How Puck and Santana Saved Glee Club
Title: How Puck and Santana Save Glee Club
Author: lennoxave
Pairing,Character(s): Puck, Santana, Karofsky, Ensemble
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Homophobic language, some discussion of The Kiss in 2.06--if that was trigger-y for you, this might be, too
Word Count: 6,211
Spoilers: Through 2.10, "A Very Glee Christmas."
Summary: Puck and Santana get it into their heads that New Directions can't win Regionals without Kurt. They decided the best way to get him back is to get Karofsky expelled. Things don't quite go according to plan.
Author's Note: They haven't mentioned it in awhile, but I'm working under the assumption that New Directions again has to place at Regionals this year in order to stay a group. That was the impression I got at the end of season 1 (Will says, "We got another year," not, "We get to be a club." I don't know if the show is still working under this assumption, but that's what I'm going with here.
How Puck and Santana Saved Glee Club
The members of New Directions froze at the end of their number. They all looked at Mr. Schuester expectantly. This was their first time running through the song in wardrobe with full choreography.
Mr. Schuester frowned.
“You guys,” he said, “there's just . . . something not right here. The vocals sound off, like they're a little weak.”
Rachel made a sad face and opened her mouth to say something, but Mr. Schue put up a hand to stop her.
“I'm sorry, guys, but it's the truth; the group's sound has been off all week.” He paused. “Maybe you're just rusty from coming off of Winter Break; I don't know. Let's call it a day for now,” he said, looking at his watch, “and I'll think through this arrangement, and maybe we can work on something new on Monday. Okay?”
The kids muttered their assent.
“Okay. I'm sorry we're leaving rehearsal on such a downer. Have a good weekend, all right?”
Everyone went backstage to change. Most people left by the backstage doors in order to get to their lockers, but Puck and Santana were heading straight for the parking lot, so they decided to walk back out through the auditorium.
When they got back on stage, they saw Mr. Schuester sitting in the audience with his eyes closed and his head tilted back, looking like he desperately wanted to punch something.
Puck and Santana shared a look. “Mr. Schue?” Puck asked as they began walking back through the auditorium.
“Hruwah?” Mr. Schue said. He saw Puck and Santana. “Oh, sorry, guys. I guess I just kind of zoned out there.”
“Mr. Schuester?” Santana asked as she and Puck stopped in front of his table, “What was the problem with rehearsal today? Because, honestly? 'You don't sound right' isn't really helpful criticism. Coach Sylvester would have insulted us, our mothers, and our future children, or if you're Quinn, actual children, but we would have known what we did wrong.”
Mr. Schuester sighed. “I know, and I'm sorry. The problem isn't really you guys; it's me. I just haven't figured out what arrangements work with this new group.”
“How hard could it be?” Puck said. “I mean, no offense, but you've still got eleven of the same people . . .”
Mr. Schuester smiled ruefully. “You know, you guys all jockey for the solos, and I get why; it's the spotlight, the place where you can most be recognized. But it's not the most important part of the group.”
Puck and Santana exchanged surprised glances.
“The background stuff, the harmonies? Those are infinitely more important. They're harder to do, and they can really make or break a piece,” Mr. Schue said. “And Kurt was really good for that. He had--has,” he corrected, “an incredible range, and he could support any part I needed him to, from the bass all the way up to the soprano. It was really easy to get the right balance when I could stick him on whatever part needed it. Lauren's a decent singer, but she doesn't have nearly the versatility.”
“So . . . we suck because we don't have Kurt?” Santana asked.
“Not exactly. We just have to work harder on our ensemble singing. And, considering the Warblers are our competition, that's more important than ever.”
Puck snorted. “Schue, did you see their performance? No way can they compete with us.”
“But they tied with us, didn't they?” Mr. Schuester said. “We had the razzle-dazzle, but they had the substance, vocals-wise. What got them a tie was the way they sounded as an ensemble. If we want a chance at beating them, we've got to get that ensemble sound back.” He sighed again. “And that's going to be a lot harder to do without Kurt around. But don't worry,” he said, gathering up the papers on the table, “we'll figure it out.”
He grabbed his bag. “I'll see you guys later,” he said.
“Bye,” Santana said. They watched as Schuester left the auditorium.
“San?” Puck said.
“Yeah?”
“You know how we never talk about our feelings because we're total badasses and shit?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we get rid of that rule for like, five minutes?”
Santana rolled her eyes and sat on the arm of one of the seats. “That depends, how Dr. Phil is it going to get up in here?”
Puck glared at her. “I like glee,” he said flatly. “And even if you hate to admit it, I know you like it, too. And we need to place at Regionals to keep the club going.”
Santana looked at him. “So, you think we need to do something to fix this.”
“Yeah.”
“Something like find a way to get Kurt back at McKinley.”
“Yeah.”
“Don't you think if something could be done about it, Mercedes or Finn or whatever would have figured it out?”
“Santana,” Puck said, “they don't play the way we play. We're willing to get dirty to get shit done.”
She nodded. “True. We are stone-cold bitches.”
He frowned. “I'm a stone-cold stud.”
“You're a stone-cold loser,” Santana scoffed, and it was turning into one of their stupid fights, but she turned it around. “Anyway, the point is that you're right.”
“Damn straight,” he smirked.
“Shut it,” she said. “But we're the only ones who can go to the lengths we need to to get this shit done.”
“Yeah,” Puck said. “So, what will it take to get Kurt back?”
“Get rid of Karofsky. But how do we do that?”
“I'm thinking a strategic fall and a couple of hours in quick-dry cement.”
“And then you get arrested for murder and we're not really any better off than when we started,” Santana said.
“That shit won't kill you.”
“It totally will; I saw it on Grey's Anatomy.”
“Well, fine, what's your plan, then?”
Santana thought for a second, and then something clicked in her head and an evil smile spread across her face.
“Karofsky's practically got a hard-on for being a homophobic douche-bag, right?”
“Yeah?”
“He and the rest of the team beat you up just for talking about glee, so he clearly doesn't care about being on his best behavior. He wouldn't be able to resist giving shit to another guy who was out of the closet. And he'd probably start something with this kid, and he'd get expelled. For good, this time.”
“And where the hell are we going to find another gay dude?” asked Puck.
“You,” Santana replied simply.
“WHAT?” Puck didn't have anything against gay dudes, really, not anymore, but this was taking shit a little too far.
“It's perfect,” she insisted. “You're big enough that you can take care of yourself, but Dave is really going to hate that he's been sharing a locker room with you this whole time, so he's gonna freak out and try to beat you up, and you just have to make sure you're right by a teacher and a bunch of witnesses when it happens! Then he'll get expelled and Kurt will come back and everything will be fine.” She waited for Puck's response.
“No one's going to believe I'm gay,” Puck finally said.
“Why not? You've got a mohawk, that's pretty fuckin' gay.”
Puck scowled. “Think of how many chicks I've nailed. I've got a reputation.”
“Whatever.” Santana dismissed his point with a wave of her hand. “You can say you were just experimenting or something. You were trying really hard to be straight, but you've realized that you can't hide your true self or some shit like that. It'll be fine.”
“And what about when this is over? How am I gonna get chicks if I've got a reputation for liking cock?”
“We'll make out in the hallway a couple of times, and you can say you were just kidding, and we'll all laugh about it.”
Puck gave her a weary look. “This is not going to work.”
“You got any other ideas?”
He groaned. “Fine. But you are going to explain what the hell's going on to my mother, because I do not need her yelling at me to find a nice Jewish boy.”
* * *
As Mr. Schuester walked into glee on Monday, Santana kicked the back of Puck's chair.
“What the fuck?” he said, turning around.
“Come on, before we start,” she hissed.
“Now?” he asked. Mr. Schuester started talking about something in the background.
“When the hell else does anyone ever make big sappy confessions?”
“Puck? Santana?” Mr. Schue asked. Puck turned around.
“Uh . . .” Puck said. Santana kicked his chair again, harder this time, “I have an announcement to make before we start.”
“. . . Okay . . .” Mr. Schuester said, somewhat puzzled, but he made a motion for Puck to stand in front of the group.
Puck stood up and walked over by the piano. “Uh . . .” he said again, and he was a little weirded out by how nervous he was to say this thing that wasn't even true about him. But Kurt had done this, right? And no way was Kurt going to be a bigger badass than him. He looked over at Santana, hoping for some sort of encouraging look. She was glaring at him to get fucking talking, already. He should have known better.
“I, uh . . . I just wanted you all to know, I've been doing some soul-searching lately, y'know, some real deep Kabbalah-type stuff, and, uh . . . I'm gay. Like, really gay. So . . . yeah.”
New Directions was silent for a few moments.
“Dammit!” Lauren said from the back row, and that started an eruption of responses from the group.
“No way,” Tina said.
“Is every boy I pseudo-date going to wind up gay?” asked Mercedes.
“Then why the hell do you keep macking on all of my girlfriends?” Finn said.
“Now, you guys,” Rachel interjected, and the last thing Puck wanted to hear right now was Rachel Berry's defense of him, “this all really makes perfect sense. Clearly, Puck has been trying repress his attraction to men by hooking up with as many women as possible. In falsely asserting his heterosexuality, he seems to us like a man-whore, but he's really just been trying to drown out a part of himself he doesn't like.”
“Uh, yeah. That,” Puck said.
“And I, for one, am glad that you've finally come to accept yourself,” she said, and she gave him such a radiant smile, like she was so genuinely happy for him, that it made him feel a little bad about the fact that he was lying.
“Yeah, dude,” Finn said, getting up to give him a clap on the shoulder. “I mean, we're all cool with it, you know that, right?” The others all nodded in agreement.
“Right. Yeah. Thanks,” Puck said. He was looking passed Finn, though. There was one person in the room who was not assenting: Quinn. Instead, she looked furious.
“I cannot believe you!” she said suddenly, getting up from her chair. Finn jumped back from Puck, stunned.
“Quinn, I don't think--” Rachel began.
“Stay out of it, Rachel. I cannot believe you,” she said again, getting up in Puck's face. “I cannot believe you would use me like that, that you would ruin my life just so you could feel better about your masculinity or whatever bullshit excuse you have.” Quinn was on the verge of tears now. “So fuck you, Noah Puckerman. Fuck you for using me to try to escape your big gay crisis.” She stormed out of the room.
Mercedes was the first person to react. She ran out after Quinn. Puck turned to follow, because no way was he letting Quinn go on thinking that he did this to her on purpose. He got to the door before Santana caught up and grabbed his arm.
“Don't do it,” she said in a low voice. She pulled him into the hallway just outside the door and looked both ways. Neither Mercedes nor Quinn was around.
“Why the hell not?” he said, shaking her hand off of his arm.
Santana stood back and crossed her arms, giving her best bitch pose.
“You can't tell her.”
“Why the fuck not?” His voice was louder this time. Santana grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his head down so she was speaking directly into his ear.
“Because one: she's a high school girl, and she's with Mercedes right now, and if you tell Quinn, she tells Mercedes and then the whole damn school knows what we're up to by sixth period. Two: she's got a boyfriend now, lover boy. It doesn't matter what she thinks of you.”
Puck pulled his head away and glared at her. “You are such a bitch.”
“Look, you can tell her when we're done, and you can blame everything on me. But for now? You can't say a word about it.”
Puck didn't reply. He just kicked the recycling bin next to them down the hall and walked back into the choir room.
* * *
“How's it going, Big Gay Al?” Santana said as she sat down next to Puck at lunch the next day.
“Rachel keeps trying to give me pamphlets she stole from Miss Pillsbury . . . Mrs. Pillsbury . . . whatever, it doesn't matter. Either way, that shit's starting to get annoying.”
“Any idea if Super-Douche has heard about it yet?” Santana asked. Super-Douche was their code name for Karofsky. It wasn't very creative, sure, but it was accurate.
“I dunno. We have practice after school today, though. I'll probably hear about it then.” Puck took a sip of his soda. “I sort of can't wait for him to find out. I've wanted to slug somebody all day.”
“Oh, you can't hit him,” Santana said, stealing a fry off of Puck's plate. She looked both ways for Coach Sylvester before popping it into her mouth.
“What?”
“Puck, you'll get sent back to juvie if you get into a fight.”
“So what, I have to sit there and take it?”
“Basically, yeah,” Santana said. “Look, just pull some Gandhi shit or whatever. Letting your ass get kicked for the greater good. I mean, cover the important parts,” she glanced at his crotch briefly, “but you can't hurt the guy. You've got to make sure you get seen when he starts beating you up, or this will never work.”
“This plan sucks,” Puck said, dejectedly taking a bite of his burger.
“Oh, we also need to stop having sex.”
He almost spit his food out all over her. “What? Why?”
She looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You're supposed to be gay, dumbass. We can't be all touchy-feely flirty and shit and still have people believe that.”
“This is seriously the worst plan ever.”
Santana stole another fry. “Think of it this way: the sooner you bait Karofsky, the sooner you can get back in my pants.”
Puck glared at her. “I hate you,” he said. “I really--”
He was interrupted by the grape slushy that was poured over his head.
“Thought we'd get you a purple one this time, fag,” Karofsky said, and he slammed the empty cup on the table.
“You little--” Santana started to say, but he and Azimio were gone before she could finish her threat.
“Well, I guess they've heard,” Puck said.
“Yeah. Let's get you cleaned up.”
* * *
The plan, such as it was, was this:
Puck would skip seventh period to rig Karofsky's locker with rubber cement and jam the lock with wire. He figured all of that would take some time to undo, and make Karofsky late for practice. Puck would walk into the locker room a few minutes late, and the two would get into a fight. Coach Beiste (as Puck had found out several times) left the guys to do warm-ups on the field and checked the locker room for stragglers five minutes after practice was supposed to start. She would walk in, see Karofsky beating Puck up, and Karofsky would get expelled, for good this time.
At this point in his life, Puck should have realized that his plans never worked out.
He checked his phone. It was 3:33. Taking a deep breath, and adjusting his jock strap (That had been Santana's idea, and even though it was indicative of her one-track mind, her concern about it had almost been sweet. You know, for Santana.), Puck walked into the locker room.
Karofsky stood at his locker, furiously trying to pull bits of wire out of the lock.
“'Sup, douche-bag,” Puck said as he passed, heading for his own locker.
He heard a smash behind him that sounded like Karofsky kicking a locker.
“This was you, wasn't it, Puckerman?” he shouted. Puck could hear Karofsky starting to run to catch up to him. He instinctively ducked into a row of lockers, the reptile part of his brain forgetting about the plan. He glanced behind himself. A wall. Shit, he'd picked a dead-end row.
“What makes you think that?” Puck asked, hoping that if he kept Karofsky talking, he could shorten the number of punches he'd take.
Karosky suddenly appeared in the aisle.
“Well, since your boyfriend's gone,” he sneered, “you had to get your kicks somehow, huh? You fucked up my locker so you could get a private show of me changing, yeah?”
“Okay, first of all,” Puck said, and he was faintly aware of the fact that, of all the things he should have been challenging about Karofsky's statement, this was probably the least important, “Kurt was not my boyfriend.”
“Your boy, Kurt,” Karofsky parroted back to him what he had said before Sectionals.
“My friend, Kurt,” Puck corrected. “Just 'cause two dudes are gay doesn't mean they're gay for each other.”
Something flickered across Karofsky's face at this, but the hateful sneer was back before Puck could figure out what it was.
“Still doesn't mean you haven't taken advantage of years in a locker room with a bunch of naked guys, does it? Does it get you off at night?” Karofsky said. He had been advancing toward Puck the whole time, and now Puck had to resist the urge to flinch as his back hit the wall.
“Look, I don't know where the fuck you get your ideas about gay dudes from, but you are messed up in the head,” Puck said. Karofsky was only a few inches away from him now.
“Yeah? Well, I'm not the fag,” Karofsky spat out, and the tone of his voice triggered Puck's fight-or-flight instinct. This was the worst idea ever, he thought, and he ducked down to his right to try to escape underneath Karofsky's arms.
Instead, Karofsky grabbed him by his letterman jacket and pulled him backwards. They had somehow switched around, and now Karofsky was the one with his back to the wall. Puck, off balance from being spun, crashed into Karofsky.
As he pushed himself off the wall to regain his balance, Karofsky put a hand behind his head.
And pulled him closer.
And kissed him.
Puck felt his eyes grow wide, and all of a sudden a thousand things that hadn't made sense did. Karofsky's pathological targeting of Kurt. The death threat. The--oh god, he did something to Kurt, didn't he? That was the only explanation for Kurt's reaction. The kid had never so much as whimpered when Puck threw him into a dumpster, had never seemed frightened when the jocks approached him, but one guy pushing him into lockers reduced him to tears and had him shaking like a leaf all the time? That son of a bitch.
Puck had all of those thoughts in an instant, and when the last one finally settled, he pushed Karofsky away.
“You fucking psycho!” he yelled. That look he'd seen cross Karofsky's face earlier was back, but it settled this time. It was a mixture of anger, fear, self-loathing, and . . . shame. There were tears in his eyes, but he was clearly fighting them back.
“Fuck you,” Karofsky yelled back and tried to push his way passed, but Puck pushed him back into the wall.
“What did you do to him?” Puck snarled. “What did you do?”
“What the hell is going on here?” a voice bellowed from behind them. Puck turned his head to see Coach Beiste. He didn't think he had ever seen a more beautiful woman in his life.
Karofsky looked like he wanted to bolt, but he looked at Beiste, and then at Puck, and then at Beiste again, and it was like something inside of him just crumbled. He sank down the wall, shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
“Oh, what the fucking fuck,” Puck said, because dude was crying and he couldn't even deal with crying chicks, much less crying dudes, and particularly a crying dude who he strongly suspected deserved to be punched in the face.
“What the hell happened, Puckerman?” Beiste asked. She was next to him, now, and looking at Karofsky with great concern. He pulled her back a few steps and spoke carefully under his breath.
“Karofsky just kissed me,” he said.
She just looked at him.
“David Karofsky?” she asked, disbelieving.
“Yes.”
“The same David Karofsky who was kicked out of school for bullying Kurt Hummel?”
“Yes.”
Beiste frowned at him. “You're going to have to do some more explaining here.”
So Puck told her all about the plan, about the lying and the baiting and how he wasn't actually gay (and he could have sworn that revelation made Karofsky hug his knees a little bit closer to his chest). Beiste stared at him when he was done.
“That is the worst plan I've ever heard,” she said.
“Yeah, I realize that now,” he replied.
“So, Karofsky kissed you.”
“Yeah.”
Beiste thought for a second, then took a few tentative steps forward toward Karofsky.
“Dave?” she asked quietly. “Dave, do you maybe want to talk to us about something?”
Karofsky's eyes looked like they weren't registering his surroundings. “I can't be,” he whispered to himself. “I just can't.”
“Puckerman, do you have your phone on you?” Beiste asked.
“Yeah.”
“Call Figgins' office. Get him and Emma Pillsbury to come down here ASAP.”
Puck had the main office's number in his phone from the many times he had called in posing as his father to excuse himself from school. Figgins and Ms. Pillsbury were there in a matter of minutes.
While Beiste explained the situation to them, Puck stood staring at Karofsky, who had finally stopped crying, but didn't look like he was all there.
“Dude,” Puck said, and he tried his very best to keep his voice from being harsh, because although whatever internal bullshit Dave was going through right now was still no excuse for all the things he had done, it felt just plain mean to yell at a guy who was basically curled up in the fetal position. “Dude, seriously. This is not the way to do shit.”
Karofsky didn't lift his head, didn't even acknowledge that Puck had spoken. The look in his eyes was haunted and far away.
Puck looked at the broken kid in front of him, and there was a part of him that remembered every time he'd ever teased Finn about glee, every time he'd pushed Kurt around, every time he'd called something “gay,” and that part of him that was remembering? Fucking ached, because he wasn't that guy anymore, hadn't been for a while, but he couldn't help but wonder how much of this pile of suffering before him was his fault.
Maybe he shouldn't just be nicer to Jews.
“Puck?” Ms. Pillsbury said. He turned around. “We're going to call Dave's parents and get him taken care of, okay?” Puck nodded.
“Take the rest of practice off,” Beiste said. Puck nodded again; he didn't feel much like talking.
“And if you could refrain from telling anyone what happened?” Ms. Pillsbury said. “For Dave's sake?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Puck said. He walked passed the adults and out of the locker room.
* * *
All things considered, Puck wasn't terribly surprised when he got called out of his first hour class to go talk to Ms. Pillsbury.
“Hi, Puck, have a seat,” she said when he walked into her office. He sat down.
“I just wanted to let you know how Dave is doing, since you seemed a little spooked about everything that happened yesterday.”
“Doesn't that break some sort of confidentiality thing?” Puck asked, although he'd always wondered how the windows in her office didn't.
“His parents said it was fine,” Ms Pillsbury said. “Since you were the one that helped him and all.”
Puck raised an eyebrow at her. “That's not really--”
“I know,” she nodded, “but we let Dave tell his parents what happened, and we didn't have the heart to fill in the more . . . uncomfortable details. Unless . . . I mean, if you view what happened as an assault, we can of course take measures--”
“No!” Puck cut her off. “No, dude had other shit--stuff, sorry, going on. I'm not gonna make a whole thing out of it.”
“Okay. Well, anyway, Dave's in the hospital now.”
“The hospital?”
“Yes. They admitted him to the psych ward because he was exhibiting . . . severe depressive symptoms.”
Puck thought about what that could mean. “Was he . . . y'know, suicidal?”
Ms. Pillsbury sighed. “That part I can't tell you. But his parents have seen him, and he's doing better than he had been.”
“And his parents?” asked Puck. “They're cool with him?”
“They didn't seem thrilled,” Ms. Pillsbury admitted, “but they're being supportive, and that's the most important thing for now.”
“That's good.”
“He'll probably be going home soon, but he's withdrawing from McKinley, at least for the rest of this year.”
“Why?”
“I can't really tell you that either, but you know the students at this school, Puck. Dave's finally been forced to confront something about himself that he hated. He's not going to be able to hide that again. And when the crowd he used to hang out with finds out . . .”
“Yeah,” Puck said, shaking his head, “I get what you're saying.”
“So,” Ms. Pillsbury said, “that's where we stand.”
“Okay. Thanks, Ms. P., for letting me know.” Puck stood up to leave.
“Puck?” Ms. Pillsbury asked. “I could tell yesterday was hard on you, and if you need to talk about anything . . .”
“I'm cool,” he said. She looked at him suspiciously. “Seriously.”
“All right. But before you leave,” she said, “I feel like I should probably tell you that Coach Beiste told us what you were up to, and while I understand that your heart was in the right place . . .”
“. . . that was the worst plan ever, yeah, I figured that one out on my own,” Puck said.
Ms. Pillsbury smiled at him. “Okay. As long as you're aware.”
* * *
Santana caught up to him at lunch. “So, Karofsky was a big sneaky gay the whole time, huh?”
Puck jumped a little. “How the hell did you find that out?”
“Oh, the whole school knows by now,” Santana said, and she made a move for one of his mini corn dogs. Annoyed, he lightly slapped her on the wrist, but she took one anyway.
“Explain,” he commanded.
“I guess he called Azimio last night from the hospital--”
“You know about the nervous breakdown?”
“Everyone knows, Puck. Anyway, he came out, said he couldn't handle lying anymore or whatever, and Azimio, unsurprisingly, freaked out.”
Puck rolled his eyes. “So he told everybody at school because he's a giant tool?”
“Yup.” Santana looked at him. “So, what really happened yesterday?”
“How much do you know?” he asked back.
“Just what Azimio was telling people. You confronted Karofsky in the locker room, got in a fight, and he broke down. Oh, and everybody knows you're not actually gay, too, although Azimio thinks it was still pretty gay to do all of this for glee club.”
“That's basically the whole story,” Puck said, ignoring the last bit. He wasn't exactly sure why he was protecting Karofsky, but if Kurt hadn't told people anything, he certainly wasn't going to, especially when Kurt had been way more freaked out by the whole thing than he had.
“You don't look too beat up,” Santana said.
“Yeah, well, it was a pretty lame fight. Just some pushing and stuff.” Santana still looked dubious. “I said some shit to him, I don't even remember what, but it triggered him. And then Beiste showed up, and he was trapped, and he just lost it.” Well, he wasn't lying too much.
That seemed to satisfy her. “Oh, but I didn't tell you the best part. Azimio's talking to a bunch of Cheerios, right? And Quinn and I are at our lockers just rolling our eyes at him, when Mercedes comes up to talk to Quinn and hears this jackass call Dave a fag.”
Puck smirked. “I bet that didn't end well.”
“It was epic. She went off, about how someone who's actually a friend shouldn't give a damn, and what the hell business was it of his, anyway? And I guess their families go to the same church, because she started quoting sermons on tolerance their pastor had given and bible passages and all sorts of stuff, and pointed out that he would know this shit if he actually ever fucking went to church. She ended by saying that if she ever heard about him saying any of his homophobic bullshit ever again, she was going to castrate him with a children's safety scissors. He looked terrified.”
“Good,” Puck said. “He deserved it.”
“Word.”
“Have you heard that Dave's not coming back this year?”
“No, but I can't say I'm surprised.”
“I'll text Kurt, let him--” Puck stopped. He and Kurt didn't really talk much. That might be weird. “I'll text Finn and tell him to tell Kurt.”
“Do you think Kurt'll come back?” Santana asked, suddenly quiet. It wasn't like, even without Karofsky around, McKinley was a stronghold of gay-friendliness. They hadn't really thought this far ahead in their plan.
Puck pulled out his phone. “I guess we can only hope.” He'd just sent off his text when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” Quinn said when he looked up. “Can we talk for a second?”
“Sure,” Puck said. They both looked pointedly at Santana. Instead of leaving, she took a sip of Puck's soda. Puck rolled his eyes and got up to talk to Quinn away from the table. He hoped, as he saw Santana popping another corn dog into her mouth, it would be worth sacrificing his lunch over.
“So, I just wanted to apologize to you,” Quinn said. “For the other day.”
“No worries,” Puck said. “We're cool.”
“We're not,” Quinn pointed out, “but I can admit when you do something sweet. Even when it's stupid.”
“Well, thanks, I guess,” Puck said.
Quinn took a careful look around the cafeteria. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed Puck on the cheek.
“This doesn't change anything,” she said at his smile.
“I know,” he agreed, but he was still smiling at glee that afternoon.
* * *
Kurt didn't come back right away; he'd told Finn that he needed to think things through. But a day after checking his son into the hospital, Mr. Karofsky threatened McKinley with a law suit, saying that not enough was being done to curb the bullying at the school that had led to Dave's breakdown. And while Principal Sue would have flat out laughed in his face for it, given that one of the main bullies at the school was his own son, Figgins's complete lack of backbone was actually useful for once; by the end of the week, a severe no-tolerance bullying policy was put in place. Mr. Karofsky dropped his law suit, and on Monday, Kurt Hummel was back in school.
“So, word on the street is that I have you to thank for this,” Kurt said, coming up to Puck at his locker after school.
“And Santana,” Puck replied. “It was mostly her idea. She'd be pissed if I took all the credit.”
“And I have already thanked her,” Kurt said, “but I feel like you were the one with the most to lose in this venture, and I . . .” Kurt looked apprehensive for a minute. “I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you, actually.”
“You didn't know I cared?” Puck mocked. It was totally mocking, and not teasing. There was in no way a genuine smile on his face when he said it. Not at all.
“Yeah,” Kurt said. “And I know you mostly did it for glee, but . . . thanks, all the same.”
“No problem,” Puck said. He took his backpack out of his locker and Kurt turned to go, but something that had been bothering Puck took that moment to make itself known.
“Kurt?” he said. Kurt turned back at him. “Look, if anyone should know what really happened that day, it should be you.” Looking carefully around them for gossip-mongers, Puck told Kurt the real story.
“Oh my god,” Kurt said when he got to the kiss. “I can't believe he--”
“--did that again?” Puck finished. A look of shock crossed Kurt's usually immaculately composed face.
“How did you know?” he asked quietly, not meeting Puck's eyes.
“Everything just made so much more sense if something happened between you guys. Like, why the fuck would Karofsky make a death threat? And why were you so much more freaked out by his bullying than anyone else's? There had to be something else going on.”
Kurt eyed him strangely. “You're smarter than people give you credit for, Noah Puckerman.”
Puck rolled his eyes. “I get a lot of chicks. You can't get laid that often if you aren't pretty good at reading another person and knowing what makes them tick.”
There was a brief moment of silence between them.
“That's all it was though?” Puck asked. “He didn't like, try to pull some freaky shit?”
“No,” Kurt said. “And I get why he did it, you know? He was terrified, and frustrated, and he hated himself, and--”
“That doesn't make it right.”
“No,” Kurt agreed, “but it doesn't mean he's a monster, either. He's just . . .”
“. . . super fucked-up,” Puck supplied.
“Yeah,” Kurt said. “But I'm over it. I've got a boyfriend now, at Dalton, and--”
“Wait,” Puck said. “You've got a boyfriend at the boarding school you just left.”
“Yes.”
“And you left?”
Kurt looked confused. “Well, yeah. My best friends are here and--”
“Do you realize the golden opportunity you gave up?” Puck asked, still in disbelief. “Living together. Unsupervised. Do you know what I'd give to be at a boarding school with a bunch of hot chicks? Do you know how much ass you're missing out on?”
Kurt rolled his eyes as Puck closed his locker, and the two walked to rehearsal together, arguing the merits of the instantaneous booty call versus absence making the heart grow fonder.
Author: lennoxave
Pairing,Character(s): Puck, Santana, Karofsky, Ensemble
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Homophobic language, some discussion of The Kiss in 2.06--if that was trigger-y for you, this might be, too
Word Count: 6,211
Spoilers: Through 2.10, "A Very Glee Christmas."
Summary: Puck and Santana get it into their heads that New Directions can't win Regionals without Kurt. They decided the best way to get him back is to get Karofsky expelled. Things don't quite go according to plan.
Author's Note: They haven't mentioned it in awhile, but I'm working under the assumption that New Directions again has to place at Regionals this year in order to stay a group. That was the impression I got at the end of season 1 (Will says, "We got another year," not, "We get to be a club." I don't know if the show is still working under this assumption, but that's what I'm going with here.
How Puck and Santana Saved Glee Club
The members of New Directions froze at the end of their number. They all looked at Mr. Schuester expectantly. This was their first time running through the song in wardrobe with full choreography.
Mr. Schuester frowned.
“You guys,” he said, “there's just . . . something not right here. The vocals sound off, like they're a little weak.”
Rachel made a sad face and opened her mouth to say something, but Mr. Schue put up a hand to stop her.
“I'm sorry, guys, but it's the truth; the group's sound has been off all week.” He paused. “Maybe you're just rusty from coming off of Winter Break; I don't know. Let's call it a day for now,” he said, looking at his watch, “and I'll think through this arrangement, and maybe we can work on something new on Monday. Okay?”
The kids muttered their assent.
“Okay. I'm sorry we're leaving rehearsal on such a downer. Have a good weekend, all right?”
Everyone went backstage to change. Most people left by the backstage doors in order to get to their lockers, but Puck and Santana were heading straight for the parking lot, so they decided to walk back out through the auditorium.
When they got back on stage, they saw Mr. Schuester sitting in the audience with his eyes closed and his head tilted back, looking like he desperately wanted to punch something.
Puck and Santana shared a look. “Mr. Schue?” Puck asked as they began walking back through the auditorium.
“Hruwah?” Mr. Schue said. He saw Puck and Santana. “Oh, sorry, guys. I guess I just kind of zoned out there.”
“Mr. Schuester?” Santana asked as she and Puck stopped in front of his table, “What was the problem with rehearsal today? Because, honestly? 'You don't sound right' isn't really helpful criticism. Coach Sylvester would have insulted us, our mothers, and our future children, or if you're Quinn, actual children, but we would have known what we did wrong.”
Mr. Schuester sighed. “I know, and I'm sorry. The problem isn't really you guys; it's me. I just haven't figured out what arrangements work with this new group.”
“How hard could it be?” Puck said. “I mean, no offense, but you've still got eleven of the same people . . .”
Mr. Schuester smiled ruefully. “You know, you guys all jockey for the solos, and I get why; it's the spotlight, the place where you can most be recognized. But it's not the most important part of the group.”
Puck and Santana exchanged surprised glances.
“The background stuff, the harmonies? Those are infinitely more important. They're harder to do, and they can really make or break a piece,” Mr. Schue said. “And Kurt was really good for that. He had--has,” he corrected, “an incredible range, and he could support any part I needed him to, from the bass all the way up to the soprano. It was really easy to get the right balance when I could stick him on whatever part needed it. Lauren's a decent singer, but she doesn't have nearly the versatility.”
“So . . . we suck because we don't have Kurt?” Santana asked.
“Not exactly. We just have to work harder on our ensemble singing. And, considering the Warblers are our competition, that's more important than ever.”
Puck snorted. “Schue, did you see their performance? No way can they compete with us.”
“But they tied with us, didn't they?” Mr. Schuester said. “We had the razzle-dazzle, but they had the substance, vocals-wise. What got them a tie was the way they sounded as an ensemble. If we want a chance at beating them, we've got to get that ensemble sound back.” He sighed again. “And that's going to be a lot harder to do without Kurt around. But don't worry,” he said, gathering up the papers on the table, “we'll figure it out.”
He grabbed his bag. “I'll see you guys later,” he said.
“Bye,” Santana said. They watched as Schuester left the auditorium.
“San?” Puck said.
“Yeah?”
“You know how we never talk about our feelings because we're total badasses and shit?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we get rid of that rule for like, five minutes?”
Santana rolled her eyes and sat on the arm of one of the seats. “That depends, how Dr. Phil is it going to get up in here?”
Puck glared at her. “I like glee,” he said flatly. “And even if you hate to admit it, I know you like it, too. And we need to place at Regionals to keep the club going.”
Santana looked at him. “So, you think we need to do something to fix this.”
“Yeah.”
“Something like find a way to get Kurt back at McKinley.”
“Yeah.”
“Don't you think if something could be done about it, Mercedes or Finn or whatever would have figured it out?”
“Santana,” Puck said, “they don't play the way we play. We're willing to get dirty to get shit done.”
She nodded. “True. We are stone-cold bitches.”
He frowned. “I'm a stone-cold stud.”
“You're a stone-cold loser,” Santana scoffed, and it was turning into one of their stupid fights, but she turned it around. “Anyway, the point is that you're right.”
“Damn straight,” he smirked.
“Shut it,” she said. “But we're the only ones who can go to the lengths we need to to get this shit done.”
“Yeah,” Puck said. “So, what will it take to get Kurt back?”
“Get rid of Karofsky. But how do we do that?”
“I'm thinking a strategic fall and a couple of hours in quick-dry cement.”
“And then you get arrested for murder and we're not really any better off than when we started,” Santana said.
“That shit won't kill you.”
“It totally will; I saw it on Grey's Anatomy.”
“Well, fine, what's your plan, then?”
Santana thought for a second, and then something clicked in her head and an evil smile spread across her face.
“Karofsky's practically got a hard-on for being a homophobic douche-bag, right?”
“Yeah?”
“He and the rest of the team beat you up just for talking about glee, so he clearly doesn't care about being on his best behavior. He wouldn't be able to resist giving shit to another guy who was out of the closet. And he'd probably start something with this kid, and he'd get expelled. For good, this time.”
“And where the hell are we going to find another gay dude?” asked Puck.
“You,” Santana replied simply.
“WHAT?” Puck didn't have anything against gay dudes, really, not anymore, but this was taking shit a little too far.
“It's perfect,” she insisted. “You're big enough that you can take care of yourself, but Dave is really going to hate that he's been sharing a locker room with you this whole time, so he's gonna freak out and try to beat you up, and you just have to make sure you're right by a teacher and a bunch of witnesses when it happens! Then he'll get expelled and Kurt will come back and everything will be fine.” She waited for Puck's response.
“No one's going to believe I'm gay,” Puck finally said.
“Why not? You've got a mohawk, that's pretty fuckin' gay.”
Puck scowled. “Think of how many chicks I've nailed. I've got a reputation.”
“Whatever.” Santana dismissed his point with a wave of her hand. “You can say you were just experimenting or something. You were trying really hard to be straight, but you've realized that you can't hide your true self or some shit like that. It'll be fine.”
“And what about when this is over? How am I gonna get chicks if I've got a reputation for liking cock?”
“We'll make out in the hallway a couple of times, and you can say you were just kidding, and we'll all laugh about it.”
Puck gave her a weary look. “This is not going to work.”
“You got any other ideas?”
He groaned. “Fine. But you are going to explain what the hell's going on to my mother, because I do not need her yelling at me to find a nice Jewish boy.”
* * *
As Mr. Schuester walked into glee on Monday, Santana kicked the back of Puck's chair.
“What the fuck?” he said, turning around.
“Come on, before we start,” she hissed.
“Now?” he asked. Mr. Schuester started talking about something in the background.
“When the hell else does anyone ever make big sappy confessions?”
“Puck? Santana?” Mr. Schue asked. Puck turned around.
“Uh . . .” Puck said. Santana kicked his chair again, harder this time, “I have an announcement to make before we start.”
“. . . Okay . . .” Mr. Schuester said, somewhat puzzled, but he made a motion for Puck to stand in front of the group.
Puck stood up and walked over by the piano. “Uh . . .” he said again, and he was a little weirded out by how nervous he was to say this thing that wasn't even true about him. But Kurt had done this, right? And no way was Kurt going to be a bigger badass than him. He looked over at Santana, hoping for some sort of encouraging look. She was glaring at him to get fucking talking, already. He should have known better.
“I, uh . . . I just wanted you all to know, I've been doing some soul-searching lately, y'know, some real deep Kabbalah-type stuff, and, uh . . . I'm gay. Like, really gay. So . . . yeah.”
New Directions was silent for a few moments.
“Dammit!” Lauren said from the back row, and that started an eruption of responses from the group.
“No way,” Tina said.
“Is every boy I pseudo-date going to wind up gay?” asked Mercedes.
“Then why the hell do you keep macking on all of my girlfriends?” Finn said.
“Now, you guys,” Rachel interjected, and the last thing Puck wanted to hear right now was Rachel Berry's defense of him, “this all really makes perfect sense. Clearly, Puck has been trying repress his attraction to men by hooking up with as many women as possible. In falsely asserting his heterosexuality, he seems to us like a man-whore, but he's really just been trying to drown out a part of himself he doesn't like.”
“Uh, yeah. That,” Puck said.
“And I, for one, am glad that you've finally come to accept yourself,” she said, and she gave him such a radiant smile, like she was so genuinely happy for him, that it made him feel a little bad about the fact that he was lying.
“Yeah, dude,” Finn said, getting up to give him a clap on the shoulder. “I mean, we're all cool with it, you know that, right?” The others all nodded in agreement.
“Right. Yeah. Thanks,” Puck said. He was looking passed Finn, though. There was one person in the room who was not assenting: Quinn. Instead, she looked furious.
“I cannot believe you!” she said suddenly, getting up from her chair. Finn jumped back from Puck, stunned.
“Quinn, I don't think--” Rachel began.
“Stay out of it, Rachel. I cannot believe you,” she said again, getting up in Puck's face. “I cannot believe you would use me like that, that you would ruin my life just so you could feel better about your masculinity or whatever bullshit excuse you have.” Quinn was on the verge of tears now. “So fuck you, Noah Puckerman. Fuck you for using me to try to escape your big gay crisis.” She stormed out of the room.
Mercedes was the first person to react. She ran out after Quinn. Puck turned to follow, because no way was he letting Quinn go on thinking that he did this to her on purpose. He got to the door before Santana caught up and grabbed his arm.
“Don't do it,” she said in a low voice. She pulled him into the hallway just outside the door and looked both ways. Neither Mercedes nor Quinn was around.
“Why the hell not?” he said, shaking her hand off of his arm.
Santana stood back and crossed her arms, giving her best bitch pose.
“You can't tell her.”
“Why the fuck not?” His voice was louder this time. Santana grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his head down so she was speaking directly into his ear.
“Because one: she's a high school girl, and she's with Mercedes right now, and if you tell Quinn, she tells Mercedes and then the whole damn school knows what we're up to by sixth period. Two: she's got a boyfriend now, lover boy. It doesn't matter what she thinks of you.”
Puck pulled his head away and glared at her. “You are such a bitch.”
“Look, you can tell her when we're done, and you can blame everything on me. But for now? You can't say a word about it.”
Puck didn't reply. He just kicked the recycling bin next to them down the hall and walked back into the choir room.
* * *
“How's it going, Big Gay Al?” Santana said as she sat down next to Puck at lunch the next day.
“Rachel keeps trying to give me pamphlets she stole from Miss Pillsbury . . . Mrs. Pillsbury . . . whatever, it doesn't matter. Either way, that shit's starting to get annoying.”
“Any idea if Super-Douche has heard about it yet?” Santana asked. Super-Douche was their code name for Karofsky. It wasn't very creative, sure, but it was accurate.
“I dunno. We have practice after school today, though. I'll probably hear about it then.” Puck took a sip of his soda. “I sort of can't wait for him to find out. I've wanted to slug somebody all day.”
“Oh, you can't hit him,” Santana said, stealing a fry off of Puck's plate. She looked both ways for Coach Sylvester before popping it into her mouth.
“What?”
“Puck, you'll get sent back to juvie if you get into a fight.”
“So what, I have to sit there and take it?”
“Basically, yeah,” Santana said. “Look, just pull some Gandhi shit or whatever. Letting your ass get kicked for the greater good. I mean, cover the important parts,” she glanced at his crotch briefly, “but you can't hurt the guy. You've got to make sure you get seen when he starts beating you up, or this will never work.”
“This plan sucks,” Puck said, dejectedly taking a bite of his burger.
“Oh, we also need to stop having sex.”
He almost spit his food out all over her. “What? Why?”
She looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You're supposed to be gay, dumbass. We can't be all touchy-feely flirty and shit and still have people believe that.”
“This is seriously the worst plan ever.”
Santana stole another fry. “Think of it this way: the sooner you bait Karofsky, the sooner you can get back in my pants.”
Puck glared at her. “I hate you,” he said. “I really--”
He was interrupted by the grape slushy that was poured over his head.
“Thought we'd get you a purple one this time, fag,” Karofsky said, and he slammed the empty cup on the table.
“You little--” Santana started to say, but he and Azimio were gone before she could finish her threat.
“Well, I guess they've heard,” Puck said.
“Yeah. Let's get you cleaned up.”
* * *
The plan, such as it was, was this:
Puck would skip seventh period to rig Karofsky's locker with rubber cement and jam the lock with wire. He figured all of that would take some time to undo, and make Karofsky late for practice. Puck would walk into the locker room a few minutes late, and the two would get into a fight. Coach Beiste (as Puck had found out several times) left the guys to do warm-ups on the field and checked the locker room for stragglers five minutes after practice was supposed to start. She would walk in, see Karofsky beating Puck up, and Karofsky would get expelled, for good this time.
At this point in his life, Puck should have realized that his plans never worked out.
He checked his phone. It was 3:33. Taking a deep breath, and adjusting his jock strap (That had been Santana's idea, and even though it was indicative of her one-track mind, her concern about it had almost been sweet. You know, for Santana.), Puck walked into the locker room.
Karofsky stood at his locker, furiously trying to pull bits of wire out of the lock.
“'Sup, douche-bag,” Puck said as he passed, heading for his own locker.
He heard a smash behind him that sounded like Karofsky kicking a locker.
“This was you, wasn't it, Puckerman?” he shouted. Puck could hear Karofsky starting to run to catch up to him. He instinctively ducked into a row of lockers, the reptile part of his brain forgetting about the plan. He glanced behind himself. A wall. Shit, he'd picked a dead-end row.
“What makes you think that?” Puck asked, hoping that if he kept Karofsky talking, he could shorten the number of punches he'd take.
Karosky suddenly appeared in the aisle.
“Well, since your boyfriend's gone,” he sneered, “you had to get your kicks somehow, huh? You fucked up my locker so you could get a private show of me changing, yeah?”
“Okay, first of all,” Puck said, and he was faintly aware of the fact that, of all the things he should have been challenging about Karofsky's statement, this was probably the least important, “Kurt was not my boyfriend.”
“Your boy, Kurt,” Karofsky parroted back to him what he had said before Sectionals.
“My friend, Kurt,” Puck corrected. “Just 'cause two dudes are gay doesn't mean they're gay for each other.”
Something flickered across Karofsky's face at this, but the hateful sneer was back before Puck could figure out what it was.
“Still doesn't mean you haven't taken advantage of years in a locker room with a bunch of naked guys, does it? Does it get you off at night?” Karofsky said. He had been advancing toward Puck the whole time, and now Puck had to resist the urge to flinch as his back hit the wall.
“Look, I don't know where the fuck you get your ideas about gay dudes from, but you are messed up in the head,” Puck said. Karofsky was only a few inches away from him now.
“Yeah? Well, I'm not the fag,” Karofsky spat out, and the tone of his voice triggered Puck's fight-or-flight instinct. This was the worst idea ever, he thought, and he ducked down to his right to try to escape underneath Karofsky's arms.
Instead, Karofsky grabbed him by his letterman jacket and pulled him backwards. They had somehow switched around, and now Karofsky was the one with his back to the wall. Puck, off balance from being spun, crashed into Karofsky.
As he pushed himself off the wall to regain his balance, Karofsky put a hand behind his head.
And pulled him closer.
And kissed him.
Puck felt his eyes grow wide, and all of a sudden a thousand things that hadn't made sense did. Karofsky's pathological targeting of Kurt. The death threat. The--oh god, he did something to Kurt, didn't he? That was the only explanation for Kurt's reaction. The kid had never so much as whimpered when Puck threw him into a dumpster, had never seemed frightened when the jocks approached him, but one guy pushing him into lockers reduced him to tears and had him shaking like a leaf all the time? That son of a bitch.
Puck had all of those thoughts in an instant, and when the last one finally settled, he pushed Karofsky away.
“You fucking psycho!” he yelled. That look he'd seen cross Karofsky's face earlier was back, but it settled this time. It was a mixture of anger, fear, self-loathing, and . . . shame. There were tears in his eyes, but he was clearly fighting them back.
“Fuck you,” Karofsky yelled back and tried to push his way passed, but Puck pushed him back into the wall.
“What did you do to him?” Puck snarled. “What did you do?”
“What the hell is going on here?” a voice bellowed from behind them. Puck turned his head to see Coach Beiste. He didn't think he had ever seen a more beautiful woman in his life.
Karofsky looked like he wanted to bolt, but he looked at Beiste, and then at Puck, and then at Beiste again, and it was like something inside of him just crumbled. He sank down the wall, shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
“Oh, what the fucking fuck,” Puck said, because dude was crying and he couldn't even deal with crying chicks, much less crying dudes, and particularly a crying dude who he strongly suspected deserved to be punched in the face.
“What the hell happened, Puckerman?” Beiste asked. She was next to him, now, and looking at Karofsky with great concern. He pulled her back a few steps and spoke carefully under his breath.
“Karofsky just kissed me,” he said.
She just looked at him.
“David Karofsky?” she asked, disbelieving.
“Yes.”
“The same David Karofsky who was kicked out of school for bullying Kurt Hummel?”
“Yes.”
Beiste frowned at him. “You're going to have to do some more explaining here.”
So Puck told her all about the plan, about the lying and the baiting and how he wasn't actually gay (and he could have sworn that revelation made Karofsky hug his knees a little bit closer to his chest). Beiste stared at him when he was done.
“That is the worst plan I've ever heard,” she said.
“Yeah, I realize that now,” he replied.
“So, Karofsky kissed you.”
“Yeah.”
Beiste thought for a second, then took a few tentative steps forward toward Karofsky.
“Dave?” she asked quietly. “Dave, do you maybe want to talk to us about something?”
Karofsky's eyes looked like they weren't registering his surroundings. “I can't be,” he whispered to himself. “I just can't.”
“Puckerman, do you have your phone on you?” Beiste asked.
“Yeah.”
“Call Figgins' office. Get him and Emma Pillsbury to come down here ASAP.”
Puck had the main office's number in his phone from the many times he had called in posing as his father to excuse himself from school. Figgins and Ms. Pillsbury were there in a matter of minutes.
While Beiste explained the situation to them, Puck stood staring at Karofsky, who had finally stopped crying, but didn't look like he was all there.
“Dude,” Puck said, and he tried his very best to keep his voice from being harsh, because although whatever internal bullshit Dave was going through right now was still no excuse for all the things he had done, it felt just plain mean to yell at a guy who was basically curled up in the fetal position. “Dude, seriously. This is not the way to do shit.”
Karofsky didn't lift his head, didn't even acknowledge that Puck had spoken. The look in his eyes was haunted and far away.
Puck looked at the broken kid in front of him, and there was a part of him that remembered every time he'd ever teased Finn about glee, every time he'd pushed Kurt around, every time he'd called something “gay,” and that part of him that was remembering? Fucking ached, because he wasn't that guy anymore, hadn't been for a while, but he couldn't help but wonder how much of this pile of suffering before him was his fault.
Maybe he shouldn't just be nicer to Jews.
“Puck?” Ms. Pillsbury said. He turned around. “We're going to call Dave's parents and get him taken care of, okay?” Puck nodded.
“Take the rest of practice off,” Beiste said. Puck nodded again; he didn't feel much like talking.
“And if you could refrain from telling anyone what happened?” Ms. Pillsbury said. “For Dave's sake?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Puck said. He walked passed the adults and out of the locker room.
* * *
All things considered, Puck wasn't terribly surprised when he got called out of his first hour class to go talk to Ms. Pillsbury.
“Hi, Puck, have a seat,” she said when he walked into her office. He sat down.
“I just wanted to let you know how Dave is doing, since you seemed a little spooked about everything that happened yesterday.”
“Doesn't that break some sort of confidentiality thing?” Puck asked, although he'd always wondered how the windows in her office didn't.
“His parents said it was fine,” Ms Pillsbury said. “Since you were the one that helped him and all.”
Puck raised an eyebrow at her. “That's not really--”
“I know,” she nodded, “but we let Dave tell his parents what happened, and we didn't have the heart to fill in the more . . . uncomfortable details. Unless . . . I mean, if you view what happened as an assault, we can of course take measures--”
“No!” Puck cut her off. “No, dude had other shit--stuff, sorry, going on. I'm not gonna make a whole thing out of it.”
“Okay. Well, anyway, Dave's in the hospital now.”
“The hospital?”
“Yes. They admitted him to the psych ward because he was exhibiting . . . severe depressive symptoms.”
Puck thought about what that could mean. “Was he . . . y'know, suicidal?”
Ms. Pillsbury sighed. “That part I can't tell you. But his parents have seen him, and he's doing better than he had been.”
“And his parents?” asked Puck. “They're cool with him?”
“They didn't seem thrilled,” Ms. Pillsbury admitted, “but they're being supportive, and that's the most important thing for now.”
“That's good.”
“He'll probably be going home soon, but he's withdrawing from McKinley, at least for the rest of this year.”
“Why?”
“I can't really tell you that either, but you know the students at this school, Puck. Dave's finally been forced to confront something about himself that he hated. He's not going to be able to hide that again. And when the crowd he used to hang out with finds out . . .”
“Yeah,” Puck said, shaking his head, “I get what you're saying.”
“So,” Ms. Pillsbury said, “that's where we stand.”
“Okay. Thanks, Ms. P., for letting me know.” Puck stood up to leave.
“Puck?” Ms. Pillsbury asked. “I could tell yesterday was hard on you, and if you need to talk about anything . . .”
“I'm cool,” he said. She looked at him suspiciously. “Seriously.”
“All right. But before you leave,” she said, “I feel like I should probably tell you that Coach Beiste told us what you were up to, and while I understand that your heart was in the right place . . .”
“. . . that was the worst plan ever, yeah, I figured that one out on my own,” Puck said.
Ms. Pillsbury smiled at him. “Okay. As long as you're aware.”
* * *
Santana caught up to him at lunch. “So, Karofsky was a big sneaky gay the whole time, huh?”
Puck jumped a little. “How the hell did you find that out?”
“Oh, the whole school knows by now,” Santana said, and she made a move for one of his mini corn dogs. Annoyed, he lightly slapped her on the wrist, but she took one anyway.
“Explain,” he commanded.
“I guess he called Azimio last night from the hospital--”
“You know about the nervous breakdown?”
“Everyone knows, Puck. Anyway, he came out, said he couldn't handle lying anymore or whatever, and Azimio, unsurprisingly, freaked out.”
Puck rolled his eyes. “So he told everybody at school because he's a giant tool?”
“Yup.” Santana looked at him. “So, what really happened yesterday?”
“How much do you know?” he asked back.
“Just what Azimio was telling people. You confronted Karofsky in the locker room, got in a fight, and he broke down. Oh, and everybody knows you're not actually gay, too, although Azimio thinks it was still pretty gay to do all of this for glee club.”
“That's basically the whole story,” Puck said, ignoring the last bit. He wasn't exactly sure why he was protecting Karofsky, but if Kurt hadn't told people anything, he certainly wasn't going to, especially when Kurt had been way more freaked out by the whole thing than he had.
“You don't look too beat up,” Santana said.
“Yeah, well, it was a pretty lame fight. Just some pushing and stuff.” Santana still looked dubious. “I said some shit to him, I don't even remember what, but it triggered him. And then Beiste showed up, and he was trapped, and he just lost it.” Well, he wasn't lying too much.
That seemed to satisfy her. “Oh, but I didn't tell you the best part. Azimio's talking to a bunch of Cheerios, right? And Quinn and I are at our lockers just rolling our eyes at him, when Mercedes comes up to talk to Quinn and hears this jackass call Dave a fag.”
Puck smirked. “I bet that didn't end well.”
“It was epic. She went off, about how someone who's actually a friend shouldn't give a damn, and what the hell business was it of his, anyway? And I guess their families go to the same church, because she started quoting sermons on tolerance their pastor had given and bible passages and all sorts of stuff, and pointed out that he would know this shit if he actually ever fucking went to church. She ended by saying that if she ever heard about him saying any of his homophobic bullshit ever again, she was going to castrate him with a children's safety scissors. He looked terrified.”
“Good,” Puck said. “He deserved it.”
“Word.”
“Have you heard that Dave's not coming back this year?”
“No, but I can't say I'm surprised.”
“I'll text Kurt, let him--” Puck stopped. He and Kurt didn't really talk much. That might be weird. “I'll text Finn and tell him to tell Kurt.”
“Do you think Kurt'll come back?” Santana asked, suddenly quiet. It wasn't like, even without Karofsky around, McKinley was a stronghold of gay-friendliness. They hadn't really thought this far ahead in their plan.
Puck pulled out his phone. “I guess we can only hope.” He'd just sent off his text when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” Quinn said when he looked up. “Can we talk for a second?”
“Sure,” Puck said. They both looked pointedly at Santana. Instead of leaving, she took a sip of Puck's soda. Puck rolled his eyes and got up to talk to Quinn away from the table. He hoped, as he saw Santana popping another corn dog into her mouth, it would be worth sacrificing his lunch over.
“So, I just wanted to apologize to you,” Quinn said. “For the other day.”
“No worries,” Puck said. “We're cool.”
“We're not,” Quinn pointed out, “but I can admit when you do something sweet. Even when it's stupid.”
“Well, thanks, I guess,” Puck said.
Quinn took a careful look around the cafeteria. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed Puck on the cheek.
“This doesn't change anything,” she said at his smile.
“I know,” he agreed, but he was still smiling at glee that afternoon.
* * *
Kurt didn't come back right away; he'd told Finn that he needed to think things through. But a day after checking his son into the hospital, Mr. Karofsky threatened McKinley with a law suit, saying that not enough was being done to curb the bullying at the school that had led to Dave's breakdown. And while Principal Sue would have flat out laughed in his face for it, given that one of the main bullies at the school was his own son, Figgins's complete lack of backbone was actually useful for once; by the end of the week, a severe no-tolerance bullying policy was put in place. Mr. Karofsky dropped his law suit, and on Monday, Kurt Hummel was back in school.
“So, word on the street is that I have you to thank for this,” Kurt said, coming up to Puck at his locker after school.
“And Santana,” Puck replied. “It was mostly her idea. She'd be pissed if I took all the credit.”
“And I have already thanked her,” Kurt said, “but I feel like you were the one with the most to lose in this venture, and I . . .” Kurt looked apprehensive for a minute. “I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you, actually.”
“You didn't know I cared?” Puck mocked. It was totally mocking, and not teasing. There was in no way a genuine smile on his face when he said it. Not at all.
“Yeah,” Kurt said. “And I know you mostly did it for glee, but . . . thanks, all the same.”
“No problem,” Puck said. He took his backpack out of his locker and Kurt turned to go, but something that had been bothering Puck took that moment to make itself known.
“Kurt?” he said. Kurt turned back at him. “Look, if anyone should know what really happened that day, it should be you.” Looking carefully around them for gossip-mongers, Puck told Kurt the real story.
“Oh my god,” Kurt said when he got to the kiss. “I can't believe he--”
“--did that again?” Puck finished. A look of shock crossed Kurt's usually immaculately composed face.
“How did you know?” he asked quietly, not meeting Puck's eyes.
“Everything just made so much more sense if something happened between you guys. Like, why the fuck would Karofsky make a death threat? And why were you so much more freaked out by his bullying than anyone else's? There had to be something else going on.”
Kurt eyed him strangely. “You're smarter than people give you credit for, Noah Puckerman.”
Puck rolled his eyes. “I get a lot of chicks. You can't get laid that often if you aren't pretty good at reading another person and knowing what makes them tick.”
There was a brief moment of silence between them.
“That's all it was though?” Puck asked. “He didn't like, try to pull some freaky shit?”
“No,” Kurt said. “And I get why he did it, you know? He was terrified, and frustrated, and he hated himself, and--”
“That doesn't make it right.”
“No,” Kurt agreed, “but it doesn't mean he's a monster, either. He's just . . .”
“. . . super fucked-up,” Puck supplied.
“Yeah,” Kurt said. “But I'm over it. I've got a boyfriend now, at Dalton, and--”
“Wait,” Puck said. “You've got a boyfriend at the boarding school you just left.”
“Yes.”
“And you left?”
Kurt looked confused. “Well, yeah. My best friends are here and--”
“Do you realize the golden opportunity you gave up?” Puck asked, still in disbelief. “Living together. Unsupervised. Do you know what I'd give to be at a boarding school with a bunch of hot chicks? Do you know how much ass you're missing out on?”
Kurt rolled his eyes as Puck closed his locker, and the two walked to rehearsal together, arguing the merits of the instantaneous booty call versus absence making the heart grow fonder.