acknowledge Berry as he passes her.
Apparently, some things do.
He finds out through the grapevine (or really Hummel) that Finn and Berry had had a blowout over his "little piece of hot ass" two days before she had shown up at his house.
He corners her later that day, livid and slightly relieved to have something to aim his anger at again. It's been too fucking long.
"I told you I wasn't a fucking charity case, Berry," he hisses out. She puffs out her chest and looks him directly in the eye. Lesser men have pissed themselves at the glare he's currently shooting at her. No fear flickers in her brown eyes.
"I do not think you are. Please stop inferring that I do." Her voice is as hard as her eyes. Indignant and determined.
"Bullshit. Then why did you cry to Hudson about forgiving me?"
"I did not cry."
"So what, did you fucking beg? Get on your knees and fucking beg for my sake?" His voice rises in octaves, trying to imitate hers. "Poor Noah! He's so lonely and misses his bff, won't you please, pretty please, fucking forgive him?"
"I don't know what I did to warrant such hostility. And I would highly appreciate it if you'd stop cursing at me."
"Then don't fuck with my shit behind my back!"
"I did not beg anyone for anything. I merely stated my case and let them decide."
"Them?" His blood is boiling, and he doesn't even know why he's so angry. But fuck her if she thinks she can intrude in his life like this.
"Glee Club?" she responds, like he's an idiot. God, he feels like punching her in the fucking mouth.
"Fuck, Berry. What did you do?"
She doesn't say anything to that, just deepens her glare and pushes past him.
"Like Finn decided to forgive me based off of your words." She stops in her tracks and turns to him, hands resting on her hips.
"I have no ascendancy over what Finn chooses to undertake. If he absolved the issue, I assure you, it was of his own accord."
"English, Berry. We weren't all bred by a fucking dictionary." She huffs at this and her arms move to cross over her chest, almost protectively.
"I. Do. Not. Own. Him," she spits out. Puck smirks at her. Vicious and cruel.
"So how'd you get him to agree? What, you suck him off while pleading my case? Let him fuck you while you ticked off your fingers why it would benefit him to forgive me? I know you're, like, batshit as it is, but you're reaching new levels."
The look of shock and horror is almost worth it. But then something twists in his gut as he watches the fight drain from her. Her arms fall to her sides and she's staring at the ground right in front of his feet. She's suddenly exhausted.
"Goodbye, Noah," she croaks. And he thinks he might have made her cry.
He almost wants to take it back. Shit, Berry. I didn't mean it.
"Fuck off, Berry," he says instead.
She doesn't storm off, no stomp of the foot or shrill scream. It would almost make this whole situation bearable if she would have.
It's just simple, final.
He punches the locker next to him.
He finds out later, from Santana of all people, that the week he was gone, Berry had been a bundle of worry.
She had asked the club if they'd heard from him, only to be met with grumbles about the dick that was Puck and how no one gave two shits about where he was. When Finn had approached her about it, it had blown up into a screaming match.
Apparently, Finn said some pretty messed up shit. In front of everyone.
Mr. Shue had tried, with no luck, to calm the situation, but only ended up getting pushed out of Rachel's way as she stormed out in tears. Finn had followed her but returned red-faced and sullen only minutes later.
They didn't speak to each other at all the next day.
Puck just scowls.
"Serves her right," he says. "No one asked her to fuck with my shit."
Santana just laughs bitterly with a shake of her head.
"You're an idiot."
He eats lunch at the Glee table now. Berry does not show up. He does not give a fuck.
It's been three days. His eyes never scan the cafeteria for her.
He focuses too much on the jokes Rutherford tells, laughs too loud at the confused look on Brittany's face when Chang has to explain it to her.
The fourth day, he does not feel a small ache in his chest.
It was heartburn. He needs to stop eating the fucking "burger" shit the school claims as beef.
She's slushied in the hall, in the morning, in front of half the school. Puck doesn't move to help her when the rest of the kids laugh their asses off. She doesn't cry, doesn't even register she's been slushied. Just finishes putting her things away in her locker.
When she catches his gaze, it's a blank look, with a quick nod. So this is it, her eyes say. This is how it's going to be. And he purposely looks away before passing her as though he didn't see the whole thing just happen.
He notices her in her P.E. uniform after lunch. The ragged track pants and over-sized t-shirt look completely out of place on her small frame. Just as the jeans did all those weeks ago.
When the fuck did she stop carrying around an extra outfit, just-in-case?
It's then he realizes she hasn't been slushied in almost nine months. Since he fucking stopped.
Karofsky's face is an easy target. His mouth one big fucking bull's-eye.
When two more days go by without him seeing her at lunch, he can hardly ignore the voice in his head demanding to know where she is. It sounds suspiciously like Finn.
It takes him a few blinks to realize it is Finn. It's the first thing he's said to him in months, and of course it's about fucking Berry. Puck's stomach churns and he swallows back his phlegm problem again. He really should get that shit checked out.
"Where's Rachel?" is what he asks. And maybe it's not exactly directed at Puck, but he knows Finn well enough to know it's meant for him.
"Fuck if I know," is his answer.
"I saw her heading toward the parking lot," Artie adds. "She was wearing a raincoat."
And they all nod sagely, as though this explains everything. Which it fucking doesn't. Puck stays quiet, staring at the can of soda in his hands. It dents easily under his tense fingers. He sees Finn staring at him from the corner of his gaze and he quirks an eyebrow at the lankier boy. Finn shrugs after a moment before turning back to his half-eaten sandwich.
Shit. This day sucks.
After nearly demolishing his can, he excuses himself with a low grunt to raised eyebrows and knowing smirks. He flips them off to prove his point.
Fuck if he knows what it is.
Not surprisingly, he finds her in the bed of his truck like it's the most natural thing in the world.
She's staring at her lunch, not eating, but he knows she knows he's there. He can see her gaze twitching back and forth between him and her barely touched meal. She doesn't say anything and it's in that moment, watching her pretend to not watch him, that he realizes she's changed. And fuck, maybe he has, too.
He climbs up and sits next to her. She hesitantly picks up a carrot stick.
"I noticed that Dave Karofsky has been absent the past two days," she says after a moment.
"Hmm," he agrees.
She nods and he smirks at her. After a moment of her eyes searching his face for something, she smiles back. She hums softly as she takes a greedy bite of her carrot.
They chat about meaningless things for the rest of the lunch period. He steals part of her sandwich.
He doesn't like turkey. But he eats it anyway.
The inevitable run-in with Quinn is something he was never really looking forward to.
She tries to avoid him, but he pulls her into an empty classroom, to talk, he insists, but fuck if he's gonna let her keep walking around like it's the end of the fucking world.
After whispered arguments and Quinn's failed attempt at escape, she pulls back a hand and slaps him. Hard.
"It's your fault. If her father wasn't such a loser, she would have made it."
It's not the first time he feels like hitting a girl, not with all the fucking time he spends with Batshit, but it's the first time he actually follows through on the initial thought.
The smack is loud and echoes in the vacant room and she holds a hand to her cheek and starts crying and he doesn't feel like the ass he knows he is, because fuck if he doesn't feel justified.
She crumples to the floor and is just sobbing, all loud and broken, and he ignores his own tears slipping down his cheeks.
"Fuck you," he chokes out. He overturns a few desks before storming out of the classroom, not believing the 'sorry's she keeps repeating.
Fuck her.
So here he is, at the last place he thought he'd ever want to be, but the first place he can think to go. Because fuck him if there's any other place he wants to be.
He's drunk, again, at Berry's, again, and she doesn't question him on why here's there. Again.
She's barely closing the window when he sinks to her bed, head in hands, and is suddenly crying, and shit, this all just fucking sucks.
"Fuck," he mumbles out. Over and over again. Rocking back and forth and he's the biggest fucking pussy on the face of the planet, because the tears just won't stop coming.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck."
She stays quiet. Crawls across her mattress until she's sitting next to him and then his head is pressed against her chest and she's stroking his back and cradling his face and starts to sing.
And it's the strangest, most surreal moment of his life. Because he's crying on fucking Berry, of all people, and he doesn't hate it.
He thinks some other words come out, but they're mainly jumbled and only the prominent fuck is understandable.
He doesn't know how long they sat like that, but now they're lying, and it's dark, but the dim light the moon casts through the window is enough for him to make out her features. They're staring at each other and he suddenly feels like the ass he knows he is.
All the shit he's done and said to her and she's never asked for an apology. All the times he's turned to her because no matter how shitty he's treated her, he knows that she'll always swallow her words back and just fucking be there.
And she has never once asked for an explanation.
His chest hurts. His head is swimmy. His eyes are sore and breathing is nearly impossible.
He takes a deep, shaky breath.
"Quinn blamed me." It's not what he means to say, but it's what comes out. His chest tightens and his stomach rolls.
He shouldn't have fucking said that.
But then her hand is suddenly in his and she's just look at him like she understands how much it hurt. He swallows and looks away.
"I hit her."
He can't seem to stop the words. He feels like puking.
She squeezes her hand around his and breathing is a little easier.
"I'm all kinds of fucked up." He's puking up words, now. And he can't just fucking stop. But she's not saying anything and it makes this all seem like it's not really happening.
She moves closer to him.
"I don't fucking deserve a family."
She slips her other arm over him, wrapping it around his side and starts to run her hand up and down his spine.
"I'm just a goddamn Lima Loser."
Her head is tucked under his chin, the warm, moist feeling of her breath on his chest makes him scrunch his eyes shut. No tears come, but there's something in the back of his throat he knows isn't just a phlegm problem.
"I never met her, but fuck, I miss my baby girl."
It's a broken whisper and it's the first time he's admitted it to himself, let alone aloud, and God, does it fucking kill him.
"I would have been a damn good dad."
She pulls away slightly to readjust herself so her face is level with his. She offers him a small smile.
"You would have been a badass dad, Noah."
And then she kisses him.
They're eating lunch together at the Glee table. Finn still doesn't really talk to Rachel, but she smiles and he nods back.
The other gleeks giggle at their intertwined hands and she blushes while he glares.
Quinn shoots him a look he doesn't care to decipher as she approaches the table. He doesn't ask about it. She sits next to Finn, who doesn't talk to her. But he doesn't tell her to fuck off.
He feels Berry's hand tighten in his and he glances toward her.
She smiles, just big enough, just bright enough, and he smirks at her. He knows she caught him staring, but as he's coming to understand her, he knows she won't question it. Her scary intuition thing seems to be tightly attuned to him.
He's never been a one-woman man. Shit, he's never even been a two-woman man, so he's not entirely confident he can pull this thing with Berry off. Because, face it, he fucks up. And she's batshit crazy. And he's never been good at loving someone. But when Berry smiles at him, eyes big and mouth moving a mile a minute about something he'll probably never give a shit about or even understand, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can learn how.
"Noah? Noah, are you even listening to me?"
His smirk grows into a full-fledge smile when her eyebrows lower into a glower and her lips tighten into a scowl.
"Not at all, babe. Not at all."
When she sputters and launches into a lecture he knows she knows he isn't going to listen to, he just laughs.
Who knows? Maybe they'll learn together.
fin