A/N: An AU version of s2. Reviews are love; enjoy.

i can still feel your heart beat fast when you dance with me

It starts because Puck doesn't know what to say.

His summer goes as summer always goes: pools to clean, beer to drink, girls to fuck, parties to attend. He hooks up with Santana once, twice, thrice – again and again until they fall back into the habit of it. If Britt cares (if anyone cares), he never hears about it.

Quinn exists on the periphery of his summer, quiet glances across crowded rooms, the occasional stop in front of her house to jog up the steps and put an envelope in the mailbox, another cheque to make a dent in her hospital bills that he still feels responsible for.

And she exists in the way he feels different, the way he'll see Rachel glued to Finn's side and feel like something's off-kilter about the world, the way he'll see a blonde-haired baby in the supermarket and all of sudden his whole chest will seize up and he'll forget about breathing.

Puck's summer is defined by the things that do not happen, which, in no particular order of importance, are as follows:

1. He does not touch Quinn. Not once in the entire expanse of sixty-two sweltering days. He barely even speaks to her.

2. Out there, somewhere, there is a child (a little girl he wanted to call Beth), whose father he will never be.

and

3. Quinn never cashes his cheques.

Back in McKinley, she walks through the hallways like the bitch-in-charge she's always been, red and white tight against her skin. They brush by each other like the last year never existed – he gives her a once-over and she smirks. Neither of them say a single word. His skin feels like it's on fire.

There are options, of course.

He could say, Hey, Q, remember that time we made a baby? He could ask, Remember all those nights you slept in my bed?

And there's always: Remember when I told you I loved you?

Sometimes he thinks he could sing a song for her, but all he wants is to punch a locker and pull that hair tie out of all her blonde hair so that it'd fall into her face the way he likes it, to tell her that she's an idiot and he's an idiot – and why is he still not good enough for her, why wasn't their baby good enough for her, what the fuck does she want.

He keeps looking, but apparently there aren't any songs with the exact lyrics he wants.

Ever consider that I might have meant it, that fucking maybe I still love you?

"Why won't you take my goddamn money?" is the first thing he manages. It comes out a little louder than he meant it to, right at the end of glee practice. Everyone's still in the room, and now they're staring.

Quinn's eyes flicker toward him, pretty and hesitant. "I don't need your money."

"Bullshit." He's mad at her – and it's something of a revelation, that anger. "That's my kid, Quinn!"

"No." Her eyes burn into his, bright and watery. "She's not yours and she's not mine; she is not ours. She has a family now. It's done."

He gapes at her. "It's not done – "

"Let it be!" she snaps at him, so tightly that he just knows she's a moment away from screaming. "Let it be done, please."

"We had a kid, Quinn!" he shouts.

"No! No, Puck, some other people had a kid who happens to have our DNA. She was never ours."

"You're out of your fucking mind," he mutters.

Her whole face smoothes out, settling into a casual, careless expression. It makes him feel shaken when she sashays by him, looking like sin in motion.

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" she hisses.

Mike's parents go away the second weekend into the school year, so he throws a party. That's where Puck sees Quinn again, sitting outside with her toes dipped into the pool, her hair falling onto her bare shoulders. She's with Brittany and Santana, sitting right in between them, a queen back in her rightful place.

He's had a couple drinks, so it makes sense to him to cannonball right into the pool, sending water flying everywhere and resurfacing to the sound of girls shrieking. Santana gives him a death-glare as she and Brittany scramble to their feet, running off with laughter between them and their hands tangled together. Quinn stays perfectly still, like a statue, droplets of water coursing over her skin and her summery, strapless dress.

Puck hangs on to the edge of the pool, planting both of his hands unapologetically right between Quinn's legs. His pinkie finger on one hand grazes the inside of one of her thighs for a second, and she makes this gaspy little sound, as though he's startled her to life.

"Lookin' hot, Q," he greets her, grinning. She rolls her eyes and he adds, with a touch more sincerity, "You looked even better in my clothes."

There's an identifiable flash of memory in her eyes, of the days later in her pregnancy when she lived with him and she wore his plaid PJ pants and his gym shorts slung low on her hips, under the bump of their baby.

"What are you trying, Puck?" Her voice is wary and weary, her chin lifted defiantly.

"Nothing." The fabric of her pale blue dress is pooled between her thighs and he knows, suddenly, that he could inch his hand up further, under the hem of it, and she wouldn't even stop him – but he doesn't. "Just saying that you're beautiful."

Something hardens in her eyes. "You would have been a fuck-up," she whispers, her head bowed as though in prayer, her hair a mess against her cheeks and shoulders. She is so beautiful that it makes him ache for her.

Puck nods. "You would've been a MILF."

She licks her lips and squeezes her eyes shut, pushing off the edge of the pool and letting herself sink into the water. Puck follows her under and slits his eyes open, watching as her hair is suspended, bright against chlorine-blue, and she lets her arms drift upward, surrendering herself to gravity.

(Her underwear is pink, very light pink, with just a little bit of lace, bikini-cut and yeah, he notices – of course he notices – but mostly thinks that she looks like a fucking goddess when she just lets go.)

They date for sixteen days in October.

It's awkward, in the hallways. Everybody knows their story already – they're not so much a couple as they are a public service announcement on the value of condoms. Puck threatens to beat up that Jacob kid a couple times but he knows that it won't change anything.

Quinn in high school – leaning back against her locker, giggling in the bleachers of the gym, sitting crossed-legged on a chair in glee with her skirt laid primly over her lap – she's in her element. Puck isn't the football quarterback, he's the douche who knocked the founder of the celibacy club up. Quinn Fabray is some epic poem, and he is a footnote. Maybe not even a footnote; he's probably an endnote, if that.

"You were kinda my dream girl, you know," he mutters to her one day when they're sitting in the bleachers by the field, heads tipped back toward the sky, where the sun is setting. "Well, are."

It is possibly the lamest thing he's ever said (he sounds like Finn in the days of I dunno, Rachel's kinda cool), but it does something to Quinn, to the look in her eyes and the shape of her mouth.

When they kiss, it's for the first time since that night was the wine coolers and the total lack of a condom, and the quiet sounds she was making right near his ear, her hands gripping at his shoulders. Quinn kind of sinks into it, soft but eager, and he feels a gush of relief as day turns to night all around them.

That part's not awkward at all.

They break up on the 29th, but Quinn shows up on his doorstep on Halloween, around six o'clock, looking like she's about to fall apart.

Puck's been conned into taking his sister trick-or-treating so his mom can hand out the candy, but when Quinn starts to cry in his kitchen, his mother sends his sister off with some of her friends and lets Puck take Quinn up to his room.

They sit by the window, silent and solemn, watching kids and their parents move down the street, costumed and smiling. The doorbell rings every two minutes, followed by a murmur of voices and a child chirping, thank you!

Quinn rests her forehead against the windowpane. "I'm sorry," she breathes, her breath fogging up the glass.

He's not quite sure what that means, so he just scratches at his neck and rubs her back and says, "Yeah."

Winter comes quickly. Mr. Schuester decides to play Secret Santa in glee club – no real gifts, just songs. Puck draws a name out of a top hat that Mr. Schue would obviously own, being Mr. Schue, and finds himself staring at Quinn's name.

The amount of time he spends on Google searching for the perfect song is embarrassing. He tells Finn he was playing WoW all weekend, but the reality was that he sat in his room with his guitar on his lap and iTunes open.

In the end, he goes to Rachel with his final options, grumpy and even more embarrassed when she clutches the sheet music to one of the songs to her chest and says, "Noah," in this dreamy voice.

"Can you just help me out, Berry?" he demands, shifting from foot to foot as he stands awkwardly in his room.

She looks like she's going to cry. "I knew you joined glee to get closer to her."

Puck sighs. "I've been as close as possible to her, Rach, if you catch my drift."

She shoves the music back at him. "This one."

He learns every word of Something Corporates Konstantine for her.

"Merry Christmas, Q," he says, shrugging a little before he sings.

This is to a girl who got into my head
With all the pretty things she did
Hey, you know, you keep me up in bed
This is to a girl who got into my head
With all the fucked up things I did
Hey maybe, baby, you could keep me up in bed…

Everyone applauds for him before he's even done but he can't keep his eyes off Quinn and the way it feels like he can see his whole world in the way her eyes are shining.

And did you know I miss you?

Quinn steps out in front of everyone, swallows hard, and then there is the ghost of a smirk over her lips when she says, "Happy Hanukah, Puck."

She sings a song he doesn't know but he gets the meaning nonetheless.

I haven't got a clue if you're the one
But I like you, and ooh I like how you make me feel

He looks at her, cheeks flushed and stained with the tracks of tears, intermingling over her skin, and for once it's not about their baby, not even a little bit.

It's just about her.

Bring me flowers, and talk for hours…

He gets her a poinsettia for Christmas, and when she sees him she laughs and laughs.

They almost have sex on February 12th.

It happens in the back of his car, layers and layers of clothing shed until it's just her perfect skin under his hands, her leg hooking over his.

"Fuck, Q," he murmurs. Her breath against his neck reminds him of all the nights he slept with her next to him, tucked close in his small bed.

She whimpers and demands, her hands pushing against his chest, "Protection?"

When he tries to explain that he's got it covered, she runs away – leaving half her shit in his car – and he can't exactly blame her.

It finally happens, for real, in April.

It's raining and they're outside, on a blanket in a field and it's all kind of a mess – Puck can't even remember how they got there – but when Quinn is stretched out under him, shivering and giggling under misty rainfall, he doesn't give a damn.

"Tell me something," she murmurs.

He grins at her. "You're not fat."

There is a smile tugging at her lips. "Jerk," she says on a gasp, shifting her hips to accommodate him.

"You love me," he tells her cockily, and then she says his name in this wonderfully needy way and he sneaks a kiss on her cheek and a whispered, love you.

He never knows whether or not she heard him.

Finn asks Quinn to prom. The whole FinnandRachel saga ended a while ago, so for some reason Finn seems to think it's okay to ask his ex to go to prom with him.

Puck does not. Think it's okay, that is.

"Dude, what are you doing?" he demands on a break at Sheets 'n' Things. "You can't take her to prom."

Finn blinks at him. "Why not?"

"Because." His jaw clenches. "You can't go on a date with her, she's my…"

"What?" Finn looks like he's fighting a smile. "She's not your girlfriend."

"Yeah, but she was my…my baby mama. And we…" He glares. "Look, man, you just can't take her to prom."

"But…I am."

"What're you gonna do?" he snits at Quinn, following her down the hallway as they fight. "Sleep with Finn on prom night and tell him you're a virgin? He'll probably believe you."

"Shut up," she says lazily as they turn a corner.

"What the fuck is this, Q?" he demands impatiently.

"We're just going to prom!" Her eyes flash in that way he's always found hot. "Nothing is going to happen. If you need to know so badly, then…"

"Then what?" he huffs at her.

She purses her lips, displeased. "You're…the only one," she breathes.

And he kind of forgives her right then.

Rachel asks him to prom, which is kind of progressive and vaguely hot, he guesses. She has like, diagrams and shit drawn up, and a speech and everything.

She says, "I understand that you're upset that Finn is taking Quinn as his date to the prom, Noah. I myself am not entirely comfortable with the idea seeing as Finn was my first – and only, to date – serious relationship. But I've spoken to Quinn about the situation and she assured me that she's not going with Finn with any romantic ideas in mind; they're just going together for old times' sake. Additionally, I spoke to Finn and made sure to inform him that you and Quinn still have a great deal of unfinished business and it would probably be in everyone's best interests not to resurrect that love triangle."

Taking a deep breath, she smiles angelically. "Also, I'm sure your mother would be pleased if you escorted me to our senior prom, don't you think?"

Prom itself is sort of boring but pretty cool overall. The after party, held at Santana's, is what everyone is really looking forward to. It's a bit of a shitshow but that's the way Puck likes things best – the air is charged with energy and excitement; they all graduate tomorrow, after all. Rachel isn't too clingy, which is awesome. She lets him have his space, going off to talk to Finn and dance with the girls and let Mike pour her drinks.

It's not difficult to find Quinn. She's barefoot beneath a dress that looks like something out of Cinderella, yellow and radiant. She's got the skirt of her dress gathered up in her hands, moving to the beat of the music that's playing, someone else with her – Brittany, maybe? – but she's the only thing Puck can really see.

"Hey," he murmurs against her ear, arms snaking around her waist before he can help himself.

She spins in his arms, startled, but her smile is easy and relaxed. "Puckerman," she murmurs.

He laughs. "Fabray." He lets it last for a second, that moment of smiling at each other, and then he says, "We're out of here tomorrow, huh?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Are we?"

They're dancing without really having meant to start, swaying slowly, wrapped up in each other. He doesn't mind all that much.

He takes a deep breath and says, "I hope – "

But then Quinn leans in and kisses him right on the mouth, sure and simple, and his sentence never gets finished.

Puck shakes his head at her. "Gotta learn to handle your liquor better, Q."

She leans into him even more, her head tucked against his chest. "I'm kind of glad it was you," she says.

He swallows. "Tell me again."

She laughs, a burst of delight over something that they've somehow made a joke even though it's everything but, the rumble of her body against his. It feels like his heart is trying to pound out of his chest in order to get closer to hers.

"Sometimes I'm glad," she says, straightening up in his arm, and he spins her away, her skirt flying out around her legs, and then pulls her in close again. She stumbles into him and looks at his face with soft, hazy eyes. "Especially now."