A/N: I've been writing these since I first started watching Glee. I didn't think I'd ever upload them, since the quality of writing is sporadic, but whatever. Here's some PQ drabbles.

There are very few things that scare Puck. He doesn't fear spiders because his shoe is vastly larger than them; he doesn't fear the dark because there's always a night-light around; he doesn't even fear his mother, because he can always just walk away. Puck is invincible. He's mostly confident and sometimes cocky but he's always fearless. No one intimidates Puck; he intimidates them.

But sometimes he thinks, I might be afraid of babies, because the moment Finn opened his mouth and told him about Quinn, the worst type of terror filled his lungs and he simply couldn't breathe.

"You're not fat."


Her eyes are filled with a rapture he wants to understand but can't; she looks at him like she's suddenly found the sun, her mouth curving and her breath slowing. He wants to kiss her but she does it first and it's the most delicious sin he's ever felt.

For a sliver of a moment, he wants to say something else, anything else, to make her eyes stop watering, but he's never been good with words and he's not about to start now.

She wishes she could say she remembers the night in full detail, but she doesn't.

Whenever she tries to remember, it all flashes by in a swirl of color and pain and pleasure and heavy breathing. Everything passes by as if she's flying by on a train, watching the world slip through her fingers. She can't remember details, but she does remember the look in his eyes before she closed hers.

If she had a word for it, she would use it, but there is nothing adequate to describe the unadulterated joy shining there.

"Can we name her -"

"We're not naming her anything." They'd been over this. "She's not ours to name."

He stops then and frowns, his eyes darkening and his face contorting into a soft sadness. "We could still name her, and then -"

"Please don't do this."

He opens his mouth as if to protest but says nothing at all.

There are times he wants to tell her he loves her. He's not sure if it's true, because he's never really loved anyone before, but if he told her, it might make her want to keep their baby. It might make her see that Finn could never be an adequate father.

He doesn't know if he loves her. But sometimes, he wishes he knew if he did, if only so he didn't have to lie.

Quinn is afraid of heights. It's probably the only thing she's ever been afraid of. She hates planes and ladders and all the tall things in this world. It's most likely the whole falling part that scares her; she is certain she'd fall if she was on a ladder or something, and the very thought of hitting the ground makes her nauseous.

It used to be the only thing she was afraid of, until she lay beside a half-asleep and worn-out Noah Puckerman in her bed while Jesus looked down upon them. He twisted his head groggily to the side and smiled at her with a satisfied and contented smile.

It was the scariest thing she'd ever seen in her life.

"The baby's kicking."

"Really? Can I feel?"

"No. You'll get attached."

"She's not a puppy, Quinn, she's -"

"Not ours."

It was at dinner, of all places. She was politely eating the over-cooked pasta and making the appropriate comments on the food, wearing a modest night gown with her hair in a bun. She was the total picture of innocence and chastity and she realized the irony of it all.

"Quinny," said her mother, "I've been meaning to ask you about Noah Puckerman."

Her father said nothing, but his stern, disapproving gaze said it all.

"What about him?" We had sex. It was my first time. He got me pregnant. I lied to everyone.

Her mother scrunched her nose. "You two got close a few weeks ago, and I just wanted to -"

"That was a few weeks ago." She made sure to smile at her. "We're not close anymore." It was a lie, but if no one lied, the world would be a much worse place. Feelings would be hurt and hearts would be shattered. It was much better to twist the truth than hurt someone.

Her parents glanced meaningfully at each other, battling relief and suspicion permeating between them. "Good," said her mother at last. "He's such a bad influence. He'll be impregnating girls soon, too; and you know those parents are going to have to take care of the baby."

The mashed potatoes in her mouth wouldn't go down. She kept swallowing and swallowing but it was stuck in her throat, preventing her from speaking.

"We don't talk anymore," she said at last. "Nothing to worry about here."

Her parents give her small half-smiles and her lie goes unnoticed once more.

The morning after it happened, she couldn't see him in with Santana in the halls without remembering him doing such terrible things to her. She couldn't see him at all without thinking of sex with him. He was turning her into a person she didn't want to be.

Everytime, she remembers how he stood up afterwards, pulled on his jeans, and told her, "I've always kind of liked you, Quinn."

If there is a God, he wants to thank him for allowing someone like her to exist. She's everything; the sun, the moon, the stars, everything that's good and important and significant in this life. He thinks God must've had a plan for her all along, and he was the one to mess it up.

But sometimes he thinks, maybe all this was supposed to happen.

"You didn't pull out!"

"I forgot."

"How could you forget something like that?"

"You're not gonna get pregnant."

"You don't know that."

"Trust me."

Most of the time, she regrets giving up her daughter. She regrets not being able to watch Beth grow up into a young adult, and she regrets not knowing her. She will remember forever the way the baby smiled when she first held her; she will remember forever the ache in her heart as she walked away.

But she also remembers Puck, and his face when she told him they weren't keeping her.

He'd never tell a soul, but she knew he wanted his baby more than she could ever imagine.

"Trust me."

They are two very small words that would mean nothing if left alone. Together, it's a false truth, a lie to placate the worriers in this world, as if simply saying it would be grounds to acquiesce to anything. "Trust me" because I love you. "Trust me," you'll be fine.

She thinks they must be the biggest lies on the planet.

"I've got it. Trust me."

"I won't let you down. Trust me."

When he collapsed on the bed beside her, tired and exerted and limp against her thigh, she trusted him. She laid her head against his and kissed his cheek lazily and said, "Say it again."

"You're not fat," he murmured groggily.

While she stares at a positive pregnancy test, she wonders if that was a lie, too.

Mostly, Puck and Quinn are friends. For the majority of the time, they get along, and they're never really nasty to each other. It's a given. She cheers on his team and dates his best friend, and he teases her about her short skirts and is polite to her on occasion. It's give-and-take. They're not really friends but they aren't not friends.

"You're disgusting."

"You want me."

They're never kissers, never touchers, never lovers. They never breach past the line of near-friendship.

His lips are warm and soft and delicious against hers. "Do you want to?" he pants, clawing at her thigh, her uniform, her arm, anything he can touch.

"Yeah." And she pulls him onto the bed and they kiss and touch and do all the things they've never been allowed to do.

They're always kissers and touchers, but never lovers, never lovers, never lovers.

"I love you."

They aren't until the day their baby is born.

There are nights he comes home drunk, staggering in the doorway with a bottle of beer or even a wine-cooler if he's feeling nostalgic. She'll be laying on the bed reading, or watching TV, or doing something innocent, when he falls onto the bed beside her and says something he could never say when sober.

"I wanna keep our baby."

She covers his drunken mouth with hers if only to stop him from saying another painful word.

There's moonlight coming in through her window, muffled by the silky blinds and bathing the room with a silver glow. She wonders if there's a higher power out there. His arm is wrapped protectively around her body, holding her in an innocent way. They're watching TV; a censored version of an already-docile movie, something that children could watch without being corrupted.

She stares at the moon and the light coming in through her window and longs to be out of Finn's arms and somewhere else.

She doesn't love Puck, but she thinks she wants to.

"What if we get married, Puck?"

The question comes up at random. It's an easy question, she thinks; it's a natural inquiry. She simply wants to know. "What happens if we get married, and we have other children? Wouldn't it hurt too much?"

He doesn't answer right away. "I dunno."

"Do you want to get married?"

He shakes his head. "Not really."

The question is never brought up again.

Until the day they actually do get married.

Sometimes, she'll wake up crying in cold sweats and knows she was dreaming about Beth. She wants to remember every part of it, but she only sees brown eyes and blonde hair and a tiny, tiny body, unprotected and exposed. She cries and cries and screams for her, but no one hears her, and she can't come one step closer to her beautiful baby.

She wakes up, sometimes, and he'll still be awake, watching football or something. She'll curl into the crook of his arm, pressing her face into his chest, breathing in his smell. "I had the dream again," she'll say.

He says nothing (there's nothing to be said).

"I love you." She'll say it like she's always said it, half-hopeful and idealistic and always waiting for an answer.

He kisses her forehead and then kisses her cheek, kisses her lips and her neck and every part of her he can kiss. He doesn't say it back, but he whispers it silently into her skin, and she knows he's said it in the best way he can.

"I'm leaving."

"Go, then. Leave me." It's a challenge. He wants to see if she'll do it.

She picks up her bags and marches towards the door. "I am. Goodbye, Puck."

He waits, and waits, and waits. The door slams shut. Everything is quiet and the room is cold and this time, he thinks she actually left. But a moment later he can hear the soft click of the door out front, and the thud of her bags on the floor, and when she comes back, she's crying and he wants to cry, too, but he doesn't know if he can.

"I love you," she says, and she falls into his arms and he wants to say it's a fairytale but he hasn't showered in a while and he must smell like shit.

He presses his nose into her hair and she still smells the same as always; dark nights and bright days and all the good things he's ever experienced. "I know."