FIC: A Business Proposal (4/12?)
Title: A Business Proposal
Author: Auri aulamauriplenam
Characters: Kurt, Puck (with Puck/Kurt), Burt, Finn, Rachel, Mercedes and various cameos.
Rating: R, overall
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Dubcon, general misery.
Summary: Future-fic, inspired by this prompt on the Glee Angst Meme. Kurt is given an offer by Puck that, if he wants to save his family, he cannot refuse.
Word count: c. 3000 words.
A/N: The plan had been to have this out on Thursday... but Puck wasn't complying so I had to write it all over again. Silly boy. Oh, well, here it is! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed thus far, your support's been lovely.
Oh, and while we're here, I live in the UK and don't want to be overly spoiled for Series Two, so if we could refrain from doing that in the comments, please? I'm sure no one will, but I want to watch 'Audition' without knowing too much, or it ruins the fun.
Prologue / Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three
Kurt felt as if he were walking to the gallows when he went to answer the door to his apartment. Puck stood on the other side of the threshold, wearing a suit - grey, this time, with a blue shirt, not the stark black and white he'd worn before - beneath the same wool overcoat.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," Kurt replied, smiling weakly, and stepped aside. "Come in."
Puck did so, looking around the room only briefly before he returned his attention back to Kurt.
"Would you like to sit down? I don't have any coffee or anything, but I can get you a glass of water, if you like..."
"Don't worry about any of that," Puck said dismissively. He sat down on the couch, and looked at Kurt expectantly until he sat down gingerly beside him, leaving as much space between them as possible. "You sounded strange on the phone. You alright?"
"I'll do." He shrugged, and clasped his hands in his lap.
"How's the family?"
"A mess. As always."
"That's why there's mascara smudges all over your shirt, then," he said bluntly, staring at his shoulder.
"Rachel's husband is in prison, Puck," he pointed out bluntly, and caught eye contact with him, if only for a moment. "She's seven months gone. How well do you really think she's coping with all this?"
"Not... well?"
"Not well at all." he sighed. "Please, just get Finn out of there."
"Well, I said I would, didn't I?" He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and wiggled it. "Want me to put it on speaker? The chief of police is a bastard but he's funny when he blusters."
"I know he's a bastard," Kurt replied offhandedly, "I've dealt with him before, he was trying to bribe a judge in the local court."
Puck laughed. "I remember that! He was looking for any reason at all to arrest you, but couldn't find one. He was so pissed that you'd dug that up, he barely escaped getting fired."
"Can you just... call him, please?" Kurt asked. His tone verged on the desperate, but he'd sort of given up caring. Puck was joking around and Finn was rotting in a hole in Columbus.
"Okay, okay. Sorry." He fiddled with his phone for a moment, pressed the call button, and placed it down on the couch between them.
"Mister Puckerman! What can I do you for, sir?" The man's slightly tinny voice said from the other end of the line. "You planning another trip away soon?"
"Not at the moment, no," Puck said, a jovial tone to his voice. "I was hoping I could have a favour, Jim."
"Anything you want, Mister Puckerman. You name it, I'll do it."
Kurt wondered who would be that stupid to give Puck full reign willingly. He'd allowed it out of desperation, nothing more.
"There's a guy you put in prison a couple months ago. Finn Hudson. You said he killed a child but he didn't match the description given by a reliable witness. Let him go for me?"
"Mister Puckerman, I - I can't."
"You're going to let a child murderer stay on the loose?"
"The arrest looks good to the public, with crime rates so high - "
Kurt thought he might cry. He turned away, gripping his knees, and wondered whether he'd done all this for nothing.
"Jim. I'm sure you remember that time we were in Vegas and you were stupid enough to gamble on your house." Puck's tone had shifted sharply from jovial and warm to icy cold. "You lost it, I won it. I still hold the deeds. You will remember that, and let Hudson go first thing tomorrow morning, and I don't care what excuse you give to cover your sorry ass. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, Mister Puckerman," he said, in a shell shocked voice.
"I'm glad we understand each other. I'll see you around, Jim." Puck smirked a little. "Give your wife my regards, won't you?"
He hung up, and sat back, turning to Kurt.
Kurt, for his part, felt so scared that he couldn't look at him, past the stage where staring in horror was possible. He had recoiled to the far end of the couch, his stomach roiling with fear and apprehension, cramping and tugging at his insides. His head told him he couldn't run; he'd agreed, he was tied into a contract now and that was that. His heart told him that it would be preferable to jump out of the window, but as that would leave Dad ill and Finn and Rachel in a state it therefore wasn't an option.
The silence around the room prickled at his skin, made it crawl and fester under his clothes.
You will give yourself to him, he told himself firmly, because you have no other choice.
"So... I think you should pack an overnight bag," Puck said finally, careful yet firm, as if he was reassuring a skittish animal of some sort. Kurt, staring at his knees, nodded dumbly. "We'll go back to my place, have some dinner, spend the evening together. I don't think you've eaten yet tonight and, frankly, your apartment is depressing me. How do you willingly live in one room this small?"
"It's a perfectly nice apartment," Kurt said defensively. Did he have no manners, or common courtesy?
"It looks like a morgue," Noah pointed out. "It makes me think there's a dead chick under or inside the sofa or something."
Kurt frowned at him. So, the room wasn't particularly colourful, or cluttered with sentimental objects? It didn't have to be.
"I don't suppose the concept of minimalism has ever occurred to you," he said waspishly, trying to cover his embarrassment. He didn't have much, admittedly, but the things he did have were more treasured as a result. Not everyone was a millionaire, were they?
"There's minimalism, and then there's 'I sold all my stuff to pay the bills'." Kurt blushed brightly at that, unable to help it. For a time, he'd slept on a foam mat on the floor, having sold his bed and couch to cover medical costs. "Oh, god... you haven't actually..." he looked around again. “Kurt, where exactly do you sleep in this place?"
"This sofa's actually a futon," he replied, with a shrug, and looked around. "It folds flat into a double bed."
Puck stared at him. He looked back, daring him to challenge him. Just because he was going to commit to this man didn't mean that he was going to go down without a fight. "You're moving in with me," Puck said, with an air of authority. "As soon as possible."
"What?!"
"You heard me. I can't leave you here."
Kurt stared at him, alarmed. This was his apartment. His space. He'd lived here since he graduated college. For some reason, he'd not considered moving as a possibility of all this. Loss of self-respect, yes. Loss of personal space, not so much.
"I like it here," he said quietly. "It's home." He drew his arms around his body instinctively. "I don't want to leave. I like having somewhere for myself."
"One, my house is huge. There's plenty of space for you to have somewhere for yourself; hell, Jewish lore on marriage says that's mandatory. I have a proper music room, too, not just an old, crappy keyboard." Kurt flinched at that; his keyboard was his prize possession, and it was only selfishness which had let him keep it, through thick and thin. "It has a grand piano and everything. You'll have plenty of space, that's really not a problem. Also, my bed is an actual bed with enough space in it for an orgy, if I wanted one, and a really, really good mattress." Puck looked him over. "Did you seriously think that when I said I'd marry you I wouldn't want you to live with me, and spend time with me? We're going to do this properly. I'm not asking you to pack up all your worldly possessions now. I'm saying we'll seriously consider it in a few weeks."
Kurt nodded, but couldn't look at him. His flight reflex screamed at him to make a dash for it, but to be honest he'd never listened to that. "I... I should pack, then."
"Yeah, you should," Puck said. "Don't bother with toiletries, I have spares in my bathroom. You'll just need night things and clothes for tomorrow."
Eyes downcast, Kurt began to pack a bag with clothes: sleepwear from the side table by the couch; an outfit from the closet; a comb. "I think that's everything," he said apologetically, and picked up his satchel, slipping the well worn strap over his shoulder.
"Okay." Puck stood as well and, surprisingly, enveloped him in a hug, pulling him close to his chest. Kurt stiffened for a moment, before he made himself relax into it.
"Everything's going to be fine, babe. You'll see," Puck said soothingly. "Everything will be just fine."
With that, he took Kurt's hand and led him from the apartment.
Kurt had to fight back the tears when he turned to lock the door behind him, and Puck wrapped his coat around his thin shoulders. The wool felt like it might smother him.
---
"So. Bedtime?" Puck suggested carefully.
They'd eaten together, Puck watching him carefully as he picked at his plate, barely able to swallow mouthfuls. In the end, he'd managed about half the meal before his digestive system told him firmly that there was no chance in hell it could handle any more. As his stomach had shrunk, Kurt didn't tend to eat portions bigger than one of his hands; certainly never a full plate.
The rest of the evening was spent watching a movie together in Puck's living room, next to each other on the sofa. Kurt's brain had been working overtime to the extent where he couldn't remember who was starring in the film, let alone the broad details of the plot, or any of the names of the characters. That was fine, though, as Puck hadn't expected him to discuss it.
Kurt wondered whether he would be allowed to sleep in a separate room. That said, Puck had just sprung Finn from prison, he could be expecting any sort of collateral, and Kurt couldn't refuse him that.
"O-okay," he said, nerves returned to him again in full, intestine squeezing form.
"Cool." He smiled a little. "Come on upstairs." He stood and offered Kurt his hand, which he accepted tentatively, his thin fingers feeling even smaller when held in Puck’s large hand.
Puck had been right about his orgy sized bed. It was huge - a four poster, too, with a canopy, and definitely enough room for about six Kurt sized people to lie side by side. The room was all decked out in deep red and chocolate brown, which would have been a good attempt at seductive decor if it wasn't so desperately cliché. Oh, and the dinosaurs in the corner, on a shelf, derailed the attempt at sophistication somewhat. Were they a throwback to his childhood, or something? Puck was too old for that, surely.
The house itself wasn't an ostentatious mansion, as Kurt had dreaded, but one of the properties which had been built while they were in High School, constructed primarily of stone, marble and dark wood. It was a nice house, all told; he couldn't fault that. That didn't mean he felt at all comfortable there, though.
A tray sat in the middle of the bed, and a plastic wash bowl had been strategically positioned on the floor. Puck sat down on the mattress and patted the space beside him expectantly. Kurt paused for a moment before he perched carefully on the very edge of the bed, hands placed in his lap, knees close together.
As he watched, Puck reached behind him to take a shot glass off the tray. He downed half of it in one go, made an appreciative noise at the back of his throat, and passed it to Kurt, who stared at it for a moment.
"I don't drink whiskey," he said apologetically. Why was he giving him this? Why did he want him to drink it?
"First time for everything. Do it in one." Puck shrugged, and watched him as he swilled it around the glass. "Go on. Can't hurt."
Kurt swallowed convulsively, staring at the amber liquid, and then tipped the liquid down his throat. He spluttered as it burnt its way down, coughing a little, and let Puck run a hand down his back as if that might stop him.
You'll have to get used to him touching you. He won't let you refuse him, not now.
"Evil stuff," he forced out, and shoved the glass back into Puck's expectant, open hand. "Never again."
"Fair enough. Technically, you're s'posed to do it with wine, but what the hell." He then reached back again, pulled a box up, and opened it to reveal a plain, silver ring - maybe platinum, considering the colour of the metal, which wasn’t dark enough to be actual silver. "I should give this to you and say behold, you're consecrated to me with this ring under the laws of Moses and Israel, but you're not a Jew or even mildly religious, so I'll skip that bit."
"How romantic," Kurt said, and rolled his eyes. His throat had recovered, but only just, as Puck took his left hand and slipped the plain band onto his ring finger.
"I thought white gold would suit you best," he said, with a satisfied smile, took a proper gold one out of the bottom of the same box and slipped it on to match. "Well, mazeltov, I guess." He placed the glass down in the washing up bowl and crushed it under his shoe.
"Mazeltov," Kurt replied quietly.
Well, apparently he was married.
That was quick.
"We'll sort out the legal bit later," Puck assured him, "once I actually have some time off. I'll get my schedule cleared for a few days. We'll have to get out of Ohio, maybe spend a few days on the coast. How's that sound?"
"The coast sounds nice," Kurt said absently, and stifled a yawn. The ring felt foreign on his finger, cold and alien again his skin. He wondered distantly what he would do about it at work, or seeing family. He wouldn't be able to wear it; it would cause people to ask questions that he didn't want to answer.
Puck took the tray off the duvet, placed it down on the floor and stood up. "Right. Bed." He then, without reservation, pulled his shirt over his head. Kurt's breath caught in his throat. Instinctively, his reaction honed by years of not wanting to get hit by large, muscled people in locker rooms, he dropped his gaze to the floor, clasping his hands together tightly enough so his knuckles went white. He could feel his skin heat as he blushed involuntarily.
"Hey," Puck said, "hey. Stop that." The mattress dipped as he sat back down, and Puck gently lifted Kurt's chin carefully with one finger, forcing him to make eye contact. "You're allowed to look, Kurt. Hell, you can look, you can touch and some day I'll even make you lick chocolate sauce off me, or something, it's awesome foreplay. God. This," he pointed up and down his body, "is yours to play with. See?"
With that, he seized Kurt's wrist and pressed his hand flat to his pectoral. Kurt's breath hitched again, and he tried to pull himself away, disentangle himself -
"It's skin," he said, sounding... sad? Disappointed in him? Did he expect Kurt to be some sort of sex god, or something? "Just the same as yours."
Yes, it was the same, but different. Not his.
As he sat there, frozen, Kurt distantly realised that Puck had reached forward and was undoing his shirt with one hand. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, but he steeled himself and opened them again. He slapped Puck away from him with his free hand, pulled his trapped hand free, and undid the rest of the buttons, letting the button-down fall from his shoulders.
Unlike Puck's broad, muscled body, Kurt's slim bone structure was the defining feature of his torso. His ribs were more than obvious ridges along his sides, just as his clavicles formed definite hollows. His hips jutted from beneath his skin without any padding from his stomach to conceal them. Altogether, it gave him the appearance of skin barely stretched over too many bones, but far away enough from actual emaciation that Kurt had stopped himself from being concerned by it. Puck stared at him, eyes roaming as if he didn't quite know where to look.
"You need to see a doctor."
"Perhaps." He turned his head away. Puck had a right to see what he was buying into, Kurt considered, what he'd taken for his own. It didn't stop his discomfort with the situation as a whole. No one had seen him without a shirt for years; not even Mercedes.
He let Puck hug him close, despite the skin on skin contact making his skin crawl again, and even allowed him to pick him up to carry him up to the pillows. He felt suddenly too tired to care.
"How could you do this to yourself?" Puck didn't sound accusative, just horrified, and uncomprehending. He set Kurt down and rummaged through his overnight bag to find his pyjamas, then proceeded to help change Kurt into them before tucking him in under the covers.
The bed was warm, with a thick duvet and two layers of sheets beneath. Kurt relaxed into the mattress and pulled his legs up close to him, into the foetal position. "Dad needs medicine," he replied simply. He'd not cleaned his teeth, but he supposed one night wouldn't hurt. Tiredness had seized him, and suddenly he didn't care that a once renowned sexual predator had just climbed into bed beside him.
It was warm here, warmer than his apartment. That, for now, would do.
Once he could hear Puck's steady, even breathing behind him, Kurt shed a few quiet tears of relief - for Finn, and Rachel, but also (selfishly) for himself, for being spared - before he slipped into sleep.
NB: My knowledge of Jewish marriages comes from Fiddler on the Roof and the BBC website. While I've played with the concept, admittedly, hopefully the details I've included are accurate.
Author: Auri aulamauriplenam
Characters: Kurt, Puck (with Puck/Kurt), Burt, Finn, Rachel, Mercedes and various cameos.
Rating: R, overall
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Dubcon, general misery.
Summary: Future-fic, inspired by this prompt on the Glee Angst Meme. Kurt is given an offer by Puck that, if he wants to save his family, he cannot refuse.
Word count: c. 3000 words.
A/N: The plan had been to have this out on Thursday... but Puck wasn't complying so I had to write it all over again. Silly boy. Oh, well, here it is! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed thus far, your support's been lovely.
Oh, and while we're here, I live in the UK and don't want to be overly spoiled for Series Two, so if we could refrain from doing that in the comments, please? I'm sure no one will, but I want to watch 'Audition' without knowing too much, or it ruins the fun.
Prologue / Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three
Kurt felt as if he were walking to the gallows when he went to answer the door to his apartment. Puck stood on the other side of the threshold, wearing a suit - grey, this time, with a blue shirt, not the stark black and white he'd worn before - beneath the same wool overcoat.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," Kurt replied, smiling weakly, and stepped aside. "Come in."
Puck did so, looking around the room only briefly before he returned his attention back to Kurt.
"Would you like to sit down? I don't have any coffee or anything, but I can get you a glass of water, if you like..."
"Don't worry about any of that," Puck said dismissively. He sat down on the couch, and looked at Kurt expectantly until he sat down gingerly beside him, leaving as much space between them as possible. "You sounded strange on the phone. You alright?"
"I'll do." He shrugged, and clasped his hands in his lap.
"How's the family?"
"A mess. As always."
"That's why there's mascara smudges all over your shirt, then," he said bluntly, staring at his shoulder.
"Rachel's husband is in prison, Puck," he pointed out bluntly, and caught eye contact with him, if only for a moment. "She's seven months gone. How well do you really think she's coping with all this?"
"Not... well?"
"Not well at all." he sighed. "Please, just get Finn out of there."
"Well, I said I would, didn't I?" He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and wiggled it. "Want me to put it on speaker? The chief of police is a bastard but he's funny when he blusters."
"I know he's a bastard," Kurt replied offhandedly, "I've dealt with him before, he was trying to bribe a judge in the local court."
Puck laughed. "I remember that! He was looking for any reason at all to arrest you, but couldn't find one. He was so pissed that you'd dug that up, he barely escaped getting fired."
"Can you just... call him, please?" Kurt asked. His tone verged on the desperate, but he'd sort of given up caring. Puck was joking around and Finn was rotting in a hole in Columbus.
"Okay, okay. Sorry." He fiddled with his phone for a moment, pressed the call button, and placed it down on the couch between them.
"Mister Puckerman! What can I do you for, sir?" The man's slightly tinny voice said from the other end of the line. "You planning another trip away soon?"
"Not at the moment, no," Puck said, a jovial tone to his voice. "I was hoping I could have a favour, Jim."
"Anything you want, Mister Puckerman. You name it, I'll do it."
Kurt wondered who would be that stupid to give Puck full reign willingly. He'd allowed it out of desperation, nothing more.
"There's a guy you put in prison a couple months ago. Finn Hudson. You said he killed a child but he didn't match the description given by a reliable witness. Let him go for me?"
"Mister Puckerman, I - I can't."
"You're going to let a child murderer stay on the loose?"
"The arrest looks good to the public, with crime rates so high - "
Kurt thought he might cry. He turned away, gripping his knees, and wondered whether he'd done all this for nothing.
"Jim. I'm sure you remember that time we were in Vegas and you were stupid enough to gamble on your house." Puck's tone had shifted sharply from jovial and warm to icy cold. "You lost it, I won it. I still hold the deeds. You will remember that, and let Hudson go first thing tomorrow morning, and I don't care what excuse you give to cover your sorry ass. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, Mister Puckerman," he said, in a shell shocked voice.
"I'm glad we understand each other. I'll see you around, Jim." Puck smirked a little. "Give your wife my regards, won't you?"
He hung up, and sat back, turning to Kurt.
Kurt, for his part, felt so scared that he couldn't look at him, past the stage where staring in horror was possible. He had recoiled to the far end of the couch, his stomach roiling with fear and apprehension, cramping and tugging at his insides. His head told him he couldn't run; he'd agreed, he was tied into a contract now and that was that. His heart told him that it would be preferable to jump out of the window, but as that would leave Dad ill and Finn and Rachel in a state it therefore wasn't an option.
The silence around the room prickled at his skin, made it crawl and fester under his clothes.
You will give yourself to him, he told himself firmly, because you have no other choice.
"So... I think you should pack an overnight bag," Puck said finally, careful yet firm, as if he was reassuring a skittish animal of some sort. Kurt, staring at his knees, nodded dumbly. "We'll go back to my place, have some dinner, spend the evening together. I don't think you've eaten yet tonight and, frankly, your apartment is depressing me. How do you willingly live in one room this small?"
"It's a perfectly nice apartment," Kurt said defensively. Did he have no manners, or common courtesy?
"It looks like a morgue," Noah pointed out. "It makes me think there's a dead chick under or inside the sofa or something."
Kurt frowned at him. So, the room wasn't particularly colourful, or cluttered with sentimental objects? It didn't have to be.
"I don't suppose the concept of minimalism has ever occurred to you," he said waspishly, trying to cover his embarrassment. He didn't have much, admittedly, but the things he did have were more treasured as a result. Not everyone was a millionaire, were they?
"There's minimalism, and then there's 'I sold all my stuff to pay the bills'." Kurt blushed brightly at that, unable to help it. For a time, he'd slept on a foam mat on the floor, having sold his bed and couch to cover medical costs. "Oh, god... you haven't actually..." he looked around again. “Kurt, where exactly do you sleep in this place?"
"This sofa's actually a futon," he replied, with a shrug, and looked around. "It folds flat into a double bed."
Puck stared at him. He looked back, daring him to challenge him. Just because he was going to commit to this man didn't mean that he was going to go down without a fight. "You're moving in with me," Puck said, with an air of authority. "As soon as possible."
"What?!"
"You heard me. I can't leave you here."
Kurt stared at him, alarmed. This was his apartment. His space. He'd lived here since he graduated college. For some reason, he'd not considered moving as a possibility of all this. Loss of self-respect, yes. Loss of personal space, not so much.
"I like it here," he said quietly. "It's home." He drew his arms around his body instinctively. "I don't want to leave. I like having somewhere for myself."
"One, my house is huge. There's plenty of space for you to have somewhere for yourself; hell, Jewish lore on marriage says that's mandatory. I have a proper music room, too, not just an old, crappy keyboard." Kurt flinched at that; his keyboard was his prize possession, and it was only selfishness which had let him keep it, through thick and thin. "It has a grand piano and everything. You'll have plenty of space, that's really not a problem. Also, my bed is an actual bed with enough space in it for an orgy, if I wanted one, and a really, really good mattress." Puck looked him over. "Did you seriously think that when I said I'd marry you I wouldn't want you to live with me, and spend time with me? We're going to do this properly. I'm not asking you to pack up all your worldly possessions now. I'm saying we'll seriously consider it in a few weeks."
Kurt nodded, but couldn't look at him. His flight reflex screamed at him to make a dash for it, but to be honest he'd never listened to that. "I... I should pack, then."
"Yeah, you should," Puck said. "Don't bother with toiletries, I have spares in my bathroom. You'll just need night things and clothes for tomorrow."
Eyes downcast, Kurt began to pack a bag with clothes: sleepwear from the side table by the couch; an outfit from the closet; a comb. "I think that's everything," he said apologetically, and picked up his satchel, slipping the well worn strap over his shoulder.
"Okay." Puck stood as well and, surprisingly, enveloped him in a hug, pulling him close to his chest. Kurt stiffened for a moment, before he made himself relax into it.
"Everything's going to be fine, babe. You'll see," Puck said soothingly. "Everything will be just fine."
With that, he took Kurt's hand and led him from the apartment.
Kurt had to fight back the tears when he turned to lock the door behind him, and Puck wrapped his coat around his thin shoulders. The wool felt like it might smother him.
---
"So. Bedtime?" Puck suggested carefully.
They'd eaten together, Puck watching him carefully as he picked at his plate, barely able to swallow mouthfuls. In the end, he'd managed about half the meal before his digestive system told him firmly that there was no chance in hell it could handle any more. As his stomach had shrunk, Kurt didn't tend to eat portions bigger than one of his hands; certainly never a full plate.
The rest of the evening was spent watching a movie together in Puck's living room, next to each other on the sofa. Kurt's brain had been working overtime to the extent where he couldn't remember who was starring in the film, let alone the broad details of the plot, or any of the names of the characters. That was fine, though, as Puck hadn't expected him to discuss it.
Kurt wondered whether he would be allowed to sleep in a separate room. That said, Puck had just sprung Finn from prison, he could be expecting any sort of collateral, and Kurt couldn't refuse him that.
"O-okay," he said, nerves returned to him again in full, intestine squeezing form.
"Cool." He smiled a little. "Come on upstairs." He stood and offered Kurt his hand, which he accepted tentatively, his thin fingers feeling even smaller when held in Puck’s large hand.
Puck had been right about his orgy sized bed. It was huge - a four poster, too, with a canopy, and definitely enough room for about six Kurt sized people to lie side by side. The room was all decked out in deep red and chocolate brown, which would have been a good attempt at seductive decor if it wasn't so desperately cliché. Oh, and the dinosaurs in the corner, on a shelf, derailed the attempt at sophistication somewhat. Were they a throwback to his childhood, or something? Puck was too old for that, surely.
The house itself wasn't an ostentatious mansion, as Kurt had dreaded, but one of the properties which had been built while they were in High School, constructed primarily of stone, marble and dark wood. It was a nice house, all told; he couldn't fault that. That didn't mean he felt at all comfortable there, though.
A tray sat in the middle of the bed, and a plastic wash bowl had been strategically positioned on the floor. Puck sat down on the mattress and patted the space beside him expectantly. Kurt paused for a moment before he perched carefully on the very edge of the bed, hands placed in his lap, knees close together.
As he watched, Puck reached behind him to take a shot glass off the tray. He downed half of it in one go, made an appreciative noise at the back of his throat, and passed it to Kurt, who stared at it for a moment.
"I don't drink whiskey," he said apologetically. Why was he giving him this? Why did he want him to drink it?
"First time for everything. Do it in one." Puck shrugged, and watched him as he swilled it around the glass. "Go on. Can't hurt."
Kurt swallowed convulsively, staring at the amber liquid, and then tipped the liquid down his throat. He spluttered as it burnt its way down, coughing a little, and let Puck run a hand down his back as if that might stop him.
You'll have to get used to him touching you. He won't let you refuse him, not now.
"Evil stuff," he forced out, and shoved the glass back into Puck's expectant, open hand. "Never again."
"Fair enough. Technically, you're s'posed to do it with wine, but what the hell." He then reached back again, pulled a box up, and opened it to reveal a plain, silver ring - maybe platinum, considering the colour of the metal, which wasn’t dark enough to be actual silver. "I should give this to you and say behold, you're consecrated to me with this ring under the laws of Moses and Israel, but you're not a Jew or even mildly religious, so I'll skip that bit."
"How romantic," Kurt said, and rolled his eyes. His throat had recovered, but only just, as Puck took his left hand and slipped the plain band onto his ring finger.
"I thought white gold would suit you best," he said, with a satisfied smile, took a proper gold one out of the bottom of the same box and slipped it on to match. "Well, mazeltov, I guess." He placed the glass down in the washing up bowl and crushed it under his shoe.
"Mazeltov," Kurt replied quietly.
Well, apparently he was married.
That was quick.
"We'll sort out the legal bit later," Puck assured him, "once I actually have some time off. I'll get my schedule cleared for a few days. We'll have to get out of Ohio, maybe spend a few days on the coast. How's that sound?"
"The coast sounds nice," Kurt said absently, and stifled a yawn. The ring felt foreign on his finger, cold and alien again his skin. He wondered distantly what he would do about it at work, or seeing family. He wouldn't be able to wear it; it would cause people to ask questions that he didn't want to answer.
Puck took the tray off the duvet, placed it down on the floor and stood up. "Right. Bed." He then, without reservation, pulled his shirt over his head. Kurt's breath caught in his throat. Instinctively, his reaction honed by years of not wanting to get hit by large, muscled people in locker rooms, he dropped his gaze to the floor, clasping his hands together tightly enough so his knuckles went white. He could feel his skin heat as he blushed involuntarily.
"Hey," Puck said, "hey. Stop that." The mattress dipped as he sat back down, and Puck gently lifted Kurt's chin carefully with one finger, forcing him to make eye contact. "You're allowed to look, Kurt. Hell, you can look, you can touch and some day I'll even make you lick chocolate sauce off me, or something, it's awesome foreplay. God. This," he pointed up and down his body, "is yours to play with. See?"
With that, he seized Kurt's wrist and pressed his hand flat to his pectoral. Kurt's breath hitched again, and he tried to pull himself away, disentangle himself -
"It's skin," he said, sounding... sad? Disappointed in him? Did he expect Kurt to be some sort of sex god, or something? "Just the same as yours."
Yes, it was the same, but different. Not his.
As he sat there, frozen, Kurt distantly realised that Puck had reached forward and was undoing his shirt with one hand. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, but he steeled himself and opened them again. He slapped Puck away from him with his free hand, pulled his trapped hand free, and undid the rest of the buttons, letting the button-down fall from his shoulders.
Unlike Puck's broad, muscled body, Kurt's slim bone structure was the defining feature of his torso. His ribs were more than obvious ridges along his sides, just as his clavicles formed definite hollows. His hips jutted from beneath his skin without any padding from his stomach to conceal them. Altogether, it gave him the appearance of skin barely stretched over too many bones, but far away enough from actual emaciation that Kurt had stopped himself from being concerned by it. Puck stared at him, eyes roaming as if he didn't quite know where to look.
"You need to see a doctor."
"Perhaps." He turned his head away. Puck had a right to see what he was buying into, Kurt considered, what he'd taken for his own. It didn't stop his discomfort with the situation as a whole. No one had seen him without a shirt for years; not even Mercedes.
He let Puck hug him close, despite the skin on skin contact making his skin crawl again, and even allowed him to pick him up to carry him up to the pillows. He felt suddenly too tired to care.
"How could you do this to yourself?" Puck didn't sound accusative, just horrified, and uncomprehending. He set Kurt down and rummaged through his overnight bag to find his pyjamas, then proceeded to help change Kurt into them before tucking him in under the covers.
The bed was warm, with a thick duvet and two layers of sheets beneath. Kurt relaxed into the mattress and pulled his legs up close to him, into the foetal position. "Dad needs medicine," he replied simply. He'd not cleaned his teeth, but he supposed one night wouldn't hurt. Tiredness had seized him, and suddenly he didn't care that a once renowned sexual predator had just climbed into bed beside him.
It was warm here, warmer than his apartment. That, for now, would do.
Once he could hear Puck's steady, even breathing behind him, Kurt shed a few quiet tears of relief - for Finn, and Rachel, but also (selfishly) for himself, for being spared - before he slipped into sleep.
NB: My knowledge of Jewish marriages comes from Fiddler on the Roof and the BBC website. While I've played with the concept, admittedly, hopefully the details I've included are accurate.