A/N: It gets AU later on, but basically it's the adventures of Puck and Quinn pre-pilot, evolving into later in the show. Involves much Drunk!Puck. For my bbs (you all know who you are), because if this roadtrip doesn't happen I will cut a bitch. LUH YOU ALLL. AND OMG OMG OMG, BRAD ILU, I AM IN TEEEEEEEARS.
"Okay, just this once." She straightens her shoulders and braces her hand, tossing an egg from each palm to ready herself. "Why do you have eggs in your car anyway?" She hadn't thought to ask.
He shrugs. "For occasions such as these." His smile is wolf-like, cocky and mean. "I have an entire cooler down there just for 'em."
"That's extremely obsessive," she deadpans. "You need to get to a therapist for - hey, slow down a bit."
"Ever done this before?" He steadies the shift, eases his foot on the gas. At her silence, he laughs. "You're gonna miss, then."
She narrows her eyes on the target. "Won't," she promises breathlessly. "Okay, slower."
"If I was going any slower, I'd be idling." But before another word can come out of his mouth, she draws her arm back and takes aim, hurling the egg at their target. He was right; she misses just a little, but it still hits the passing girl square in the chest, the broken yolk running down her shirt. The brunette pauses and glances up before they're able to drive off.
They're cracking up in the parking lot of 7-11.
"That was perfect," he tells her as he's filling up his truck with gas. "Seriously, the look on her face was perfect."
She grins. "I so need to do that more often. Spamming Rachel Berry's MySpace page with pictures of omelets is not nearly as satisfying."
And there's a look on his face, a heartbeat's worth of admiration and awe in his expression, before the mask slams down again and he's simply smirking again, emotionless and cocky and Puck. "Ever actually occurred to you how mean we are?"
She shrugs. "I'd like to think of it as justice for all the Broadway songs she's murdered."
"You're drunk, aren't you?"
She can tell he is because he's panting down the back of her neck and his hands are dragging up underneath her skirt. She carefully pries his hold off her thighs and turns to meet him. He's got the goofy look on his face, the numb look of Drunk Puckerman.
"You're so incredibly hot in that uniform," he informs her. "Like so hot, you have no idea."
She grimaces. "Fascinating, Puck. Go drink some coffee and get sober before you tell me that."
"Like, usually, you're in your Virgin Mary outfits," he goes on, as if she hasn't spoken, "and I really have to use my imagination, because Mr. Peterson is a whole shit ton of boring and you're the hottest girl in there."
"Oh, my God, don't go any further." She really shouldn't be hearing this.
He smiles dumbly at her. "Would you ever fuck me? Because you have no idea, I'd wreck you so -"
"Stop your mouth from moving," she snaps, cutting him off with a firm kick to the shin. "Think of that when you have a headache the size of Rachel Berry's nose tomorrow."
He's too drunk to understand her wit, but he nods anyways.
"I am not talking to you."
He frowns. "Why not?"
She glances around behind her to check for eavesdroppers. Then, in a lower voice: "Ugh, do you even know how annoying you are when drunk?" She slams her locker closed and glares at him with her best bitch-face.
He rolls his eyes. "Don't bitch-face me. What'd I do? What'd I say?"
She shrugs harmlessly. "Just a bunch of casual, friendly chatter about wanting to..." She blushes at this. "...Sleep with me?"
"Oh, come on." He smirks. "You can say it. Fuck. Fuck." He pauses. "Fuckity-fuck, clusterfuck, fucking -"
"You're a douchebag and you smell like roadkill." She wrinkles her nose for effect. "Go away."
There's that pause in his step, in his words, that sliver of a frozen moment on his face when he frowns, and she hasn't even registered the look before it's gone again. Instead, as always replaces it, is his dumb, perfunctory grin. "Drunk me is always trying to get sober me laid," he tells her. "It could've been you or some old hag on the street."
"That makes me feel special," she deadpans, but then there's that moment again - a smile, just a bit of one. "Now, go away."
She's kidding this time and he knows just as soon as she does.
"Does he still have a pulse?"
Finn leans down to tap his shoulder, frowning. "He's not moving," he tells her helpfully.
"Ugh, you're a moron. Move." Obediently, Finn moves out of the way and Quinn leans down, pushing her fingers insistently against the pulse point on his neck. His blood beats enthusiastically against her pads. "His heart is still beating," she informs no one in particular. "But I'm not sure if he's breathing."
Finn nods dumbly. "Can I go get a cheeseburger?"
She waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go. I'll catch a cab." There is sarcasm in her voice - like, really, Finn is such a Prince Charming - but he doesn't appear to catch it and whistles thankfully under his breath before walking out.
"Puck!" She slaps him across the face. And that feels good, because she's always kind of wanted to do that, so she does it again. And laughs. "No, seriously, Puck, wake up." It's not very helpful because he's passed out silly, but she figures it's the best she can do.
He's still not awake so she throws some tapwater across his face.
He sputters violently almost at once, then leans over to wretch all over the carpet.
"Oh, that's lovely." She grimaces, glaring down at him.
He grins at her. "I'm still so wasted right now." Then his face grows serious and somber, like a four-year-old who just found out Christmas is canceled indefinitely. "Oh, my God, please don't tell me we did it and I'll wake up not remembering."
She rolls her eyes. "That is so wrong on so many levels. Now, get up. I need to get you home."
"You're such a mother hen, sometimes," he tells her indifferently, stumbling to his feet and latching onto her small frame for support. "Like, you should've left my ass here."
She braces her shoulders, thankful for the strong upper-body-strength that came from years of cheerleading. "Yes, I just care too much about you to let you die here."
"You don't care about me at all," he mumbles.
She starts at that. A small part of her tells her it's the truth, you really don't. But it doesn't sound quite right to her, doesn't sound... truthful. But it's the way it's supposed to be. She's not supposed to even be friends with him, just mere acquaintances.
So she keeps her mouth shut and half-carries him outside.
"Just go talk to him."
Her nostrils flare. "No. Why me?" She follows his gaze to their "target" - Jacob What's-His-Last-Name. He's got a severe case of acne and needs a haircut pronto. If she's seen talking to him, she'd die.
He rolls his shoulders. "Come on, it's not gonna hurt your reputation," he promises, giving her his best smile, one that kind of looks like he's posing for a school picture because he's never smiling. "Just stall him for long enough so he doesn't notice me."
"What are you trying to do?" She raises her eyes to his, scowling. "If you get caught throwing another slushie, I swear I won't bail you out this -"
"There's no teachers around here," he snorts.
She rolls her eyes. "You're lame," she informs him, "and if I get caught helping, there will be so many consequences, you have no idea." But she's already kind of given in, so she turns heel and prances up to the object of her... ugh, she can't even think that with a straight face.
"Hi, Jacob." Her voice trills innocently, and the boy turns around, startled and surprised. She beams at him. "Wow, are you using new acne cream? It so shows."
"Um..." A pleasant smile overtakes his lips. She almost feels bad. "Y-Yeah, I got this new cream from my mom... she said the last one clogged up my pores, and gave me allergies." He's grinning now, hesitantly, as if he knows it's a trick.
Ugh. Where's Puck by now?
"Well, it looks like you're clearing -"
She barely has time to dodge out of the way before she hears heavy footsteps and a, "Look alive, punk." She sidesteps out of the line of fire as the slushie hits the mark, and she's fervently thankful for the good aim. Jacob lets out a wail of frustration before Puck grabs her arm and pulls her away, and they run down the hallway before they can get caught.
"You bruised my wrist," she tells him when he lets go, but he's laughing too hard to answer her.
"That was awesome." He grins at her. "We make a good team, you know."
She can't help but grin back.
She has to stop him when he's downing another beer. She hasn't been watching him the whole night, so she doesn't know how many he's had, but he's swaying on his feet and has that stupid look on his face. And really, she's getting tired of watching him do stupid things, so she marches through the crowd and yanks him by his hand to the pool.
"What're we doin'?" He doesn't sound too concerned with it, just amused. "Come on, Fabray, there's... there's people inside."
"You need to shut up," she tells him simply. "Because this is the last time I'm doing this. And I mean it. Next time I'm leaving you to die in some old lady's house."
He doesn't answer back, but instead links his fingers through hers. She's glad he's intoxicated now because then he wouldn't remember that he did that, and she doesn't want to remind him. Promptly, as they're standing at the edge of the pool, she pushes him in to watch him flounder in the cold water.
He breaks for air after a moment. "What the fuck was that for?"
"Sobering you up," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Next time, I mean it, I'm not even going to -"
Before she can finish her sentence, he leaps out of the water like some sort of frog and grabs her by her waist, pulling her down with him into the pool. She yelps when she hits the water; it's the middle of December and it's so cold. She could kill him.
"I'm going to kill you!"
On impulse, she lifts her hand and delivers a smack across his face, but immediately regrets it. "Ugh, I'm sorr -"
He doesn't even let her finish before he leans down and kisses her, sloppy and drunk and wet. He tastes like booze and cigarettes and it's so gross, it's so wrong, but she doesn't stop him, and perhaps that's the worst part, perhaps that's what makes it so wrong.
He pulls away and smiles contentedly at her, one hand stroking her cheek indifferently. She realizes that he's still not quite so sober. "Mm, I've always wanted to do that."
She can't do anything else so she says, "Okay, I'm taking you home." But then, just because: "I mean it, though, Puck. Last time."
"What're you doing?" She glares accusingly at him, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
He grins. "Gonna go slushie Rachel Berry." As an afterthought, he adds, "Wanna watch?"
She shrugs indifferently, slamming her locker shut. She's been avoiding him since he kissed her a few nights ago; but it's hard to avoid him when he's everywhere. "What flavor this time?" It's a flippant, unimportant question, and he raises an eyebrow at her, as if wondering why she'd ask.
"Uh," he starts, "grape." He furrows his brow. "Why does it matter?"
"She likes grape." She still doesn't look right at him. "Remember? I told you that she always licks her lips when people slushie her with grape."
He stares down at the cup, frowning. "Fuck. I forgot." Then: "Whatever. Do you want it?" He proffers the styrofoam towards her, his face still sour with frustration at his lost target. "Don't you like grape, too?"
She glances apprehensively at the slushie. "No thanks. There's gotta be like, a million calories in that." She starts at that; she hadn't meant to say it aloud, but she had to keep her figure somehow. To lighten the conversation, she laughs uneasily, "Can't be getting fatter than I already am."
He frowns, placing the cup in her hands. "You're not fat." He shrugs as he says it, as if to take the kindness out of his words. "Anyway, you like grape. Take it."
He doesn't give her the opportunity to refuse and instead grins at her, pushing past her to be carried along with the crowd of people.
She stares after him, then quickly takes a discrete sip.
He arrives at her house at exactly eight o'clock, looking thoroughly out of shape with his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed; it's the look that means he's trying not to be concerned but is instead angry.
She opens the door before he can knock, blinking calmly at him.
He stares. "What? What is it?" He pushes past her into the house. "Why'd you call me? You seriously scared the shit out of me, Fabray. I thought you were being held hostage by some psycho murderer and I was gonna have to -"
He stops as she laughs weakly at him, shaking her head. "What's so funny?" He's panicking now. "You're scaring me."
She doesn't answer him. Instead, slowly, carefully: "Will you say it again? What you said earlier today?" She savors the memory, preserves it; it's something she needed to hear and he gave that to her, but now she just needs to hear it again, and again, and again.
He blinks. "Say... what? I said a lot of things to you yesterday."
"Think," she tells him, taking quiet steps forward. Yet with each step forward she knows she's taking a step backward; she knows she's doing something wrong, but she's not stopping herself so it makes it even worse.
He attempts to think. Then, as if a lightbulb went off, "Uh, you're not fat?"
She smiles. "Yeah."
It's silent then, tense and uneasy and awkward, and neither know what to do. But then he breaks the silence with a hesitant, "Why've you been avoiding me?" He scratches his head, perplexed. "You've been like... treating me weird. For a while now."
She doesn't know what to say to that, so she shrugs, remembering booze-filled breath and cold water.
He starts towards her. "Is this 'cause I kissed you a few nights ago?" He frowns then, sighing. "It is, isn't it?"
"So what if it is?" she challenges, lifting her chin and making her eyes hard and defiant. "Does it matter?"
He stops a hairbreadth in front of her. "Not really." She can hear his breath this close, practically sense his heart beating, and she should move. She needs to. But he blinks at her and sighs once more, running his hand through his hair. "I kind of want to do it again."
She's run out of words to say and things to do so she kisses him instead, insistent and hungry and needy. And she thinks, this is where it all ends, this is where she's losing everything. She thinks, the words are gone and so are the actions so all that's left is physical touch, layers upon layers being shed off. That's just it, though. She's a machine. She was built this way, and she can't be anything but herself, but what is herself? She's not allowed to know, doesn't even know if anyone else does.
So she kisses him, and it's like those layers all fade away, and he's just seeing her - someone she doesn't quite know yet.
She jerks back just a bit, and she thinks she should say something, anything, but she hasn't rehearsed for this kind of situation yet.
He closes the space between them again with another kiss, then another, then another, until she can't remember who's kissing who. And she thinks he must be drunk, because she must be drunk as well, inebriated by his very breath and cologne, as they stumble into her bed together, one heap of awkwardly-tangled legs and breathless words.
And she could say so many things. Words are what make conversation, are what make life. But anything she says could ruin it all, and so she says nothing at all, just his name and her name, entering the air like mist and smoke, cold and warm, wrapping around each other like a tornado ready to touch land.
She inwardly tenses, every fiber of her being tightening with strain. But she can't avoid him again, so she turns her head to the side, lazily catching his eye. He's surrounded by his football buddies; she can't even allude to what happened, but neither can he. It's the perfect amount of safety.
Her lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Morning, Puck," she sings in that innocent voice of hers. She keeps up the facade, the charade of chastity, but his eyes give away his knowledge, and his grin is cocky and smug, like the Cheshire Cat's smile.
"How'd you sleep?" His eyes glint at her, and his grin grows wider. She can't even look at him without remembering - her name, his name, like a tornado, and her hands and his are twining, and his eyes are so warm and he's so gentle and -
"Good," she replies stiffly. And his eyes shimmer with something like triumph, and she has to turn tail and flee. It's never something she's done - she's a fighter not a... flight-er - but she has to get away from him. He's going to say something, something that means more than what he's saying, and she's going to not know what to say, and the secret's going to pour from her lips, spill the words all over the ground.
He opens his mouth to say something else but she's already gone, hugging her books to her chest.
"What was it you -"
She doesn't let him finish his sentence before she slaps him across the face, the harsh smack ringing out through the locker room. He reels a bit, stunned, then shakes off the pain. "What the fuck."
She shoves a positive pregnancy test into his hands, rage and terror bubbling up inside of her. "Look at this," she hisses quietly, still apprehensive about the scene in the middle of a public place where anyone could walk in and see. She lets the full weight of the situation register on his face before she allows herself to get even more angry.
"You told me you'd pull out." He lied. "Now I have a baby to take care of." And she can't do it alone, but she won't do it with him. "What am I going to tell Finn? God, I hate you so much right now."
He simply stares down at the pregnancy test, eyes wide and full of horror. Then, quietly, "Holy shit."
She lifts her hand to slap him again - because it just makes her feel better, even if doesn't help at all - but he catches her hand and swiftly leans down again to kiss her. It's quick and fleeting but she immediately pulls back, wrenching her hand from his grasp and promptly shoving him back.
"Don't touch me."
There's so many other things she wants to say, angry and bitter and sad words, words that could kill and bite and tear at his very flesh, but they are dry on her tongue. It's just as much her fault as it is his; it's just easier to blame him, so much easier to hurt him, than it is to beat herself up over it. But she can't help it. She knows it; she sinned and now she's paying for it, like the plague or something. And Puck is just there, just standing there, scared and uneasy and unreadable.
She shed off all those layers, she let herself become totally unguarded, and she put her safety into someone else's hands. She put her trust into someone else and she shouldn't have, because she should only just... trust herself. That's it.
"I'm sorry," he tells her. And she doesn't know what to think anymore, because this isn't him, this isn't them. They are just a team when it comes to bullying the weak and those beneath them, they aren't... oh my God, they're going to be parents.
She starts to cry, and the only thing she wants to do is be held, so she pushes her face into his shirt and sobs. "Don't let me go." It's so desperate, so unlike her, but it's what she needs and he's always kind of been there, kind of helped her with what she needs, but for the first time she's acknowledging it.
He says nothing, but his arms are wrapped around her and she can feel his face pressed into her hair.