Title: Suburban Trash
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Puck/Kurt, OCs
Genre: Drama.
Word Count: 1682
Warning: Sex, swearing, sometimes-graphic violence. Possible OOCness.
Disclaimer: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.
Author Notes: This is the last one, duckies.
Summary: Kurt has this plan for how his life is meant to turn out. This plan includes very specific ideas of what he should be doing, and where he should be living, and who should conveniently die.



As it turned out, Puck didn't have to wait that long. The investigation didn't slow to a standstill while the lab processed the blood and forensic 'evidence' from Puck's ute, there were still interviews going on, still theories being passed around. Puck was granted bail at a ridiculous price that he told Kurt not to even bother paying, and was moved to the county courthouse pending presentation of evidence at his trial, which was dated for two months down the line. Puck was pretty confident he wouldn't get to that point. After all, he hadn't done it.

Soon enough the oddities started showing up, poking tiny little holes in their case against him. Puck's alibi (that he was home with his boyfriend) was about as airtight as a colander. But numerous people convinced of Kurt's honest charm swore up and down that he'd never lie, especially about something so serious. Puck got along well with his workmates, and even with his bosses. He had never fought with Phil, not even over anything as trivial as sports. Puck had no violent history and no prior arrests – just a few speeding tickets and a couple of noise nuisance warnings. He was cooperative, never changed his story no matter how many times they asked him or what 'new evidence' was uncovered.

He knew they were getting desperate when they dragged him into an interview room for a grim-faced detective to tell him that they had uncovered video surveillance footage that placed him at the scene of the crime. Puck knew full well there was no such thing and reacted accordingly with that it must be a mistake. He scoped out his locations far too well to have missed any security cameras.

Then Ed Bateman found a bloody knife in the back of his van and flipped the fuck out, and Puck was well on his way to freedom again. He had been counting on Ed's unfailing belief in the justice system and it had come through, exactly as planned. The guy actually called the police, the second they showed up it became pretty clear that they suddenly had more evidence on Bateman than they did on Puck.

A bloody knife with Bateman's fingerprints, some suspicious speckles of blood (and some saliva, Puck was pretty creative when he wanted to be) in the back, a hank of the same type of rope used to bind the victim, and Puck had even been thoughtful enough to leave a couple of scraps of Phil's shirt partially hidden under a crate of gear that Ed never moved. On top of all that Ed was also known for having a temper. And, score one for convenience, he had no way of proving that he wasn't just at home alone like he claimed.

Suddenly Patricia stopped looking at him as thought she thought he was lying.

Three days later, almost two weeks after Puck had initially been arrested, the lab work came back. The blood, as he'd been telling everyone from the start, was his. The dirt in his car was from the work site. There was no sign that he'd had anything to do with Phil's death.

"So how about that letter of apology?" Puck asked his lawyer during their final consultation.

Patricia didn't look too hopeful. "You should just feel lucky they found the real killer, or you might still be looking at another few weeks in county."

"As long as this isn't on my record."

Puck left with a smirk on his face and a set of papers saying he was a free man. He made his way home on his own steam, in time to catch Kurt coming home from work. Puck grinned. "Miss me, baby?"

Kurt slapped him full across the mouth.



It was the 'how dare you' that caught people's attention. A shrill, furious yell that carried half way down the block in either direction. Kurt Hummel's voice in livid hysteria, becoming even louder with each new word; "How dare you scare me like that!"

Marcia had the porch light on within seconds. The flood of light illuminated two people standing outside 56's front door, and the sight made Doug's spine turn to ice. Noah Puckerman stood in profile to the porch light, large as life and definitely not in any kind of legal trouble. To Doug's eye he looked like a con – a man who should be behind bars but had somehow managed to weasel his way out of the punishment he deserved. A man he didn't want anywhere near his children, or even his neighbourhood.

Whatever reply Puck gave was too quiet to carry the same distance that Kurt's had, but it earned him a slap that reverberated in the street like a gunshot. Puck's head had snapped to the side with the force and he obviously let it stay that way until his partner finally opened the door and stormed inside. Then Doug would swear that the younger man looked up, right at him, and smirked.

Doug stepped away from the window. He didn't see Puck disappear inside, though he could hear it when 56's door slammed shut on an empty front yard.

"What do you think that was about?" Marcia asked.

Doug didn't want to reply. He had a feeling he knew exactly what it had been about.

His theory was proved right the next morning.

The doorbell rang at exactly eight o'clock, ten minutes before Doug was due to leave for work. He answered it with trepidation, only to blanch when he saw who was standing on the stoop. Puck, dressed down and casual in jeans and a t-shirt, arms crossed loosely in front of him. "Can I come in," he said, not really a question. "I don't think you want me saying this where anyone could hear."

Doug stepped aside without saying anything, irrational fear making him worry that the kids were still home and not due to leave for school for another half hour. Puck wouldn't – couldn't – do anything to them, even if he was the Lima killer. It wouldn't make any sense. "Can I get you a coffee?" Doug asked, using the same polite tone he reserved for the most annoying persons he dealt with at work.

Puck shook his head. "No thanks," he said. And then, getting straight to the point; "I know you called in the tip."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I was arrested thanks to an anonymous tip," Puck elaborated. "And it took them almost two weeks to figure out that the blood was mine and it's totally normal for a builder to carry around a shovel in his truck."

Dry mouthed, Doug replied; "I didn't call in any tips."

"Yeah, we both know you're lying." Puck smiled. It was a small, humourless smile that made Doug wish he hadn't opened the door. "But that's cool. It means you're smart enough not to admit aloud that you actually thought I murdered someone. I hear accusations of murder are pretty bad for friendships."

"I can only imagine," Doug said, aware that they were having a slightly different conversation now than the one that was happening aloud. "I've never accused any friends of murder."

"I don't kill people," Puck stated coolly.

Doug couldn't explain the chill he got down his spine. "Good."

"I just thought I'd let you know. No hard feelings."



Puck slept on the couch for two nights before he managed to catch up to Kurt long enough to explain himself without the risk of being bitchslapped. If only because he managed to grab Kurt around the waist and pin his arms to his sides before he could pull one back to strike. "Listen," Puck started, and had to avoid a half-hearted head butt. "Listen, you stupid bitch."

"What if they'd caught you?" Kurt replied in a hiss, clearly still in a snit. "What if they'd actually found some sort of evidence?"

"I told you," Puck repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time, "I took care of it. I knew what I was doing."

"You didn't tell me!"

"You would've thrown a fit and tried to stop me," Puck replied sensibly. He tightened his grip on his partner, threatening bruises. "Don't make me hurt you, baby. I'm sick of this pissy bullshit. Now listen." He waited for Kurt to stop struggling before he continued; "The middle-aged douchebag next door was getting suspicious and I don't like scrutiny. If I didn't do something he'd keep spying, prying, and being an annoying prick. So I made him think I killed Phil."

"You did kill Phil," Kurt replied snippily.

"We know that. Nobody else does. Nobody else is gonna know."

"So you set up someone else to take the fall, knowing you'd still be arrested in the meantime and I'd be here at home worried sick, thinking you'd wind up in prison."

"I know," Puck soothed, pressing kisses to the side of his boyfriend's face, "I'm a bad man."

"If you had been convicted..."

"I'm not leaving you, Kurt."

Kurt sighed, the anger draining from his body. He slumped limply against Puck's chest. "You are the most frustrating, ridiculously annoying person I have ever met."

"I took photos," Puck said, easing up his grip so he was hugging the smaller man rather than keeping him immobile, "I hid the memory card in the lining of your bag."

Kurt was silent for a moment, considering this new piece of information. Free to move now, his arms slid up to wrap around Puck's neck. "I think we should go to the bedroom now," he stated serenely.



Kurt used his first four months wages from his new job at Runway to put a down payment on 56 Hartley Drive. It was a good neighbourhood with a nice wholesome feel to it, close enough to the city centre for a quick commute without losing its suburban charm. It was the kind of place you went if you wanted a nice place to raise a couple of kids.

The address looked great on his resume.