There's even been more Kurt/Finn than Quick recently, and I'm really getting annoyed. Get it together, Glee writers!


Better

"Don't go."

I pack things, things that seemed important five seconds ago. I put them into bags, zip up the bags, pretend to do something else so I don't have to turn around. My hands fiddle nervously on the bedspread, pulling and pinching and puckering the material.

Puck.

"Why do you have to go?"

"Your mom won't let me eat bacon."

"I'll talk to her."

"She looks at me weirdly."

"I'll tell her not to."

I turn, a lacy something draped over one arm like the train on a non-existent wedding dress. "Your mother disapproves of me, Puck, and she has every right to. Your sister doesn't like having me around, and it's not as if you need me here either. I've promised you can be there when I'm having the baby, I've promised you I'll call her Beth; what more do you want?" My heart's beating like Finn in a funk on the drums, and I don't even know why. I don't want to stay here, I never even wanted to be here - so why does it feel like leaving this house and this family and this...person is tearing me in two?

He comes toward me, filling my whole world. That's one of the things that - that makes me a little glad my baby will be getting his genotype. He has a presence that makes everything else seem dim, and a quiet side that gives the world new colours.

There's something seriously wrong with me.

Puck's eyes are green - just green. "I want you to stay here. I'm used to you being here...I like you being here. I like seeing through your shirt in the mornings when you're not wearing a bra -" At least he's honest. "I like how big your boobs are getting -" Brutally honest, in an oddly flattering way. "I like the way you smell." His eyes are too green, greener than mine, taking over everything until it's all Puck's eyes, and all green. "I like it when you fall asleep in front of the TV, and your eyelashes look all long and pretty on your cheeks. I like it when you sing, and when you tear people a new one, and when you whine about having backache and make me rub your dudemeister -"

"Puck, it's called a coccyx." He's much too close to my face, which is all wrong because he's taller than me.

"I like it when you kiss my cheek sometimes, like you did when me and the guys sang Beth. I didn't like it when you cried, though." He looks awkward, rubs the back of his shaved head. It'll look funny when the hair grows back in. "It make me feel weird."

"Good weird?" I ask, my voice all breathy (why can't I breathe? Is it possible to give birth at only four months and a half months?). "Or bad weird?"

"Bad weird," says Noah Puckerman, and then I have to say his name because suddenly it sounds so important.

"Noah," I say out loud, and the Finn in my heart is drumming like Peter Criss on that song Shout It Loud as the baby in my belly does flip-flops.

"Quinn," he says, and it looks as if there's some weird dalmatian face paint guy hitting things in his chest too.

He leans in, and our lips brush just a little bit. It's weird, and it's scary, and I was pretty much off my face the last time we did this but wrapping my arms around his neck seems to be the right way to go. Maybe it's not the house, or the crazily Jewish mom, or the freakishly Jewish sister - maybe it's him, Puck. Noah. Noah Puckerman.

"I'm still going to live with Mercedes," I say when we pull away, and hope I don't look half as dreamy as I feel.

"That's okay. We can have a threesome," he says infuriatingly, and I have to slap him and run my fingers over the curve of his shaved scalp before I kiss him again, and again, and again.