Fic: 31 Magic Moments- Supers
Title: 31 Magic Moments- Supers
Fandom: Glee
Characters (Pairings): Kurt, Puck; (Kurt/Puck)
Genre: Supernatural, AU
Rating: PG - PG-13
Warnings: References to Abuse (Day 16), Minor Violence (28)
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 5,880
Challenge: 31 Days of Puckurt in January 2012
Summary: A normal morning with superpowers; Kurt Frost brings snow to New York; Noah is an unusual name for an angel; Working through the kinks of ghost hunting
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee or Danny Phantom. (If only.)
Author’s Note: This compilation is actually a grab bag. All drabbles are one-shots, and are completely separate. Day 4, ‘Sparks’, has since been expanded into its own story: Balance.
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Day 4- Sparks
“Hey, Wake up.”
Kurt groans and tries to roll away from the hand that’s shaking his shoulder.
“We’re gonna be late if you don’t get up,” the voice continues. Damn that voice. It makes far too much sense.
With a heavy sigh, Kurt slits open his eyelids just wide enough to catch a fuzzy glimpse of tanned skin, which disappears when he rubs a hand over tired eyes and tries to force himself to sit up.
“Finally.” Noah laughs, and Kurt actually does open his eyes this time to see his boyfriend standing by the bed and looking much too energetic for 7:15 in the morning. “I was starting to think you were totally conked out or something after last night. C’mon. I got breakfast.”
He holds out a hand and, once Kurt has gathered the energy to raise his own far enough to take it, hauls Kurt out of bed in one strong motion. Then he starts leading them to the kitchen and it becomes one of the many times Kurt is grateful for the convenient absence of stairs in their apartment. He’d probably trip over one of the steps and break his neck or something.
“Thanks,” he says softly when Noah slides a plate of he-doesn’t-really-care-what in front of him, and starts chewing mechanically. There’s a cup of coffee, too, but that doesn’t help him; it’s just a vain attempt at tricking his mind into being a little bit more awake its time. God, he hates this part of the day, but if he didn’t at least get started this early, he’d never make it out the door in time.
He stumbles through breakfast and into the shower, where he washes himself methodically until he’s moved each of the bottles from one shelf to the other (he came up with the system after it became clear that he would never be able to remember what he’d done on his own, as evidenced by the morning he somehow used up half the bottle of conditioner and yet could have sworn he’d forgotten that step). Noah greets him with a smile and a warm towel.
“Sun rose a few minutes ago,” he says. “Go wake yourself up.”
Besides the lack of stairs, the other best thing about this apartment is the large window with eastern exposure in the bedroom. He stands in front of the window as the sun’s rays start creeping through the glass and breaths in. Flickerings of orange light dance around him for several minutes. Finally, he releases the breath and turns away, energy sparking through his veins.
His day doesn’t really start until the sunrise. The summer months are easy, though Noah tends to grumble when he opens the curtains at 5:30 AM, but winter mornings feel sluggish and draining, especially when there’s too much cloud cover.
When he finally reappears in the kitchen, dressed and infinitely more ready for the day, he finds Noah sipping coffee at the table. For him, it’s not a futile gesture, but Kurt doesn’t feel so jealous now that he’s gotten his own, much more effective version of a morning energy boost. Noah smirks into his mug when he catches sight of Kurt in the doorway.
“What?” Kurt says.
“You’re glowing.”
Kurt looks down at his hands to find a soft, orange aura. “Damnit.” Must’ve gotten a little too much. “I don’t have time for this; we’ve got a meeting.”
“Want me to cool you down?” Noah suggests, smirk widening as he pushes off the table and wraps an arm around Kurt’s waist. They don’t technically have time for this, but Kurt decides to ignore that for a minute in favor of enjoying the feeling of Noah’s tongue against his.
Eventually, though, he pulls away and glances down at his skin once more: not quite as bright, but still noticeably orange. Meanwhile, sparks of bright blue electricity are crackling around Noah’s hands. “I think we warmed you up by accident, instead.”
“Babe, it’s not like it matters. We’re getting hired because of this stuff. They already know; they’re not gonna flip out if they see it.”
“I know,” Kurt grumbles, “but anyone else would.”
“So we’ll take the back streets, ride under the radar. We’d probably have to do that anyway, after last night. Just in case.”
“And,” Kurt continues, “I have to change now. And this orange glow is a bitch to coordinate with. I mean, I’ve got things planned for this, but…” He makes a face. “I never get to wear red.”
Noah chuckles and lets his hands drop as Kurt pulls away toward the bedroom. “Why are we taking this case, anyway? The job we pulled last night is more than enough to keep us set for a while, and we’re out with the first guy who calls us the next morning?”
“I talked to Santana. This ‘guy’ is an important client. You don’t say no.”
“And she doesn’t know anyone else who could’ve taken this one for us?”
“Nope.” Kurt pokes his head out of the bedroom, grinning in amusement. “We’re special.”
“We are awesome,” Noah agrees.
“Plus, this one needs a two-person team,” Kurt continues as he pulls out a shirt that should match. “Not many of those around.”
“Guess not.”
Kurt exits the bedroom and stares at the empty kitchen for a moment or two before he spots Noah sitting on the living room couch, legs thrown forward and head tilted back to rest against the cushions. His head rolls to the side when Kurt enters the room. “Ready to go?”
“I guess so.” Noah heaves himself off the couch with a groan and grabs his jacket off the chair.
Kurt frowns at the heavy motions and stops him with a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Noah mutters, then he sighs. “I know we do the jobs together, but it’s not exactly quality time, you know?”
“You’re sweet,” Kurt says, “but you know that most of the people we work for aren’t terribly concerned about our personal lives. Or anything but getting what they want, really, which is why they pay us so well.”
They’re not running late yet, but they will be if they don’t get moving, so Kurt starts tugging Noah toward the door as he’s talking. “The job itself isn’t for a couple days though, I think. I mean, there’s some prep work to take care of, but I’m sure we could find some time for our own activities.”
“Right,” Noah says. “And after this one, we take a vacation, right? No calls, no jobs, no nothing.”
“That sounds lovely. I’ll tell Santana our phones are off the hook for the next couple of weeks.”
“Good.” Noah draws him in for one more kiss, and this one really might make them late, but what the hell. They’re the guys with awesome superpowers, after all. The client can wait ten minutes.
“Come on,” Kurt says when he finally pulls back. “Let’s go be the bad guys.”
---
Day 6- Let It Snow
Puck nearly cracks his jaw open with a yawn when he finally listens to his alarm and hauls himself up out of bed. It’s these dreary, dim, not-quite-winter-but-cold-enough-to-be days that are the worst, and it’s hard to get out of bed when the mornings are so unpleasantly freezing and dry.
He’s got work, though, so he rubs the sleep away from his eyes and stumbles down the hall toward the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights because he doesn’t need to be blinded this early, anyway. When he reaches the bathroom, he remembers there’s actually no way he can get ready without the overhead lamp, so he flips the switch and lets the light sear at his eyes as he fumbles for his toothbrush.
By the time he’s stepped out of the shower, he’s feeling considerably more awake and ready for the day, and he hums to himself softly as he pads his way back to the bedroom to find some clothes.
Breakfast is quiet and a little lonely, because it’s been months since he’s had someone to share it with and he’s starting to feel the strain. He pushes the thought out of his mind and works steadily at his toast and orange juice, wondering just how unpleasant the train into work is going to be, considering the cold. He should check the weather, too, because it’s been raining on-and-off for the last week or so and he doesn’t want to be caught without an umbrella. Actually, he’ll probably take an umbrella anyway, just in case, but a glance out the window couldn’t hurt if-
He pulls back the curtain and freezes, hand tightening its grip to the point where he would be sure, if he actually cared to think about it, that he’s giving the fabric wrinkles. He doesn’t care to think about it, though.
It’s snowing.
It’s honest-to-God snowing, little white flakes coming down from the heavy clouds overhead; actual, tiny, frozen ice sculptures instead of that crap rain they’ve been getting for way too long. It’s that first snow of the season and he’s been waiting way, way too long.
Puck laughs, a little breathlessly, a little wildly, and he takes another few seconds to stare out the window at this amazing sight before he realizes what he’s doing and what he’s not doing, and then he turns.
In a flurry of inexact movement he dashes around the apartment, grabbing keys, a jacket, a hat and scarf and gloves, barely remembering his shoes on his way out the door. From the elevator, he makes a quick call into work. He’s not sure how well he fakes the cough, but he’s usually pretty good about coming in so they tell him it’s fine, rest and get better, and he barely has time for a hoarse ‘thanks’ before he’s slamming the phone shut and half-running out of the building.
Sitting on a bus makes him feel jittery, like he’s not doing enough, but he knows logically that this will get him there faster than he could travel on foot, so he sits in the seat and bounces a leg up and down impatiently whenever the bus makes a stop to pick up more passengers.
An older woman with a pleasant smile on her face sits down beside him, and a minute later she leans over and says, “The snow’s beautiful this morning, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is,” he says, and thinks, ‘This bus needs to move faster.’
He gets off at a stop a couple blocks over from Central Park, as close as this bus is going to go. There’s another route that would take him right up to the edge, but at this point it’s easier to just go the rest of the way himself, so he takes off at a pace just barely slow enough to be technically considered walking.
The park is gorgeous right now, with just a thin dusting of white beginning to cover its surfaces, but he doesn’t stop to appreciate the sight. As soon as his feet hit grass, he breaks into a run, startling the people around him. Some of them laugh and some of them look rather scandalized at a grown man dashing like a child down the paths, but he doesn’t really care. He’s not looking for any of them.
He’s looking for him.
There’s a flash of blue-tinted lips curved up into a smile and sharp, bright eyes before they disappear into the darkness behind Puck’s squeezed-shut eyelids as he runs full-speed into the man and nearly knocks him over with the force, catching those cold lips with his own even as they struggle to keep their footing.
There’s a wolf whistle from somewhere off to his left that he really doesn’t care about when he can focus on re-memorizing the mouth that falls open under his, on running his hands over the soft hair and the sharp hips, on closing every inch of distance between them.
Finally he pulls back just enough to breathe, laughing at the impossible sight of those eyes staring back at him, ice-blue with scattered flecks of white. With their foreheads pressed firmly together, he can’t see anything but those eyes, but he knows that if he leaned back he’d see snow-white hair, pale skin, and clothes that shouldn’t be warm enough for this weather but are, for him.
“Kurt,” he breathes. “What took you so long?”
“I’m sorry,” Kurt says, leaning in for another quick press of lips before he can answer. “I tried. I can only push the snow so much. Other factors have to be in agreement.”
“I missed you.”
They get lost for another minute or two before Kurt pulls back and kisses him lightly on the nose. “Come on,” he says. “I worked hard on this snow. Don’t you want to see it?”
Puck sighs and reluctantly steps back to allow a little space between them, but grins when Kurt grabs his hand in a tight hold. He doesn’t know how he’s been managing to last eight months of the year without this; decides he’s not going to.
“Next spring,” Puck says, feeling Kurt twitch against his side at the mention of his inevitable departure, “I’m moving to Greenland.”
Kurt blinks, startled, and turns to look at Puck, then laughs at the sight of a confident smile and dives back into Puck’s arms.
They kiss under a veil of promises and the snow that Kurt made.
---
Day 16- Simple Things (PG-13)
It wasn’t a rule, exactly, but there never seemed to be an exception. It was assumed. Angels had names that were as gorgeous as the wings on their backs.
So when Kurt first met the boy with jet black wings arcing high over his body, after a long childhood of knowing angels and their lyrical names, he was skeptical to say the least.
“Puck?” he repeated, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “That’s not much of a name, for an angel.”
Puck just smiled brightly at him. “Exactly.”
That evening, waiting for his father to be done with work so they could go home, Kurt caught a glimpse of Puck’s file. The name on the form was different than the one he’d been given. ‘Noah,’ while perhaps not as elegant as some of the other names he’d heard, was certainly pretty in its simplicity, and biblical too. There was a note, added in messy handwriting after the file had been printed, mentioning the nickname and his preference for its use.
Further down was a section labeled history: neatly typed words that discussed his previous placement…
When Burt called out his name, Kurt jumped, closing the file with sharp snap to mask the guilt settling in his stomach and dashing out of the office.
The next time Kurt saw the boy, he didn’t mention the file. He just smiled and called him Puck.
-
It was a shame the reserve was so small, Kurt thought, but the government allowed them only so much space. At least they had a reputation for being the most pleasant of the centers, which wasn’t exactly a difficult title to earn when the other options were considered. Still, it would have been nice to be able to give the angels more room to fly.
Kurt loved watching them spread their wings and shoot off the ground like rockets. When he was younger, following his father to work simply because he needed a place to go after school, he used to sit out on the grass with his homework and just watch.
It turned into a summer and part-time job, when he got old enough. Most of what the reserve needed was maintenance; everything had been set up long ago (so long that people tended to forget why laws had been made to keep them there). Kurt was given rounds, and found out very quickly that the other thing this place needed was companionship, because the residents must have been very bored if the most interesting thing Puck could think of to do was to follow him around all day.
They talked, mostly, because there weren’t many other available options when Kurt had a job to do at the same time. Puck learned not to mention school or tease him about girls, and Kurt learned not to ask about anything from the time before they’d met at thirteen. Sometimes, when it was a particularly nice day out, Kurt told Puck that he didn’t have to bother keeping up their tradition, because he knew the boy would rather be flying. He chose to ignore the sharp pang in his chest when Puck leaped off the ground, a few hundred feet away in seconds.
-
“Remind me to bring that DVD with me tomorrow.”
“Why would I? I don’t want to watch it.”
“Oh, you do; you just don’t know it yet. Trust me.”
Kurt couldn’t contain his laughter at the answering grimace on Puck’s face.
“You know you can’t win an argument with me, anyway.”
“Fine,” Puck groaned.
“Good, now hurry up. I’m finishing this and getting inside before those clouds stop threatening and start raining.”
He didn’t make it. The first few drops fell when they were still about half a mile out from the nearest building, and Kurt glared up at the sky and muttered about the injustice of it all for about ten seconds before Puck rolled his eyes and shot out a wing.
Kurt blinked, startled by the sudden appearance of sleek, black feathers above his head, shielding him from the rain. “Uh, thanks,” he said after a moment, smiling cautiously in Puck’s direction. Puck just shook his head and said it was easier than listening to him complain, all without meeting his eyes.
It must have been an awkward way to walk, but Puck didn’t remove the wing until they’d reached the overhang at the entrance to the building.
-
Two days later, Puck didn’t meet him in the morning when he started on his rounds. Kurt didn’t think much of it. It was such a nice day, after all; perhaps Puck had predicted the inevitable excuse Kurt would give him and gone off flying already. It was fine. It wasn’t like Kurt needed him around.
That attitude worked fine for an hour or two, right up until the moment he found Puck sitting under a tree, back pressing hard into the bark and fingers tangled in his short hair, breathing harshly.
It wasn’t the first time Kurt had found him like this. They had a pattern by now, three years into the friendship, and he followed it, dropping to his knees beside the boy and wrapping his arms around him, pretending not to notice the sting of Puck’s nails digging into his skin when he clung. He held tight and stayed quiet, knowing better than to ask.
When the shaking stopped and he felt safe enough to loosen his hold, that was when he messed everything up. He broke the pattern. Caught in a moment of warmth and caring and love, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Puck’s cheek. Puck looked almost startled when he pulled back, and Kurt, already berating himself sternly in his mind, started to apologize, but he didn’t get more than half a word out before Puck cut him off with lips moving hard and fast against his.
Puck’s hands pulled him close, warm and strong and gripping tighter when Kurt swiped at Puck’s lips with his tongue, asking for more. Feathers brushed against his arms and back, making him shiver at the light touch and shutting out light as they surrounded the pair. Kurt ran his fingers over the smooth lines of Puck’s back, and let go.
-
For as long as he could remember, Kurt had held dreams of graduating, of heading off to college and doing something important and wonderful with his life.
When he was seventeen, looking at applications and wondering about the specifics of that dream, he realized that the definition of ‘important’ was a little different than he used to think. The reserve needed people who were willing to help without questionable motives (harder to find now than it ever had been; angels were the pet project of activist groups, but it was a movement of people who cared more about the theory than the practical application), and he had reasons to stay.
(Puck still followed him on his rounds, but they tended to take longer these days, which Kurt blamed entirely on Puck and his complete inability to take “not now, I’m working” as a deterrent. Also, his hands. Damn.)
He wound up studying part-time at a local college, complaining to Puck about core requirements and teachers who insisted on taking attendance in classes of 150.
-
When they were 25, he held Puck’s hand tight while they watched the laws change.
-
Some of the reserves stayed open, just the ones built for support as well as containment, since the latter wasn’t necessary anymore. Most of the residents weren’t sure where else to go.
Puck insisted on leaving. Kurt thought about arguing (citing the continuing need for help, since the world was still working on that part), but the hard, pleading look on Puck’s face and the scars that changed the texture of the skin under Kurt’s hand made him close his mouth and nod.
Once he got over the guilt of leaving, Kurt found out how easy it was to be overjoyed by the smallest things. Actually using his college degree, for one, was immensely satisfying. Waking up in bed beside Puck and seeing him first thing in the morning was something he was sure he’d never get tired of. Watching him take off and fly (ignoring the shouts and pointing fingers from passers-by in the casual way only Puck could) was… interesting.
He was happy; of course he was. How many times had he wished for the moment when Puck wouldn’t be bound by the borders of the reserve when he leaped into the sky? The sight of the man he loved soaring through the air, feathers lit up by the sun behind them so that they seemed to shine themselves, would always be beautiful.
He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what made Puck come back.
They were very different, of course; they always had been, but they seemed to fit together so well. Back at the reserve, Kurt had been exactly what Puck had needed: someone to see him as more than a pair of wings. Out here, Puck was something amazing, and Kurt was a human bound to the ground. Something in the self-conscious part of his brain told him that would never be good enough.
But Puck did come back, every single time, and Kurt swallowed his doubt and reminded himself that Puck had always been a ridiculously unconventional angel.
-
When they were 34, the laws changed even more, and Puck turned to Kurt with a wide smile and shining eyes and said: “Hey, babe? You wanna get married?”
-
It wasn’t until after the wedding, after everything had finally stopped spinning and shining and he was just lying in bed with Puck beside him, that Kurt let out a sigh of relief, fingering the gold band on Puck’s hand to remind himself of what they’d done that day. He pulled Puck’s body close against his own, feeling the warmth in the tanned skin without any barriers in the way and closing his eyes.
“I love you, Puck.”
Puck took a deep breath, tightening his hold and burying his face deeper into Kurt’s neck.
“You can call me Noah.”
---
Day 28- Beware! (PG-13)
Kurt grunts when Puck lands on top of him and shoves them both to the floor.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“Geez, would you learn how to fly?”
“I’m trying,” Puck grumbles, pushing off Kurt’s chest and propelling himself back into the air. He wavers for just a moment before finding his balance, turning to face his opponent only to be met with a blow to the face.
This ghost-hunting business involves an awful lot of falling down and smashing into walls. It’s really fucking annoying.
“Hey, Kurt, you wanna step in anytime soon?”
“You’re the one with ghost powers, you know. Why is it up to me to step in?” Kurt rolls his eyes, but he’s reaching in the pack for something useful, so Puck doesn’t bother to argue.
“Because you’re the one this thing’s ignoring while it slams me around, damnit.” Not much, anyway.
“So maybe next time don’t pick a fight with a... a whatever that is before I have time to pull out a gun or something.”
“An octopus?” Puck guesses. The tentacles trying to wrap around his leg seem to support that theory. He weaves to the side and slips through the grasping limbs, nearly crashing into the wall as he does so but hey, progress.
It helps when Kurt finally gets the gun out of his bag and shoots the damn thing with a ray of something green. That doesn’t sound super-technical, he knows, but he doesn’t really care what the gun does as long as it hurts them.
“How many legs does they have?” Kurt asks, ducking behind a trashcan. “Because octopuses have eight.”
Puck turns toward the ghost peeling itself dazedly off the wall. “…Six.”
“Damn.”
“Call it an octopus anyway,” Puck says as he dodges to the side and throws out a punch that goes right into the side of the thing’s head with a wet squish. Ew. “Close eno- Crap.” One of the tentacles finally manages to wrap around his leg.
‘Intangible, damnit, go intangible,” he thinks frantically, and it clicks just before he slams into the wall. He flies straight through the building instead, landing in a darkened office with papers piled high on the desk, though some of them flutter to the ground when brushes past, momentarily physical again before he shakes himself out of it and shoots back out into the alley.
“Kurt?” he says, looking around for the boy before he’s sidetracked by a bright green octopus (or whatever) slamming into him once more. Damnit, he thought that thing was down. “You’re grabbing the thermos, right?” he continues, a little louder to be heard wherever Kurt’s hidden himself, probably rummaging through the bag that’s got way too much crap in it to ever find what they need. “’Cause I think this thing’s probably ready for it now.”
They haven’t quite figured out a good system for telling whether ghosts are weak enough to get sucked into the thermos, yet. This is still kind of a new thing, so it’s mostly guess work.
But the one Puck’s fighting now is moving a lot slower than it was five minutes ago, and it’s gotta be worth a try. He’s had enough of getting slammed around for one night.
“Kurt?” he calls out again, wishing he could spare an eye to look for him, but he’s a little busy dodging around tentacles. There are only six of them, but damn, they’re practically everywhere. Finally, he lands a lucky hit and sends the thing flying away from him, falling through the same office building he was in just a minute ago.
“Puck,” says a soft voice, and he turns because finally. They need to can this fucker up and get home because he’s spent too long on this shit tonight already.
He turns, and sighs. “Oh, Goddamnit.” Two. They suck at two at a time, can barely pull themselves together to take on one. Has he mentioned they’ve only been at this for like a week?
Then he looks closer and realizes the ghost isn’t just hanging out in the corner with his back turned; its massive body is hiding the boy it has pressed up against the wall. The gun lies abandoned by Kurt’s feet while he pushes against the tentacle wrapped around his throat with his one free hand, and oh, that’s why his voice was so soft.
Puck growls and launches himself toward the green mass, knocking it to the side with the full force of his body and taking it to the ground. Behind him, he can hear Kurt coughing and diving for the bag again. He drives his fists into the thing again and again, because seriously, he’s done with today, and this ghost is going into the fucking thermos on the first try.
There’s a whirring sound of something powering up behind him and Puck leaps out of the way just in time to avoid the stream of blue that sucks the ghost, screeching, into the metal thermos that Kurt caps a moment after.
“Geez, be careful with that thing,” Puck says. “I don’t wanna go in it too.”
“Sorry,” Kurt says, smiling sheepishly. “I was aiming for the ghost.”
“Yeah, both of them.” It’s hard to be annoyed when Kurt’s voice sounds like that, though: raspy and weaker than it should be. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Rachel would kill me if I wasn’t.”
“Oh, you’re doing that duet tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.” Kurt nods. “But I’m sure my voice will be back to normal by then, really. It wasn’t that-”
‘Oh yeah,’ Puck thinks dazedly as he kicks out at the ghost that’s just landed on top of him and rolls away through the gap that creates. ‘There were two of them.’ It jumps on him again, throwing them into the air in a tangle of limbs.
“I’ve got it,” Kurt’s yelling, which can’t be good for his voice if it’s already strained. “Puck, I’ll get it, just move away!”
It ends up being less him moving voluntarily and more him getting thrown onto a dumpster - the lid of which was thankfully closed - but he’s out of the way. Kurt whips out the thermos one more time and the ghost vanishes in a swirl of blue light.
The alley is suddenly quiet after that: Kurt capping the thermos with fumbling hands, Puck lying on top of the dumpster and panting from the relief and exertion.
“Okay, so, new rule,” Kurt says finally, reaching out a hand to help Puck down that he doesn’t strictly need, but takes anyway. “Warn me before you start hitting things, alright? And maybe we should try to get ahold of a second thermos.”
“Yeah, probably a good idea,” Puck says. “Seriously, you’re okay?”
“Are you okay?” Kurt asks, scrunching up his nose as he swipes a finger against Puck’s shoulder. “I’m not the one bleeding green.” He holds up the finger that has, actually, come away dripping with green, glowing blood.
“Huh.” Puck glances down at the shoulder. “It’s just a scrape. You’re paranoid ‘cause it’s such a weird color.”
“Can you blame me?” Kurt says. “You’ve got all kinds of weird colors like this; it takes some getting used to. Although I don’t think I will ever get used to that jumpsuit.”
Puck chuckles. “It’s not supposed to be fashionable, Kurt. It’s supposed to keep out radiation and shit. Or ectoplasm maybe. Whatever. Shows off my guns pretty well.”
“You would focus on that part.”
Rolling his eyes, Puck leans back and lets rings of light wash over his body, switching the circuits in his brain back to ‘human.’ Instantly, he’s about three times as sore as he was a minute ago, and blood (red, again) stains the t-shirt he was wearing earlier in the day. It’s more than he would’ve expected, but he’s been learning just how hard it is to tell the extent of an injury when he’s in his ghost form. It’s nothing too bad, though. He’ll grab a couple band-aids when he gets home and stick the shirt in the wash.
He has to spend a minute reassuring Kurt of how much of a ‘nothing’ it is, though, before they can move on. Finally, Kurt smiles and steps forward, apparently satisfied that Puck isn’t going to pass out on him or anything like that as he rubs a hand along Puck’s arm.
“I like you better like this,” he says softly. When Puck raises a questioning eyebrow, Kurt raises his other hand to tap a finger against Puck’s chest. “Heartbeat,” he explains.
“Babe,” Puck starts, “we already-”
“I know.” Kurt shrugs, though he keeps the hand pressed against Puck’s chest where he can feel the rhythm of the blood pounding along. “I know you’re alive. It’s just… reassuring.”
Puck smirks just a little, because if Kurt wants more proof he’s alive, he can totally give that to him. He leans forward, curling a hand around Kurt’s neck and closing his eyes, just before his mind seems to figure it’s had enough of letting him have control over his body for the moment. His lips move straight through Kurt’s instead of connecting, and he pulls back sharply with a groan.
“Come on,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration and trying to ignore the way Kurt is stifling laughter. “Always at the worst fucking times…” He focuses for a few moments before he can force himself back into tangibility once again. “Shut up,” he tells Kurt, who’s still got a hand muffling the giggles. “You try learning all this shit and tell me how it goes.”
“You’ll get it, Puck,” Kurt assures him, smiling widely but finally done laughing, at least. “You’re much better at this already.”
“Yeah, whatever. C’mon, let’s go home. I gotta crash, like, now.”
Kurt packs the thermos and the gun back into his bag and slings it onto his back, reaching for Puck’s hand to tug him out of the alley once he’s ready.
They make it about two steps before a ghost pops out of the building beside them, clutching a box to its chest and blinking at them like it’s shocked to see anyone else on the streets at this hour.
“Uh,” Puck starts, but he’s not sure what he wants to say other than ‘go away and stop bothering me,’ because he wasn’t kidding about being tired. “Who’re you?” It does look pretty human-shaped, at least. It’s probably a ‘who.’
The ghost stares at them for another long moment before it shifts to cradle the package under one arm and jabs a thumb into its chest. “I,” it proclaims proudly, “am the Box Ghost!”
“You’re a ghost of… boxes?” Kurt says, bewildered.
“I am your doom!” the ghost insists. “I have power over all things shipped and stored in rectangular packages! Beware!”
“Oookay then,” Puck says slowly, already stepping to the side to walk around it. “You do that, then.”
“Puck.”
“It collects boxes, babe. I’m pretty sure it won’t screw anything up before tomorrow morning. I gotta sleep.”
“Where are you going? I hold in my hands a package sent from one Gillian McGovern of Columbus, Ohio; the instrument of your untimely demise!”
“It’s not even throwing the box at us or anything. What the hell is this thing trying to do?”
“No clue, Kurt. We’ll totally work on that. Tomorrow.”
He tugs Kurt onto the main street, fishing for his keys to hand over to his boyfriend (because Puck is way too sore to drive comfortably) and ignoring the shouts that follow them all the way to the car.
“BEWARE!”
Fandom: Glee
Characters (Pairings): Kurt, Puck; (Kurt/Puck)
Genre: Supernatural, AU
Rating: PG - PG-13
Warnings: References to Abuse (Day 16), Minor Violence (28)
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 5,880
Challenge: 31 Days of Puckurt in January 2012
Summary: A normal morning with superpowers; Kurt Frost brings snow to New York; Noah is an unusual name for an angel; Working through the kinks of ghost hunting
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee or Danny Phantom. (If only.)
Author’s Note: This compilation is actually a grab bag. All drabbles are one-shots, and are completely separate. Day 4, ‘Sparks’, has since been expanded into its own story: Balance.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 4- Sparks
“Hey, Wake up.”
Kurt groans and tries to roll away from the hand that’s shaking his shoulder.
“We’re gonna be late if you don’t get up,” the voice continues. Damn that voice. It makes far too much sense.
With a heavy sigh, Kurt slits open his eyelids just wide enough to catch a fuzzy glimpse of tanned skin, which disappears when he rubs a hand over tired eyes and tries to force himself to sit up.
“Finally.” Noah laughs, and Kurt actually does open his eyes this time to see his boyfriend standing by the bed and looking much too energetic for 7:15 in the morning. “I was starting to think you were totally conked out or something after last night. C’mon. I got breakfast.”
He holds out a hand and, once Kurt has gathered the energy to raise his own far enough to take it, hauls Kurt out of bed in one strong motion. Then he starts leading them to the kitchen and it becomes one of the many times Kurt is grateful for the convenient absence of stairs in their apartment. He’d probably trip over one of the steps and break his neck or something.
“Thanks,” he says softly when Noah slides a plate of he-doesn’t-really-care-what in front of him, and starts chewing mechanically. There’s a cup of coffee, too, but that doesn’t help him; it’s just a vain attempt at tricking his mind into being a little bit more awake its time. God, he hates this part of the day, but if he didn’t at least get started this early, he’d never make it out the door in time.
He stumbles through breakfast and into the shower, where he washes himself methodically until he’s moved each of the bottles from one shelf to the other (he came up with the system after it became clear that he would never be able to remember what he’d done on his own, as evidenced by the morning he somehow used up half the bottle of conditioner and yet could have sworn he’d forgotten that step). Noah greets him with a smile and a warm towel.
“Sun rose a few minutes ago,” he says. “Go wake yourself up.”
Besides the lack of stairs, the other best thing about this apartment is the large window with eastern exposure in the bedroom. He stands in front of the window as the sun’s rays start creeping through the glass and breaths in. Flickerings of orange light dance around him for several minutes. Finally, he releases the breath and turns away, energy sparking through his veins.
His day doesn’t really start until the sunrise. The summer months are easy, though Noah tends to grumble when he opens the curtains at 5:30 AM, but winter mornings feel sluggish and draining, especially when there’s too much cloud cover.
When he finally reappears in the kitchen, dressed and infinitely more ready for the day, he finds Noah sipping coffee at the table. For him, it’s not a futile gesture, but Kurt doesn’t feel so jealous now that he’s gotten his own, much more effective version of a morning energy boost. Noah smirks into his mug when he catches sight of Kurt in the doorway.
“What?” Kurt says.
“You’re glowing.”
Kurt looks down at his hands to find a soft, orange aura. “Damnit.” Must’ve gotten a little too much. “I don’t have time for this; we’ve got a meeting.”
“Want me to cool you down?” Noah suggests, smirk widening as he pushes off the table and wraps an arm around Kurt’s waist. They don’t technically have time for this, but Kurt decides to ignore that for a minute in favor of enjoying the feeling of Noah’s tongue against his.
Eventually, though, he pulls away and glances down at his skin once more: not quite as bright, but still noticeably orange. Meanwhile, sparks of bright blue electricity are crackling around Noah’s hands. “I think we warmed you up by accident, instead.”
“Babe, it’s not like it matters. We’re getting hired because of this stuff. They already know; they’re not gonna flip out if they see it.”
“I know,” Kurt grumbles, “but anyone else would.”
“So we’ll take the back streets, ride under the radar. We’d probably have to do that anyway, after last night. Just in case.”
“And,” Kurt continues, “I have to change now. And this orange glow is a bitch to coordinate with. I mean, I’ve got things planned for this, but…” He makes a face. “I never get to wear red.”
Noah chuckles and lets his hands drop as Kurt pulls away toward the bedroom. “Why are we taking this case, anyway? The job we pulled last night is more than enough to keep us set for a while, and we’re out with the first guy who calls us the next morning?”
“I talked to Santana. This ‘guy’ is an important client. You don’t say no.”
“And she doesn’t know anyone else who could’ve taken this one for us?”
“Nope.” Kurt pokes his head out of the bedroom, grinning in amusement. “We’re special.”
“We are awesome,” Noah agrees.
“Plus, this one needs a two-person team,” Kurt continues as he pulls out a shirt that should match. “Not many of those around.”
“Guess not.”
Kurt exits the bedroom and stares at the empty kitchen for a moment or two before he spots Noah sitting on the living room couch, legs thrown forward and head tilted back to rest against the cushions. His head rolls to the side when Kurt enters the room. “Ready to go?”
“I guess so.” Noah heaves himself off the couch with a groan and grabs his jacket off the chair.
Kurt frowns at the heavy motions and stops him with a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Noah mutters, then he sighs. “I know we do the jobs together, but it’s not exactly quality time, you know?”
“You’re sweet,” Kurt says, “but you know that most of the people we work for aren’t terribly concerned about our personal lives. Or anything but getting what they want, really, which is why they pay us so well.”
They’re not running late yet, but they will be if they don’t get moving, so Kurt starts tugging Noah toward the door as he’s talking. “The job itself isn’t for a couple days though, I think. I mean, there’s some prep work to take care of, but I’m sure we could find some time for our own activities.”
“Right,” Noah says. “And after this one, we take a vacation, right? No calls, no jobs, no nothing.”
“That sounds lovely. I’ll tell Santana our phones are off the hook for the next couple of weeks.”
“Good.” Noah draws him in for one more kiss, and this one really might make them late, but what the hell. They’re the guys with awesome superpowers, after all. The client can wait ten minutes.
“Come on,” Kurt says when he finally pulls back. “Let’s go be the bad guys.”
---
Day 6- Let It Snow
Puck nearly cracks his jaw open with a yawn when he finally listens to his alarm and hauls himself up out of bed. It’s these dreary, dim, not-quite-winter-but-cold-enough-to-be days that are the worst, and it’s hard to get out of bed when the mornings are so unpleasantly freezing and dry.
He’s got work, though, so he rubs the sleep away from his eyes and stumbles down the hall toward the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights because he doesn’t need to be blinded this early, anyway. When he reaches the bathroom, he remembers there’s actually no way he can get ready without the overhead lamp, so he flips the switch and lets the light sear at his eyes as he fumbles for his toothbrush.
By the time he’s stepped out of the shower, he’s feeling considerably more awake and ready for the day, and he hums to himself softly as he pads his way back to the bedroom to find some clothes.
Breakfast is quiet and a little lonely, because it’s been months since he’s had someone to share it with and he’s starting to feel the strain. He pushes the thought out of his mind and works steadily at his toast and orange juice, wondering just how unpleasant the train into work is going to be, considering the cold. He should check the weather, too, because it’s been raining on-and-off for the last week or so and he doesn’t want to be caught without an umbrella. Actually, he’ll probably take an umbrella anyway, just in case, but a glance out the window couldn’t hurt if-
He pulls back the curtain and freezes, hand tightening its grip to the point where he would be sure, if he actually cared to think about it, that he’s giving the fabric wrinkles. He doesn’t care to think about it, though.
It’s snowing.
It’s honest-to-God snowing, little white flakes coming down from the heavy clouds overhead; actual, tiny, frozen ice sculptures instead of that crap rain they’ve been getting for way too long. It’s that first snow of the season and he’s been waiting way, way too long.
Puck laughs, a little breathlessly, a little wildly, and he takes another few seconds to stare out the window at this amazing sight before he realizes what he’s doing and what he’s not doing, and then he turns.
In a flurry of inexact movement he dashes around the apartment, grabbing keys, a jacket, a hat and scarf and gloves, barely remembering his shoes on his way out the door. From the elevator, he makes a quick call into work. He’s not sure how well he fakes the cough, but he’s usually pretty good about coming in so they tell him it’s fine, rest and get better, and he barely has time for a hoarse ‘thanks’ before he’s slamming the phone shut and half-running out of the building.
Sitting on a bus makes him feel jittery, like he’s not doing enough, but he knows logically that this will get him there faster than he could travel on foot, so he sits in the seat and bounces a leg up and down impatiently whenever the bus makes a stop to pick up more passengers.
An older woman with a pleasant smile on her face sits down beside him, and a minute later she leans over and says, “The snow’s beautiful this morning, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is,” he says, and thinks, ‘This bus needs to move faster.’
He gets off at a stop a couple blocks over from Central Park, as close as this bus is going to go. There’s another route that would take him right up to the edge, but at this point it’s easier to just go the rest of the way himself, so he takes off at a pace just barely slow enough to be technically considered walking.
The park is gorgeous right now, with just a thin dusting of white beginning to cover its surfaces, but he doesn’t stop to appreciate the sight. As soon as his feet hit grass, he breaks into a run, startling the people around him. Some of them laugh and some of them look rather scandalized at a grown man dashing like a child down the paths, but he doesn’t really care. He’s not looking for any of them.
He’s looking for him.
There’s a flash of blue-tinted lips curved up into a smile and sharp, bright eyes before they disappear into the darkness behind Puck’s squeezed-shut eyelids as he runs full-speed into the man and nearly knocks him over with the force, catching those cold lips with his own even as they struggle to keep their footing.
There’s a wolf whistle from somewhere off to his left that he really doesn’t care about when he can focus on re-memorizing the mouth that falls open under his, on running his hands over the soft hair and the sharp hips, on closing every inch of distance between them.
Finally he pulls back just enough to breathe, laughing at the impossible sight of those eyes staring back at him, ice-blue with scattered flecks of white. With their foreheads pressed firmly together, he can’t see anything but those eyes, but he knows that if he leaned back he’d see snow-white hair, pale skin, and clothes that shouldn’t be warm enough for this weather but are, for him.
“Kurt,” he breathes. “What took you so long?”
“I’m sorry,” Kurt says, leaning in for another quick press of lips before he can answer. “I tried. I can only push the snow so much. Other factors have to be in agreement.”
“I missed you.”
They get lost for another minute or two before Kurt pulls back and kisses him lightly on the nose. “Come on,” he says. “I worked hard on this snow. Don’t you want to see it?”
Puck sighs and reluctantly steps back to allow a little space between them, but grins when Kurt grabs his hand in a tight hold. He doesn’t know how he’s been managing to last eight months of the year without this; decides he’s not going to.
“Next spring,” Puck says, feeling Kurt twitch against his side at the mention of his inevitable departure, “I’m moving to Greenland.”
Kurt blinks, startled, and turns to look at Puck, then laughs at the sight of a confident smile and dives back into Puck’s arms.
They kiss under a veil of promises and the snow that Kurt made.
---
Day 16- Simple Things (PG-13)
It wasn’t a rule, exactly, but there never seemed to be an exception. It was assumed. Angels had names that were as gorgeous as the wings on their backs.
So when Kurt first met the boy with jet black wings arcing high over his body, after a long childhood of knowing angels and their lyrical names, he was skeptical to say the least.
“Puck?” he repeated, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “That’s not much of a name, for an angel.”
Puck just smiled brightly at him. “Exactly.”
That evening, waiting for his father to be done with work so they could go home, Kurt caught a glimpse of Puck’s file. The name on the form was different than the one he’d been given. ‘Noah,’ while perhaps not as elegant as some of the other names he’d heard, was certainly pretty in its simplicity, and biblical too. There was a note, added in messy handwriting after the file had been printed, mentioning the nickname and his preference for its use.
Further down was a section labeled history: neatly typed words that discussed his previous placement…
When Burt called out his name, Kurt jumped, closing the file with sharp snap to mask the guilt settling in his stomach and dashing out of the office.
The next time Kurt saw the boy, he didn’t mention the file. He just smiled and called him Puck.
-
It was a shame the reserve was so small, Kurt thought, but the government allowed them only so much space. At least they had a reputation for being the most pleasant of the centers, which wasn’t exactly a difficult title to earn when the other options were considered. Still, it would have been nice to be able to give the angels more room to fly.
Kurt loved watching them spread their wings and shoot off the ground like rockets. When he was younger, following his father to work simply because he needed a place to go after school, he used to sit out on the grass with his homework and just watch.
It turned into a summer and part-time job, when he got old enough. Most of what the reserve needed was maintenance; everything had been set up long ago (so long that people tended to forget why laws had been made to keep them there). Kurt was given rounds, and found out very quickly that the other thing this place needed was companionship, because the residents must have been very bored if the most interesting thing Puck could think of to do was to follow him around all day.
They talked, mostly, because there weren’t many other available options when Kurt had a job to do at the same time. Puck learned not to mention school or tease him about girls, and Kurt learned not to ask about anything from the time before they’d met at thirteen. Sometimes, when it was a particularly nice day out, Kurt told Puck that he didn’t have to bother keeping up their tradition, because he knew the boy would rather be flying. He chose to ignore the sharp pang in his chest when Puck leaped off the ground, a few hundred feet away in seconds.
-
“Remind me to bring that DVD with me tomorrow.”
“Why would I? I don’t want to watch it.”
“Oh, you do; you just don’t know it yet. Trust me.”
Kurt couldn’t contain his laughter at the answering grimace on Puck’s face.
“You know you can’t win an argument with me, anyway.”
“Fine,” Puck groaned.
“Good, now hurry up. I’m finishing this and getting inside before those clouds stop threatening and start raining.”
He didn’t make it. The first few drops fell when they were still about half a mile out from the nearest building, and Kurt glared up at the sky and muttered about the injustice of it all for about ten seconds before Puck rolled his eyes and shot out a wing.
Kurt blinked, startled by the sudden appearance of sleek, black feathers above his head, shielding him from the rain. “Uh, thanks,” he said after a moment, smiling cautiously in Puck’s direction. Puck just shook his head and said it was easier than listening to him complain, all without meeting his eyes.
It must have been an awkward way to walk, but Puck didn’t remove the wing until they’d reached the overhang at the entrance to the building.
-
Two days later, Puck didn’t meet him in the morning when he started on his rounds. Kurt didn’t think much of it. It was such a nice day, after all; perhaps Puck had predicted the inevitable excuse Kurt would give him and gone off flying already. It was fine. It wasn’t like Kurt needed him around.
That attitude worked fine for an hour or two, right up until the moment he found Puck sitting under a tree, back pressing hard into the bark and fingers tangled in his short hair, breathing harshly.
It wasn’t the first time Kurt had found him like this. They had a pattern by now, three years into the friendship, and he followed it, dropping to his knees beside the boy and wrapping his arms around him, pretending not to notice the sting of Puck’s nails digging into his skin when he clung. He held tight and stayed quiet, knowing better than to ask.
When the shaking stopped and he felt safe enough to loosen his hold, that was when he messed everything up. He broke the pattern. Caught in a moment of warmth and caring and love, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Puck’s cheek. Puck looked almost startled when he pulled back, and Kurt, already berating himself sternly in his mind, started to apologize, but he didn’t get more than half a word out before Puck cut him off with lips moving hard and fast against his.
Puck’s hands pulled him close, warm and strong and gripping tighter when Kurt swiped at Puck’s lips with his tongue, asking for more. Feathers brushed against his arms and back, making him shiver at the light touch and shutting out light as they surrounded the pair. Kurt ran his fingers over the smooth lines of Puck’s back, and let go.
-
For as long as he could remember, Kurt had held dreams of graduating, of heading off to college and doing something important and wonderful with his life.
When he was seventeen, looking at applications and wondering about the specifics of that dream, he realized that the definition of ‘important’ was a little different than he used to think. The reserve needed people who were willing to help without questionable motives (harder to find now than it ever had been; angels were the pet project of activist groups, but it was a movement of people who cared more about the theory than the practical application), and he had reasons to stay.
(Puck still followed him on his rounds, but they tended to take longer these days, which Kurt blamed entirely on Puck and his complete inability to take “not now, I’m working” as a deterrent. Also, his hands. Damn.)
He wound up studying part-time at a local college, complaining to Puck about core requirements and teachers who insisted on taking attendance in classes of 150.
-
When they were 25, he held Puck’s hand tight while they watched the laws change.
-
Some of the reserves stayed open, just the ones built for support as well as containment, since the latter wasn’t necessary anymore. Most of the residents weren’t sure where else to go.
Puck insisted on leaving. Kurt thought about arguing (citing the continuing need for help, since the world was still working on that part), but the hard, pleading look on Puck’s face and the scars that changed the texture of the skin under Kurt’s hand made him close his mouth and nod.
Once he got over the guilt of leaving, Kurt found out how easy it was to be overjoyed by the smallest things. Actually using his college degree, for one, was immensely satisfying. Waking up in bed beside Puck and seeing him first thing in the morning was something he was sure he’d never get tired of. Watching him take off and fly (ignoring the shouts and pointing fingers from passers-by in the casual way only Puck could) was… interesting.
He was happy; of course he was. How many times had he wished for the moment when Puck wouldn’t be bound by the borders of the reserve when he leaped into the sky? The sight of the man he loved soaring through the air, feathers lit up by the sun behind them so that they seemed to shine themselves, would always be beautiful.
He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what made Puck come back.
They were very different, of course; they always had been, but they seemed to fit together so well. Back at the reserve, Kurt had been exactly what Puck had needed: someone to see him as more than a pair of wings. Out here, Puck was something amazing, and Kurt was a human bound to the ground. Something in the self-conscious part of his brain told him that would never be good enough.
But Puck did come back, every single time, and Kurt swallowed his doubt and reminded himself that Puck had always been a ridiculously unconventional angel.
-
When they were 34, the laws changed even more, and Puck turned to Kurt with a wide smile and shining eyes and said: “Hey, babe? You wanna get married?”
-
It wasn’t until after the wedding, after everything had finally stopped spinning and shining and he was just lying in bed with Puck beside him, that Kurt let out a sigh of relief, fingering the gold band on Puck’s hand to remind himself of what they’d done that day. He pulled Puck’s body close against his own, feeling the warmth in the tanned skin without any barriers in the way and closing his eyes.
“I love you, Puck.”
Puck took a deep breath, tightening his hold and burying his face deeper into Kurt’s neck.
“You can call me Noah.”
---
Day 28- Beware! (PG-13)
Kurt grunts when Puck lands on top of him and shoves them both to the floor.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“Geez, would you learn how to fly?”
“I’m trying,” Puck grumbles, pushing off Kurt’s chest and propelling himself back into the air. He wavers for just a moment before finding his balance, turning to face his opponent only to be met with a blow to the face.
This ghost-hunting business involves an awful lot of falling down and smashing into walls. It’s really fucking annoying.
“Hey, Kurt, you wanna step in anytime soon?”
“You’re the one with ghost powers, you know. Why is it up to me to step in?” Kurt rolls his eyes, but he’s reaching in the pack for something useful, so Puck doesn’t bother to argue.
“Because you’re the one this thing’s ignoring while it slams me around, damnit.” Not much, anyway.
“So maybe next time don’t pick a fight with a... a whatever that is before I have time to pull out a gun or something.”
“An octopus?” Puck guesses. The tentacles trying to wrap around his leg seem to support that theory. He weaves to the side and slips through the grasping limbs, nearly crashing into the wall as he does so but hey, progress.
It helps when Kurt finally gets the gun out of his bag and shoots the damn thing with a ray of something green. That doesn’t sound super-technical, he knows, but he doesn’t really care what the gun does as long as it hurts them.
“How many legs does they have?” Kurt asks, ducking behind a trashcan. “Because octopuses have eight.”
Puck turns toward the ghost peeling itself dazedly off the wall. “…Six.”
“Damn.”
“Call it an octopus anyway,” Puck says as he dodges to the side and throws out a punch that goes right into the side of the thing’s head with a wet squish. Ew. “Close eno- Crap.” One of the tentacles finally manages to wrap around his leg.
‘Intangible, damnit, go intangible,” he thinks frantically, and it clicks just before he slams into the wall. He flies straight through the building instead, landing in a darkened office with papers piled high on the desk, though some of them flutter to the ground when brushes past, momentarily physical again before he shakes himself out of it and shoots back out into the alley.
“Kurt?” he says, looking around for the boy before he’s sidetracked by a bright green octopus (or whatever) slamming into him once more. Damnit, he thought that thing was down. “You’re grabbing the thermos, right?” he continues, a little louder to be heard wherever Kurt’s hidden himself, probably rummaging through the bag that’s got way too much crap in it to ever find what they need. “’Cause I think this thing’s probably ready for it now.”
They haven’t quite figured out a good system for telling whether ghosts are weak enough to get sucked into the thermos, yet. This is still kind of a new thing, so it’s mostly guess work.
But the one Puck’s fighting now is moving a lot slower than it was five minutes ago, and it’s gotta be worth a try. He’s had enough of getting slammed around for one night.
“Kurt?” he calls out again, wishing he could spare an eye to look for him, but he’s a little busy dodging around tentacles. There are only six of them, but damn, they’re practically everywhere. Finally, he lands a lucky hit and sends the thing flying away from him, falling through the same office building he was in just a minute ago.
“Puck,” says a soft voice, and he turns because finally. They need to can this fucker up and get home because he’s spent too long on this shit tonight already.
He turns, and sighs. “Oh, Goddamnit.” Two. They suck at two at a time, can barely pull themselves together to take on one. Has he mentioned they’ve only been at this for like a week?
Then he looks closer and realizes the ghost isn’t just hanging out in the corner with his back turned; its massive body is hiding the boy it has pressed up against the wall. The gun lies abandoned by Kurt’s feet while he pushes against the tentacle wrapped around his throat with his one free hand, and oh, that’s why his voice was so soft.
Puck growls and launches himself toward the green mass, knocking it to the side with the full force of his body and taking it to the ground. Behind him, he can hear Kurt coughing and diving for the bag again. He drives his fists into the thing again and again, because seriously, he’s done with today, and this ghost is going into the fucking thermos on the first try.
There’s a whirring sound of something powering up behind him and Puck leaps out of the way just in time to avoid the stream of blue that sucks the ghost, screeching, into the metal thermos that Kurt caps a moment after.
“Geez, be careful with that thing,” Puck says. “I don’t wanna go in it too.”
“Sorry,” Kurt says, smiling sheepishly. “I was aiming for the ghost.”
“Yeah, both of them.” It’s hard to be annoyed when Kurt’s voice sounds like that, though: raspy and weaker than it should be. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Rachel would kill me if I wasn’t.”
“Oh, you’re doing that duet tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.” Kurt nods. “But I’m sure my voice will be back to normal by then, really. It wasn’t that-”
‘Oh yeah,’ Puck thinks dazedly as he kicks out at the ghost that’s just landed on top of him and rolls away through the gap that creates. ‘There were two of them.’ It jumps on him again, throwing them into the air in a tangle of limbs.
“I’ve got it,” Kurt’s yelling, which can’t be good for his voice if it’s already strained. “Puck, I’ll get it, just move away!”
It ends up being less him moving voluntarily and more him getting thrown onto a dumpster - the lid of which was thankfully closed - but he’s out of the way. Kurt whips out the thermos one more time and the ghost vanishes in a swirl of blue light.
The alley is suddenly quiet after that: Kurt capping the thermos with fumbling hands, Puck lying on top of the dumpster and panting from the relief and exertion.
“Okay, so, new rule,” Kurt says finally, reaching out a hand to help Puck down that he doesn’t strictly need, but takes anyway. “Warn me before you start hitting things, alright? And maybe we should try to get ahold of a second thermos.”
“Yeah, probably a good idea,” Puck says. “Seriously, you’re okay?”
“Are you okay?” Kurt asks, scrunching up his nose as he swipes a finger against Puck’s shoulder. “I’m not the one bleeding green.” He holds up the finger that has, actually, come away dripping with green, glowing blood.
“Huh.” Puck glances down at the shoulder. “It’s just a scrape. You’re paranoid ‘cause it’s such a weird color.”
“Can you blame me?” Kurt says. “You’ve got all kinds of weird colors like this; it takes some getting used to. Although I don’t think I will ever get used to that jumpsuit.”
Puck chuckles. “It’s not supposed to be fashionable, Kurt. It’s supposed to keep out radiation and shit. Or ectoplasm maybe. Whatever. Shows off my guns pretty well.”
“You would focus on that part.”
Rolling his eyes, Puck leans back and lets rings of light wash over his body, switching the circuits in his brain back to ‘human.’ Instantly, he’s about three times as sore as he was a minute ago, and blood (red, again) stains the t-shirt he was wearing earlier in the day. It’s more than he would’ve expected, but he’s been learning just how hard it is to tell the extent of an injury when he’s in his ghost form. It’s nothing too bad, though. He’ll grab a couple band-aids when he gets home and stick the shirt in the wash.
He has to spend a minute reassuring Kurt of how much of a ‘nothing’ it is, though, before they can move on. Finally, Kurt smiles and steps forward, apparently satisfied that Puck isn’t going to pass out on him or anything like that as he rubs a hand along Puck’s arm.
“I like you better like this,” he says softly. When Puck raises a questioning eyebrow, Kurt raises his other hand to tap a finger against Puck’s chest. “Heartbeat,” he explains.
“Babe,” Puck starts, “we already-”
“I know.” Kurt shrugs, though he keeps the hand pressed against Puck’s chest where he can feel the rhythm of the blood pounding along. “I know you’re alive. It’s just… reassuring.”
Puck smirks just a little, because if Kurt wants more proof he’s alive, he can totally give that to him. He leans forward, curling a hand around Kurt’s neck and closing his eyes, just before his mind seems to figure it’s had enough of letting him have control over his body for the moment. His lips move straight through Kurt’s instead of connecting, and he pulls back sharply with a groan.
“Come on,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration and trying to ignore the way Kurt is stifling laughter. “Always at the worst fucking times…” He focuses for a few moments before he can force himself back into tangibility once again. “Shut up,” he tells Kurt, who’s still got a hand muffling the giggles. “You try learning all this shit and tell me how it goes.”
“You’ll get it, Puck,” Kurt assures him, smiling widely but finally done laughing, at least. “You’re much better at this already.”
“Yeah, whatever. C’mon, let’s go home. I gotta crash, like, now.”
Kurt packs the thermos and the gun back into his bag and slings it onto his back, reaching for Puck’s hand to tug him out of the alley once he’s ready.
They make it about two steps before a ghost pops out of the building beside them, clutching a box to its chest and blinking at them like it’s shocked to see anyone else on the streets at this hour.
“Uh,” Puck starts, but he’s not sure what he wants to say other than ‘go away and stop bothering me,’ because he wasn’t kidding about being tired. “Who’re you?” It does look pretty human-shaped, at least. It’s probably a ‘who.’
The ghost stares at them for another long moment before it shifts to cradle the package under one arm and jabs a thumb into its chest. “I,” it proclaims proudly, “am the Box Ghost!”
“You’re a ghost of… boxes?” Kurt says, bewildered.
“I am your doom!” the ghost insists. “I have power over all things shipped and stored in rectangular packages! Beware!”
“Oookay then,” Puck says slowly, already stepping to the side to walk around it. “You do that, then.”
“Puck.”
“It collects boxes, babe. I’m pretty sure it won’t screw anything up before tomorrow morning. I gotta sleep.”
“Where are you going? I hold in my hands a package sent from one Gillian McGovern of Columbus, Ohio; the instrument of your untimely demise!”
“It’s not even throwing the box at us or anything. What the hell is this thing trying to do?”
“No clue, Kurt. We’ll totally work on that. Tomorrow.”
He tugs Kurt onto the main street, fishing for his keys to hand over to his boyfriend (because Puck is way too sore to drive comfortably) and ignoring the shouts that follow them all the way to the car.
“BEWARE!”