FIC: Just One
Title: Just One
Characters: Puck/Quinn
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied sexual situations
Word Count: ~2,500
Disclaimer: If I owned Glee then all proceeds would go to the Howard Bamboo Legal Defense Fund.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for "Preggers," but takes place previous to that.
Summary: It's true that he's no Mr. Right, but that's only part of the problem. He just hasn't found the right girl yet.
A/N: Beta'ed by the wonderful and good-looking cameroncrazed.
To many of the students at McKinley, Noah Puckerman appears to have it all. Not only does he run his own above-ground pool-cleaning business to help him put away some funds for the school year, but more importantly he holds the world record for most active sex life ever enjoyed by a high school student.
He's not too discriminating when it comes to sexual partners; this is a well-known fact. It probably has a lot to do with his business success. He's a stud for good reason. The mohawk, the guitar, the nipple-ring - it's all part of his carefully constructed sex appeal.
Still, his relationships with his clients are supposed to be professional, and Puck longs for connection on a different level, even if he's not quite capable of getting his mind around that fact. It's a dull aching in his heart, an ambiguous longing that reasserts itself when, after every romantic encounter, he's handed a check and asked "Same time next week okay for you?" He can show the lovely ladies of Lima a good time, but they're not interested in him as a person any more than they're interested in their husbands.
It's not that he hasn't tried - he's tried a lot. Girls put up with him because he's the bad boy, not the guy they bring home to their parents. They're looking for the thrill that comes with making a bad decision, and he's that bad decision. His relationships with girls his own age are clandestine, discreet, and over almost before they start.
It's true that he's no Mr. Right, but that's only part of the problem. He just hasn't found the right girl yet.
When his phone rings and he hears the voice of Quinn Fabray on the line, he loses his own for a moment. Quinn Fabray, the Quinn Fabray - the one bitch in town who's never in heat for him. She's the only girl who doesn't pant and swoon from his sidelong glance when the football team and the cheerleading squad share the field during summer practices. Unlike most of the girls on the squad, he hasn't seen her naked. On top of that, she's dating his best friend.
Still, his heart drops into his stomach momentarily, and he can't seem to muster the strength to speak.
"Puck? Puckerman? Hello?" she asks, each syllable expressing her increasing annoyance.
She's just a girl, the rational part of his brain tries to tell him, but it's not helping. For some reason, Puck's always had this thing for Quinn. He doesn't know how to describe it. Maybe it's because she's absolutely not interested in him. Maybe it's because she's downright repulsed by him at times. Maybe it's because she's a real bitch to everybody. She's aloof and reserved and that makes her an enigma... an enigma with a smokin' bod.
"Puck, are you there? I can hear breathing."
"Fabray, what up?" he finally replies. His nonchalant tone is carefully disguising his almost light-headed surprise.
"I have... I have a situation," she says. "I need my parents' hot tub cleaned before they get home tomorrow. Are you available?"
"What's the emergency?" His dickish-ness gets the better of him. "Did you and Finn get a little too -"
"That's none of your business," she interrupts, cutting him off. "You just need to clean. Can you do it or not?"
A moment of hesitation, then: "I'll be right over."
"I don't have any cash," she says when she opens her front door.
"Whatever happened to hello?" he says back, smirking. His supply box clunks noisily against his leg as he enters.
"I should have mentioned it when I called you," she adds as she lets him in. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking straight. It just needs to be cleaned."
She's wearing her swimsuit with a robe thrown over it. As she leads him into the foyer and shuts the door behind him, she tugs it closed. Puck can't tell if she's self-conscious or just conscious of him.
"Look, I'm a pool-cleaner, not a gigolo," Puck replies, although the distinction between the two is, admittedly, a little blurry. "I can take other forms of payment, you know."
"Like a check?" she asks, eyebrows peaking hopefully.
Puck bites his lip, shakes his head. That wasn't what he'd had in mind. "How about you do me a favor instead?"
Her forehead furrows skeptically. "What kind of favor?"
"Nothing, really," he says, smiling. It's the same smile he uses on his clients; he's used to women melting from it. "Have a drink with me."
"I don't think so," Quinn says icily. "I'll find my mom's checkbook."
Puck's disappointed, and he doesn't even try to hide it. "Whatever," he mutters as he turns from her. He finds his way to the back of the house, spotting the hot tub through the sliding glass door that opens to the deck. "I'll be done in a minute."
When he returns, she's waiting for him, a clear bottle in each hand. She's already taken the lids off; their fruity saccharine fragrance wafts through the room. "Couldn't find it - the checkbook, I mean," she tells him, the corners of her mouth turned downwards in a pout. "Hope these work instead."
"Wine coolers?" he asks. "Cranberry? These aren't drinks. These are like pop."
"They're all my parents have in the house." She hands him one, and her robe slides down her chest just a little. "You said a drink. These count."
"Fine."
"One," Quinn repeats. "Just one."
He follows her to the basement, away from the watchful eye of Jesus Christ, who hangs in portrait form in the living room. The basement contains mismatched furniture and a wood-panelled bar with a fridge behind it. "They keep the booze down here - out of sight, out of mind, I guess."
"Sure," Puck nods. He's not sure what he should say, so instead he sits awkwardly on the edge of the couch. Quinn makes herself comfortable at the other end. He watches her sip from the bottle delicately, pausing each time before swallowing as though with each drink she's reconsidering what she's doing there, with him.
"Your parents out of town?" he asks.
"They went to Cleveland," she replies, almost curt. "For a wedding."
"Cool," he says. As Quinn's drink vanishes far too slowly, Puck tilts his head back and downs almost the entire thing at once.
"Hey, did you drive here?" Quinn asks, suddenly concerned. "Maybe this is a bad idea."
"It's, like, not even alcohol," Puck replies.
Quinn takes another sip from her own bottle and nods her head, concurring. "You're right, these do taste like pop," she remarks. "Would you like another?"
Surprised, he nods. One drink quickly turns to two, and two to three, and soon enough between the two of them they've finished off the six-pack.
"Tell me this, Fabray," Puck starts, emboldened by his cranberry-flavored malt beverage. "You've been dating my best friend for, like, four months now, and we've known each other since, like, grade school." He sets the drink on the coffee table in front of him; she leans forward and lifts it onto a coaster. "Why aren't we friends?"
"Oh please, Puckerman," she scowls. "You're not what anyone would call likable."
"Like you're some kind of expert," he retorts. "There's no room for like-ability because I'm nothing but sex appeal, baby," he smiled. "Have you seen my guns?"
She rolls her eyes at him, but there's the flash of a smile on her face, and she reaches across the couch and grabs his arm, releases it, and sinks back into the cushions at her end of the couch. "Guns," she giggles - silly, tipsy.
He gazes at her from the sides of his eyes. Normally so aloof, reserved, bitchy - he's never known her to be playful before. He likes it. Her guard is down, and he decides it's time for another sneak attack. He's got something else he needs to get off his chest. "Really, Quinn - why Finn?" The question hangs in the air unanswered for an uncomfortable moment. He thinks perhaps she didn't hear him. "What's he got that I don't?"
When he turns to face her again, her expression is one of contempt. "He's the... he's the quarterback. He's..."
"He's kind of a dork. He sings in the shower after practice."
Quinn looks at him through her eyelashes. "And you're kind of a jerk. You slushy the junior varsity team after practice."
"Come on, Quinn," Puck interrupts, defensive. "You know I love the guy, but he's a moron. You're on the honor roll."
"What are you saying, Puck?" She's crossing her arms, glaring at him. The pout returns.
"You deserve someone who can, you know, keep up with you... mentally speaking."
"Oh, what, and you're nominating yourself for the position?"
It might be the wine cooler talking, but Puck can't stop himself. "Maybe I am."
There's another uncomfortable silence between them. Puck's looking right at her but he can't read her expression. She doesn't even blink. "Maybe it's time for you to go," she says finally, devoid of emotion. She stands to show him the door but she is drunker than she thinks, and topples into the coffee table instead. The bottles all fall clinking to the carpet, and she grimaces and sinks back onto the couch.
"Hey, you... you okay?" Puck asks, genuinely concerned and scooting closer.
"I'm fine," she replies, sucking in her breath and squeezing her eyes shut to keep tears from falling. Her hands are on her knee; the skin is raw and red and swelling quickly where she ran into the table.
"Let me," Puck says, taking her feet and draping her legs across his lap, "let me get that for you."
"What are you doing?"
"For once, can you just relax? Jesus Christ, you're such a spaz."
"Don't take his name in vain," she snaps at him.
Puck sucks in his breath. "Whatever." Gently he massages her knee with just the tips of his fingers.
She groans for a second, but his touch his soothing, and she lets herself loosen up, leaning on him just slightly.
"That feels nice."
"You're welcome."
She reaches out again and grabs his arm, but this time she doesn't let go. He gazes at her from the corner of his eye and sees that she's smiling.
He steals a glance at her the next day while the Cheerios have the field for practice, only she's not there. While Coach Sylvester's occupied with a reporter from Cheerleading Today, Quinn's stolen away to the sidelines for some quality time with Finn.
That's when he realizes it was only one night. He doesn't really stand a chance with her. She doesn't even acknowledge him, and it's a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, there's nothing to be weird about - Finn will never be the wiser, and neither of them will ever have to deal with it.
On the other hand, it stings like a slushy to the face when he catches her eyes across the field, and she looks away too quickly.
Characters: Puck/Quinn
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied sexual situations
Word Count: ~2,500
Disclaimer: If I owned Glee then all proceeds would go to the Howard Bamboo Legal Defense Fund.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for "Preggers," but takes place previous to that.
Summary: It's true that he's no Mr. Right, but that's only part of the problem. He just hasn't found the right girl yet.
A/N: Beta'ed by the wonderful and good-looking cameroncrazed.
To many of the students at McKinley, Noah Puckerman appears to have it all. Not only does he run his own above-ground pool-cleaning business to help him put away some funds for the school year, but more importantly he holds the world record for most active sex life ever enjoyed by a high school student.
He's not too discriminating when it comes to sexual partners; this is a well-known fact. It probably has a lot to do with his business success. He's a stud for good reason. The mohawk, the guitar, the nipple-ring - it's all part of his carefully constructed sex appeal.
Still, his relationships with his clients are supposed to be professional, and Puck longs for connection on a different level, even if he's not quite capable of getting his mind around that fact. It's a dull aching in his heart, an ambiguous longing that reasserts itself when, after every romantic encounter, he's handed a check and asked "Same time next week okay for you?" He can show the lovely ladies of Lima a good time, but they're not interested in him as a person any more than they're interested in their husbands.
It's not that he hasn't tried - he's tried a lot. Girls put up with him because he's the bad boy, not the guy they bring home to their parents. They're looking for the thrill that comes with making a bad decision, and he's that bad decision. His relationships with girls his own age are clandestine, discreet, and over almost before they start.
It's true that he's no Mr. Right, but that's only part of the problem. He just hasn't found the right girl yet.
When his phone rings and he hears the voice of Quinn Fabray on the line, he loses his own for a moment. Quinn Fabray, the Quinn Fabray - the one bitch in town who's never in heat for him. She's the only girl who doesn't pant and swoon from his sidelong glance when the football team and the cheerleading squad share the field during summer practices. Unlike most of the girls on the squad, he hasn't seen her naked. On top of that, she's dating his best friend.
Still, his heart drops into his stomach momentarily, and he can't seem to muster the strength to speak.
"Puck? Puckerman? Hello?" she asks, each syllable expressing her increasing annoyance.
She's just a girl, the rational part of his brain tries to tell him, but it's not helping. For some reason, Puck's always had this thing for Quinn. He doesn't know how to describe it. Maybe it's because she's absolutely not interested in him. Maybe it's because she's downright repulsed by him at times. Maybe it's because she's a real bitch to everybody. She's aloof and reserved and that makes her an enigma... an enigma with a smokin' bod.
"Puck, are you there? I can hear breathing."
"Fabray, what up?" he finally replies. His nonchalant tone is carefully disguising his almost light-headed surprise.
"I have... I have a situation," she says. "I need my parents' hot tub cleaned before they get home tomorrow. Are you available?"
"What's the emergency?" His dickish-ness gets the better of him. "Did you and Finn get a little too -"
"That's none of your business," she interrupts, cutting him off. "You just need to clean. Can you do it or not?"
A moment of hesitation, then: "I'll be right over."
"I don't have any cash," she says when she opens her front door.
"Whatever happened to hello?" he says back, smirking. His supply box clunks noisily against his leg as he enters.
"I should have mentioned it when I called you," she adds as she lets him in. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking straight. It just needs to be cleaned."
She's wearing her swimsuit with a robe thrown over it. As she leads him into the foyer and shuts the door behind him, she tugs it closed. Puck can't tell if she's self-conscious or just conscious of him.
"Look, I'm a pool-cleaner, not a gigolo," Puck replies, although the distinction between the two is, admittedly, a little blurry. "I can take other forms of payment, you know."
"Like a check?" she asks, eyebrows peaking hopefully.
Puck bites his lip, shakes his head. That wasn't what he'd had in mind. "How about you do me a favor instead?"
Her forehead furrows skeptically. "What kind of favor?"
"Nothing, really," he says, smiling. It's the same smile he uses on his clients; he's used to women melting from it. "Have a drink with me."
"I don't think so," Quinn says icily. "I'll find my mom's checkbook."
Puck's disappointed, and he doesn't even try to hide it. "Whatever," he mutters as he turns from her. He finds his way to the back of the house, spotting the hot tub through the sliding glass door that opens to the deck. "I'll be done in a minute."
When he returns, she's waiting for him, a clear bottle in each hand. She's already taken the lids off; their fruity saccharine fragrance wafts through the room. "Couldn't find it - the checkbook, I mean," she tells him, the corners of her mouth turned downwards in a pout. "Hope these work instead."
"Wine coolers?" he asks. "Cranberry? These aren't drinks. These are like pop."
"They're all my parents have in the house." She hands him one, and her robe slides down her chest just a little. "You said a drink. These count."
"Fine."
"One," Quinn repeats. "Just one."
He follows her to the basement, away from the watchful eye of Jesus Christ, who hangs in portrait form in the living room. The basement contains mismatched furniture and a wood-panelled bar with a fridge behind it. "They keep the booze down here - out of sight, out of mind, I guess."
"Sure," Puck nods. He's not sure what he should say, so instead he sits awkwardly on the edge of the couch. Quinn makes herself comfortable at the other end. He watches her sip from the bottle delicately, pausing each time before swallowing as though with each drink she's reconsidering what she's doing there, with him.
"Your parents out of town?" he asks.
"They went to Cleveland," she replies, almost curt. "For a wedding."
"Cool," he says. As Quinn's drink vanishes far too slowly, Puck tilts his head back and downs almost the entire thing at once.
"Hey, did you drive here?" Quinn asks, suddenly concerned. "Maybe this is a bad idea."
"It's, like, not even alcohol," Puck replies.
Quinn takes another sip from her own bottle and nods her head, concurring. "You're right, these do taste like pop," she remarks. "Would you like another?"
Surprised, he nods. One drink quickly turns to two, and two to three, and soon enough between the two of them they've finished off the six-pack.
"Tell me this, Fabray," Puck starts, emboldened by his cranberry-flavored malt beverage. "You've been dating my best friend for, like, four months now, and we've known each other since, like, grade school." He sets the drink on the coffee table in front of him; she leans forward and lifts it onto a coaster. "Why aren't we friends?"
"Oh please, Puckerman," she scowls. "You're not what anyone would call likable."
"Like you're some kind of expert," he retorts. "There's no room for like-ability because I'm nothing but sex appeal, baby," he smiled. "Have you seen my guns?"
She rolls her eyes at him, but there's the flash of a smile on her face, and she reaches across the couch and grabs his arm, releases it, and sinks back into the cushions at her end of the couch. "Guns," she giggles - silly, tipsy.
He gazes at her from the sides of his eyes. Normally so aloof, reserved, bitchy - he's never known her to be playful before. He likes it. Her guard is down, and he decides it's time for another sneak attack. He's got something else he needs to get off his chest. "Really, Quinn - why Finn?" The question hangs in the air unanswered for an uncomfortable moment. He thinks perhaps she didn't hear him. "What's he got that I don't?"
When he turns to face her again, her expression is one of contempt. "He's the... he's the quarterback. He's..."
"He's kind of a dork. He sings in the shower after practice."
Quinn looks at him through her eyelashes. "And you're kind of a jerk. You slushy the junior varsity team after practice."
"Come on, Quinn," Puck interrupts, defensive. "You know I love the guy, but he's a moron. You're on the honor roll."
"What are you saying, Puck?" She's crossing her arms, glaring at him. The pout returns.
"You deserve someone who can, you know, keep up with you... mentally speaking."
"Oh, what, and you're nominating yourself for the position?"
It might be the wine cooler talking, but Puck can't stop himself. "Maybe I am."
There's another uncomfortable silence between them. Puck's looking right at her but he can't read her expression. She doesn't even blink. "Maybe it's time for you to go," she says finally, devoid of emotion. She stands to show him the door but she is drunker than she thinks, and topples into the coffee table instead. The bottles all fall clinking to the carpet, and she grimaces and sinks back onto the couch.
"Hey, you... you okay?" Puck asks, genuinely concerned and scooting closer.
"I'm fine," she replies, sucking in her breath and squeezing her eyes shut to keep tears from falling. Her hands are on her knee; the skin is raw and red and swelling quickly where she ran into the table.
"Let me," Puck says, taking her feet and draping her legs across his lap, "let me get that for you."
"What are you doing?"
"For once, can you just relax? Jesus Christ, you're such a spaz."
"Don't take his name in vain," she snaps at him.
Puck sucks in his breath. "Whatever." Gently he massages her knee with just the tips of his fingers.
She groans for a second, but his touch his soothing, and she lets herself loosen up, leaning on him just slightly.
"That feels nice."
"You're welcome."
She reaches out again and grabs his arm, but this time she doesn't let go. He gazes at her from the corner of his eye and sees that she's smiling.
He steals a glance at her the next day while the Cheerios have the field for practice, only she's not there. While Coach Sylvester's occupied with a reporter from Cheerleading Today, Quinn's stolen away to the sidelines for some quality time with Finn.
That's when he realizes it was only one night. He doesn't really stand a chance with her. She doesn't even acknowledge him, and it's a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, there's nothing to be weird about - Finn will never be the wiser, and neither of them will ever have to deal with it.
On the other hand, it stings like a slushy to the face when he catches her eyes across the field, and she looks away too quickly.