The fact that "Puck" was still clearly legible, scrawled across the city of Lima water tower in fading black paint, was comforting to Noah Puckerman as he drove into his hometown. The sun was dropping behind the tree line in the distance, tinting everything with a pinkish-orange hue. The thrumming of his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of Metallica slowed, though, his chest tightening, as he turned onto Folton Street. When he pulled to a stop in front of the house, he swallowed three times, turned the radio off, and took a quick swig of the Dr. Pepper sitting in the console.

Shutting the engine off, Puck stared at the white house. It looked the same. The shutters were still taupe, the left one attached to his bedroom window still hanging crookedly from years of his using it for support when he stealthily slipped in and out of the house. The porch swing chain was still rusty; the mailbox still hung at a slightly odd angle. Guilt assuaged Puck as he stared at the house. I should have been home to fix those things for Ma.

It took him a few more minutes to finally push open the door of his midnight blue, crew cab Dodge Ram and step out onto the street. It was just as quiet as he remembered and memories of riding his skateboard up and down the wide sidewalk rushed back to him. Walking around to the back passenger side, Puck was quiet when he opened the door. Grabbing the duffel bag that sat on the floorboards, he threw it over his shoulder and then gently began undoing the seatbelt that held his sleeping passenger in place. As he removed the final strap and lifted the child into his arms, he heard, "Daddy, are we here?"

Puck hoisted his four-year-old son, Jack, into his arms and then nudged the truck door closed with his hip. Before he could even answer his son, Jack's breathing evened out in Puck's ear as he made his way up the sidewalk. Getting the door unlocked with his sleeping son in his arms proved to be precarious but a few minutes later, Puck was putting his son down on his old bed. Jack immediately curled into a ball and Puck pulled the blanket up over him and then smoothed his large hand over his son's Mohawk, grinning as he remembered taking him to get that haircut after enduring his begging for nearly a year to have hair "just like you used to have, Dad."

Once Puck was sure Jack was asleep, he closed his bedroom door and slipped down the steps. The house was silent and cold. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Puck walked first into the dining room and then into the living room. Spotting his mother's reading glasses lying on the end table next to a Stephen King book that had a marker shoved into the pages nearly halfway through, his eyes began to burn.

He turned away quickly from the book and the glasses; the idea that his mother would never finish that book was sobering. Walking across the room, he stopped in front of the bookshelf. It was scattered with all of Miriam Puckerman's favorite memories. There was a picture of him at just two, running through a sprinkler with a huge smile on his face. As Puck started at the small image of himself, he was struck with how much Jack looked like him as a kid. The next picture was of his sister, Rebecca, riding on a pony at her 12th birthday party.

One by one, Puck's eyes moved over the framed photos, the memories rushing in and swirling around like a blizzard. When he spotted a picture of the McKinley High School Glee Club from his senior year, he darted his eyes away, unwilling to go there just then. The next few pictures were of much fonder memories: his graduation from the United States Navy's basic training, his graduation from Naval Aviation School. The next picture was of his 24-year-old self, a look of both terror and awe on his face as he held his newborn son. He frowned at the tumultuous memories of Kirsten throwing things into a bag and announcing that she wasn't cut out for motherhood when Jack was only two weeks old. Four years later, Puck could honestly say that he was relieved that Kirsten wasn't in their life. Other than unbridled sex, the only good thing Kirsten ever did for him was leave Jack in his care. Life as an active duty Navy pilot with a small son was never easy but he'd made it. His brothers in the United States Navy were his family. When he'd been deployed to Afghanistan for nine months, Jack had stayed with a close friend of Puck's on base. The time apart from his son had nearly killed him but when Puck had returned home, he immediately put in for and was picked as a flight instructor. It meant he could stay stateside and raise his son. He'd been meaning to get home to Lima to see his mother for a few years now. She'd invited him home every Thanksgiving and every Hanukkah and he knew she always hid her disappointment when he blew her off. But life in the Navy was just too good and Lima, even with his mother there, held too many memories that he'd rather forget.

As Puck's eyes moved over the remaining pictures, he finally settled on the family photo taken at his high school graduation. His mother had been beaming with pride. Even ten years later, the shock that her son had actually graduated high school was so evident on her face that it made Puck chuckle. His chest ached, though, because just days later, he'd packed his bags, kissed her on the cheek, and took off for basic training. He'd only left one instruction before he'd caught that Megabus to Great Lakes, Illinois to go to boot camp: "Don't tell anybody where I went." Miriam was clearly confused but Puck had placed both hands on her shoulders and locked his hazel eyes with hers, imploring, "Please, Ma. I know it doesn't make much sense but I just want to leave, okay? I'm just… I'm done with Lima and everybody. So if anybody asks, like, Finn or Quinn or Rachel, don't tell them. Just tell them I'm travelling the country while I try to decide what to do with my life or something. Anything, really. I honestly don't give a fuck what you tell any of them."

Hindsight had given Puck more than just 20/20 vision. It had filled him with regrets. Because of his refusal to come back to Lima no matter what, he'd only seen his mother when she'd flown to whatever base he'd been assigned to at the time. Because of her willingness to chase after her son everywhere he went, Puck hadn't missed out on a lot with his mother. He'd rarely seen his sister, though, because she'd been too busy growing up to really give a damn about what her big brother was doing. Now, though, as Puck gazed at his mother's picture on the bookshelf, regret nearly sucked the air from his lungs. His mother was gone – dead from a heart attack as she'd driven to work three days prior. There would be no more chances for him to come home to Lima to spend time with her.

Spinning on his heel away from the memories, he walked across the room and plopped down onto the couch. As he stretched his legs out on the couch, he let out a bitter, pained laugh at the irony of the situation. Ma had been hounding him for two years to take an extended leave to come home and spend time with her. "You can't run from your demons forever, Noah," she'd told him. "At some point, you have to face them so that they quit haunting you."

Now he was home for his extended leave – one month to be exact - and he knew that he'd have to face those demons that had driven him away a decade before. Oh, he'd try to avoid them as long as possible but he knew that eventually while he was home, they'd haunt him. He just hoped he could get his mother's funeral over with and get her properly buried before he had to face any of the reasons he'd left town like there were hellhounds on his tail.

Grabbing the remote, Puck flipped on the television and thumbed the channel down to ESPN. Closing his eyes, he tucked his hands behind his head and sighed. Jack would wake up soon enough and want some dinner. Puck was exhausted from the drive and needed to quiet the filmstrip of memories in his head. As he nodded off, he told himself that tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with it all.

…

Chiles-Laman Funeral Home in Lima was packed the next day. Puck stood awkwardly in front of his mother's open casket in his full Navy dress blues. A line of people waited to look into open casket and offer their condolences to both Puck and his sister. Becca, who was totally exhausted from sitting with their mother's body nearly the entire time since her passing as was Jewish custom, stood at Puck's side with tired, swollen eyes. Her boyfriend, a 22-year-old graduate student majoring in Chemical Engineering that Puck thought was too much of a dork to be with his sister, was hovering nearby, entertaining Jack with the gaming apps on his mobile phone.

One by one, Puck greeted the mourners. Some he didn't know but a lot of them, like Will and Emma Schuester and Coach Bieste, he knew quite well, even though he hadn't seen them in a decade. Shannon Bieste, who Puck always had a soft spot for, had tears in her eyes as she hugged him and then stepped back, her eyes roaming over his Navy uniform. "Your mom was proud of you, Puck," she told him, quickly dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, "and she bragged about you every chance she got. I'm glad you made something of yourself, son." Puck was only able to nod, the lump in his throat growing by the second. When Shannon walked away, Puck blinked and glanced down at the carpeted floor as he worked to regain his composure. When he looked up again, he found himself staring into a pair of brown eyes that he hadn't seen in forever but had been unable to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He shifted slightly, his arms tight at his sides, as he stared at one of the very demons – the biggest one, in fact – from which his mother had accused him of running.

"Rachel Berry." His voice was steady but then he corrected himself, "I mean, Rachel Hudson."

Rachel just smiled at him, her eyes watery. Her eyes darted to the casket and then back to him before she reached her hand out and placed it on his arm. He glanced first at where her hand touched him, her gold wedding band glinting in the light of the room, and then up at her face. She looked the same as she had the last time he'd seen her. Same long hair. Same skin that seemed to glow from within. But her eyes told another story and Puck immediately reminded himself that he didn't care. It didn't matter to him if Rachel looked exhausted or sad or even if she started bawling right while she was standing there. He didn't give a damn. He couldn't.

After a moment of awkward silence passed between them, he slid his arm away from her and turned his attention toward the person behind her. He saw Rachel blink out of the corner of his eye and then she moved to speak to his sister. Her scent – a strange combination of lemons and sunlight that he'd never been able to place – lingered, taunting him. When the next mourner stepped away, Puck lifted his head in time to watch Rachel pause in front of his mother's casket and close her eyes in a silent prayer. Then she turned and slipped from the room like the ghost of his past that she was.

Author's Note: So I came out of fanfiction retirement to write this story. It's been bothering me for weeks and I realized that if I didn't get it written, the Puck and Rachel that live in my head would never shut up. So here I am. This story is canon right up through the "Hold on To Sixteen" episode and then it'll take the path that I imagine it could take, based on what I'm seeing in this abysmal third season. I'm planning on six chapters right now, give or take a chapter or two. For now, I'm leaving it as a T rating but that might change, depending on my mood and my adherence to my outline. Anyway, I hope you like what you read so far. I'm really rusty and for that, I apologize!