Another very odd Puck and Quinn story of mine I'll own up to. I know, I know. They're just getting stranger and stranger.

Official Summary: After his mother dies unexpectedly, Puck decides to embark on a dream she was never able to achieve: to travel all around Europe. He takes her spot in a cheap tour group with an unconscious hope to put himself back together. There, he meets the unpredictable and beautiful Quinn Fabray, who may just be as broken as he is. Against the backdrop of several famous landmarks, they struggle to make sense of themselves, of each other, and of these cities of love.

Enjoy reading! :)

Noah Puckerman sits silently in his seat, unconsciously twisting a forgotten pamphlet in his hand.

The turbulence of the plane kicks it up another notch, and he feels himself jerk somewhat against the stranger next to him; he gives him a strained, apologetic smile and looks away.

He then remembers what's in his hands, and he starts twisting it just a bit more.

Suddenly, the pamphlet is in shreds, and he looks down at his lap to examine the mess he just made. He brushes the scraps off, glancing around a few times to make sure no one else sees. But his hands feel instantly empty, and he lets his fingers stretch out repeatedly before resting his chin on his wrist.

He's been on a plane for eight fucking hours. So he's a little on edge, fucking sue him, please.

The pilot says something about looking out the window, and after a beat, Puck stifles a sigh before pulling up the shade. He blinks twice, the foreign sunlight blaring into his eyes, and he glances out and sees shaded greenery take form miles and miles below him.

Awesome. Grass.

That's fucking new.

For a split second, he wonders if this is a mistake. He's watching the trees poke out of the ground like a children's pop-up book, and now he's getting just a little stressed. It's not so much about him being selfish; fuck, he knows he is. That's not the issue. All he's really concerned about is if he's wasting his time.

But then he thinks about his mom, and lines blur and seeing straight becomes a bit difficult.

A flight attendent walks by, and he nudges her elbow slightly. He motions for her to fetch him a shot of whiskey, and she gives him a smile that practically screams Mile High Club.

Suddenly, he feels a lot better.

London, England

He squints at the sky.

God damn, it's moody here.

He stuffs a hand in his jeans, an unimpressed frown tinkering at his lips. He's got one lonely sack hanging over his shoulder, and he wishes he was a better packer because it looks like he's going to wear the same jacket for the next few days.

There's a guy in the front with a bright orange shirt, and he dramatically gestures them to board the bus. Puck runs a hand through his shaved head before heaving a sigh and complying.

He sits in the farthest corner, away from the rest of the bubbly tour group. He immediately dubs them all as either wrinkly old couples or dysfunctional families of four. He spots a few indie college students, loud and exclusively grouped, and Puck mentally waves them off.

He's already picked out in his head the ones he's going to fuck by the end of the trip, MILFs included.

He reaches into his bag and snakes out a set of headphones, readying himself to wash the world away.

"Is this seat taken?"

He suddenly hears a rushed voice coming from his right, and when he turns to look at her, he looks at her. She's young, maybe a year or two younger than him, fairy blond hair and porcelain skin. She reminds him a bit of flower, with her rosy cheeks and gentle green eyes, and he casually pats the cushion next to him. "All yours," he smirks somewhat.

She gives him the tinniest hint of a smile. "I'm Quinn."

She doesn't stick out a hand, so he doesn't either. "Puck."

That's how she enters his life: an untouchable hurricane he never saw coming.

It's only the calm before the storm.

….

The next morning, he's standing just outside Big Ben, his neck craned all the way back to the sky. He lets out a low whistle and sifts through his pocket to pull out the disposable camera his sister Sarah gave him.

He takes one lazy shot before stuffing it back into his jeans.

"It's so pretty, huh?" He glances over and sees Quinn standing next to him, a glittery kind of look in her eyes. She gazes over at him and beams lightly. "It's really something, don't you think?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

"Gosh," she swoons, wrapping her sweater tighter around her chest. "Doesn't it just remind you of Peter Pan? The Darling children flying over London? Pixie dust and happy thoughts? Doesn't it just make you think of that?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "I wouldn't know. I've never seen Peter Pan."

Quinn looks at him like he's just killed a puppy. "What?"

He's not sure if he should repeat it because the expression on her face kind of makes him want to kill himself. But she's gazing up at him expectantly, as if he's about to take back what he said at any moment. So Puck sighs loudly and scratches the back of his neck, zoning out the historical facts their tour guide is throwing at them. "I mean, I've heard about it. I'm not an idiot. Tinkerfairy, right?"

She scrunches her nose. "Tinkerbell."

"Same good shit," he waves a hand in the air. He's surprised when she starts laughing, and he's even more surprised when it's a sound he swears he's never fucking heard before. It's silky – buttery – and he doesn't even know how that can even happen, but there she stands, her giggles captivating him, and he can't stop looking at her.

Puck licks his lips and motions his head over his shoulder. "You hungry?"

Just when he thinks she's going to say no, she says, "Yes."

They fall back from the rest of the group and wander to the nearest tube.

….

He really fucking hates coffee.

But he thinks about his mom, and he knows this is what she would want to do: sit in the front of Caffe Nero, sipping some bitter mocha and watching the busy people walk by.

God, he thinks he even ordered a latte or some shit like that.

Quinn is smiling up at him, her chin resting on the bend of her wrist. He feels his face twist into a smirk.

It's his turn. "Favorite sexual position," he raises an eyebrow.

"Mm," She takes a sip from her lemonade and plays with the ice chips on her tongue. "Never ask a girl that."

"Why not?"

"They always end up disappointed." He grins at her as she bites the ice cube in between her teeth. "Favorite Recess character."

"Spinelli," he doesn't miss a beat. "She was badass." She laughs that same laugh, and he'll do what ever he can to keep hearing it. "Favorite Beatles song."

"Run for your Life."

He's genuinely surprised. "Everybody hates that song."

"That's why I like it," she quips, "it's all mine."

Puck doesn't really no what to make of that, so he reaches for his coffee and takes a gulp. He feels the sudden heat burn his mouth, and he clenches his teeth. "Fuck," he mutters. "It's hot."

He hears the ice chip rolling around her mouth, drawing out each lick as she raises an eyebrow at him. He's pretty sure the world decides to go into slow motion when she leans in and pulls the collar of his shirt towards her. She presses her mouth very softly against his before gentle tugging his lower lip with her teeth. Her cold tongue sends a shiver down his spine as she transfers the ice cube into his, and Quinn briefly slides her tongue over the roof of his mouth, leaving a chilling taste as she falls back into her seat.

He fucking loves coffee.

….

She's leaning against a brick wall, her eyes to the sky as she lets a cigarette dance between her lips. He's surprised to learn that she smokes, because it's kind of like watching an angel take a drag and exhale some kind of sinful puff. But he can't help but think how much she looks like she belongs there, pressed against a wall with a cancer stick secured between two fingers.

Then again, he's not sure what he expected out of a place called Piccadilly Circus. He takes things too literally sometimes and pictures, well, an actual circus, but what he's looking at is like Times Square on acid.

He likes it.

The neon colors have since begun to swirl, and okay, so he's a little drunk. But there's been a pub down every street he's been on so far, and he doesn't mind living his life like this. He watches as the lines start to blur, coiling around him like a rattlesnake.

He watches Quinn toss her cigarette on the floor, a look of distaste in her eyes as she smashes it with her foot. "I hate smoking," she suddenly says out loud, like the whole world was listening to her.

He leans in towards her, the smell of smoke and perfume numbing his brain. "Let's leave," he breathes in her ear, and he stares at the goose bumps that trail her neck.

….

Her lips graze the line of his jaw, and they stagger backwards and nearly trip over his unpacked duffel bag. He catches his fingers in her hair, and she releases a noise that makes his head spin and chest expand. Their kisses are greedy, like there just isn't enough, and her hands tighten around his back as she fists his shirt with her fingers and drags it off him.

They're stumbling around, refusing to break the kiss, and he knows they won't make it to the bed without toppling over something. So he pins her down on the floorboard, and as he puts a hand behind her head, she pushes it away and tugs him closer towards her.

He yanks at her shirt and Quinn licks his neck, like there's something under his skin she wants to get. He lifts her slightly, fumbling with the clasp of her bra, and he's so fucking frustrated right now that he yanks it off carelessly with his teeth.

There's a soft rustle as the fabric scatters on the floor, and he presses his mouth against her left breast, taking her nipple in between his lips and circling his tongue around it. He feels her arch against him, moaning against his touch as she curls her fingers around his neck.

He moves to taste the skin between her breasts, and he can hear the impatience in her groans as she moves to unbuckle his belt. He tattoos frantic little kisses roughly against her skin, tracing his name on her stomach, and he groans into her right breast when she presses his cock into her palm.

Fuck.

His hands seek her hips as she guides him into her, and he lowers himself as she moans something, something that sounds a lot like his name. His fingers dig into her hips as she rolls them, ever so teasingly, and he growls somewhat as he places both his hands on either side of her and pins her – like a butterfly against a board.

He raises her hips and lowers himself, his fingernails cutting through her skin as he thrusts forcefully into her. He hears her shoulders bang roughly against the floorboard, and she kisses his lips to stop her voice from croaking out his name like a crack of thunder.

He thrusts harder, a hand fisting in her hair. "Say it," he murmurs against her neck.

Her cheeks are red and her breath shallow. "Oh... my God."

He lowers himself, feeling his chest burn as she whimpers. "Say it."

She arches her back, and her eyes roll to the ceiling. "Puck," she finally manages between her little gasps, and he drives into her so hard that her nails dig helplessly into the floor. Slowly, she manages to lift herself to his chest, and he swears he sees her eyebrow raise as she presses her lips against his nipple ring, sliding her tongue around it and pulling it gently with her teeth.

He groans and she circles her hips once more, desperately scratching his back as he tips his head to the ceiling and fucks her harder and harder until she becomes completely limp and dissolves into him.

….

When he wakes up the next morning, she's not there.

He's not surprised, but he can't help but feel a little disappointed.

After a quick shower, Puck shuffles out of his hotel room, past the elevator, and bounds for the staircase (he's not in the mood for standing still). When he walks into the lobby, he finds the tour guide waving frantically at him, pointing at the imaginary watch on his wrist, and mouthing "you're late."

Puck hates it when people do that. He never points at his cock when he needs to pee.

He can't find Quinn right away, and when he boards the back of the bus, he avoids searching for blond tuffs of hair poking out of one of the seats. He's just not that guy, but he has to physically crane his neck towards the window as they drive by Buckingham Palace.

He remembers Sarah and tries to take a picture of it, but he realizes he left the camera back in his room.

….

He finds her sitting on the upper deck of the boat, her head tilted back and eyes snapped shut. Puck takes one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it into the Thames River and retreats towards her.

When he sits down, a smile flickers at her lips as her eyelids flutter open slowly.

They both fall back in silence as the Tower Bridge lifts above them, and he spots the London Eye and wonders what it would be like to be stuck spinning on there forever. A familiar feeling finds its way to his chest as he looks away and glances at Quinn. He watches her sigh, her little pink lips forming a small pout as he leans his elbows on his knees.

"Tell me a secret," she says softly to him, her voice thin as air.

He gazes out into the water and looks for the line where the sky and earth meet. "My mom died two weeks ago," he tells her, and it sounds so different when he says it out loud.

Puck feels her settle next to him as she sinks deeper into her seat. "Was it your fault?"

He glances at her. "Yeah."

Quinn gives him a small look and purses her lips. "But you are not dead, Puck," she tells him. "So stop acting like you are."

And the way she says it, it's like she's scolding him. Maybe that's the thing about this world. Maybe everyone is hurting, and he could be sitting next to a completely broken person and never know it.

She leans into him and rests her head on his shoulder, and they look out at the water together and watch themselves drown.