AN: Since Part I of the Conscience Verse got such a good reaction, I decided to post Part II. I'm not sure how many oneshots this is going to contain, but I am having fun with this Verse. I realize this is short, and I apologize. Reading and reviewing is appreciated.
Necrophilia, Puck read on Webster that night, noun. Obsession with and usually erotic interest in or stimulation by corpses. Puck felt ill. Hummel's mom was dead. Of course. He vaguely remembered in grade school, his mother sitting him down and saying, 'Please be nice to that little Hummel boy. He's just lost his mom and he's very upset.' Now he remembered, and he cringed.
And the look on Kurt's face had been shattering. He had tried to uphold his dignity and holier-than-thou facade, but Puck had seen through to the hurting little boy that lay beneath, and he felt terrible. Not that he liked Hummel or anything; Kurt was nothing of import in Puck's life, other than a source of amusement. But he'd obviously been a Mama's Boy, and her death still seemed to affect him. Puck might've been a badass, but he wasn't an ass.
Maybe he was though, he mused later on that evening as he sat in the living room with his mother and sister, eating Chinese take-out on folding tables. He felt bad, sure, but if he'd forgotten, that must've meant it had been a while ago, right? Before the slushie facials and dumpster dives of high school, surely. And if not, well, so what? He was a badass. He didn't care about that fairy and his mommy issues.
Except the next day, when Puck spotted Hummel leaving his car, he couldn't quite bring himself to throw him in the dumpster. He held Karofsky back with a hand. "What if we toss someone new," Puck suggested, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm sure Jacob Ben Israel would love to get back home." So they tossed Ben Israel, and Karofsky seemed content.
Puck, however, was not. Something about the look in Kurt's eyes yesterday, all blue and watery and betrayed, had stirred the overprotective side of him. This made no sense, seeing as how he wanted to protect Kurt from himself and people like him, but whatever. It might've been because he knew he crossed a line, talking about Kurt's mother like that, but more likely it was due to the look on Kurt's face. Puck could count on one hand the number of times Kurt Hummel had lost his cool in front of him. Once.
So Puck bided his time until after Glee, and accidentally-on-purpose knocked Kurt's messenger back onto the floor, effectively spilling the contents and ensuring that Kurt would have to stay and clean it up. "You want me to help, Kurt?" Mercedes asked, glaring at Puck.
"No, I've got it, 'Cedes," the small boy said quietly, dropping to his knees to begin gathering his things. Soon, the room was empty, the door slamming shut behind Quinn. "Puck, go away," Kurt said calmly, without looking up. Puck leaned down and began to help Kurt gather his things, albeit slightly self-conscious. "Get your filthy hands off my things and get out of my face. You made me have to get dirt on my jeans."
"I needed to talk to you," Puck said, ignoring Kurt's bitter tone. "I wanted to apologize."
"Kurt, I didn't know -"
"Noah, if you don't shut up and get out of here -"
"'Obsession with and usually erotic interest in or stimulation by corpses'," Puck blurted.
Kurt froze and looked up, blue eyes hard as ice and just as cold. "What?" he said slowly, unblinking.
"That's what necrophilia is," the jock answered, voice softer than the soprano had ever heard it. "I'm sorry, Kurt, I didn't know." And Kurt got that look again, the one from the locker room: blue, blue eyes wide and filling with wetness, normally pale face ashen, hands clenched. He looked as if someone had punched him in the stomach. "How long ago?"
Kurt looked away. "None of your business, Neanderthal. Now, for the hundredth time, leave me alone." The smaller boy sniffled hard and turned away, keeping his back resolutely towards Puck until the jock stood and made his way to the door.
"I want to know. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to keep it all bottled up."