Singing in the Dead of Night
Title: Singing in the Dead of Night
Pairings: Noah Puckerman and Quinn Fabray
Rating: PG13 for swearing
Summary: Quinn may be his baby mama and all, but she's also keeping him awake and it's really not cool.
Written for jungle_ride who was kind enough to bid on me for fandomaid's Japanese Earthquake and Tsunami auction last month. Thanks so much, bb!
“What’s your problem?”
“What’s your problem?” she bites back in the darkness.
“My problem is you won’t fucking stop moving. It’s keeping me awake.”
“My problem…” she pauses and he hears the way her breath intakes sharply, “My problem is your child keeps kicking me. It’s painful.”
He kind of wishes she weren’t such a light sleeper so the light shade on the window wouldn’t have to be pulled down; it’s completely pitch black in his room and it’s a bit freaky knowing that she’s right beside him, being able to hear her breathe right beside him, but not able to make out even her silhouette. With the way she’s been rolling around and huffing and sighing and fucking flicking her hair in his face all the time Puck figures he might as well just forget about the shade and at least feel comfortable sleeping in his own room. Not that he’s afraid of the dark, because he’s not a pussy, but it’s just a bit weird, that’s all.
“It can’t hurt that bad. She’s like the size of a fucking grapefruit.”
He has no clue how Quinn knows where his hand is, maybe she’s got cat eyes or something, but her fingers are warm and a bit sweaty even as she yanks his arm over to her side of the bed. It’s sudden and unexpected; his body rolling slightly on the mattress, but the feeling of her rounded stomach beneath the soft fabric of her pajama top is even more unexpected. Puck’s sort of at a loss because they don’t do shit like this. They bitch at each other and toss snarky comments around and Quinn elbows him a lot when she thinks he’s being a dick, which seems like all the time, but that’s the extent of their contact. They have sides of the bed and neither of them roll over towards the other during the night, and she changes in the bathroom even though he’s seen it all already (she punched him hard when he said that once) and they just don’t do this shit. She’s living here because she needs a place to live and his Mom might not be down with him having a non-Jewish baby but Puck knows she’s his responsibility now. They both are.
“What the fuck was that?” he yelps, retracting his hand from her stomach.
“That was your daughter kicking me.”
“Holy shit! Kid’s got a leg on her. She’s gonna be a damn kicker one day.”
"I don’t care what she kicks as long as it’s not me anymore."
He rolls over on the bed, back to his side, and gropes around the nightstand until Puck feels the little black knob of the table lamp. He hadn’t really wanted the thing in his room, because he’s not a chick for fuck’s sake, but it’s sort of handy now because he doesn’t have to get out of bed or anything. Everything’s a bit blurry for a minute because it was dark and now everything’s got a weird yellow orange glow; Puck ignores the curses that stream out of Quinn’s mouth (proper Quinn Fabray cursing up a storm, who would have thought?) and skids back over until he’s very much definitely on her side of the mattress.
“What are you doing?”
Her arm is thrown dramatically over her eyes but the condescending annoyance is completely evident in her voice; it’s fucking creepy how similar she and Hummel sound when they’re having a diva piss fit. Aretha too. But he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of a response, legs crossed as he stares at her stomach; it’s gotten really big really fast and it’s still a bit fucking crazy to think there’s a real person in there. A real person who’s obviously more than just a grapefruit. Puck’s gonna amend that to a pineapple but without the prickly bits because that would just be weird. And even though he’s daydreaming a bit he totally sees the movement of Quinn’s shirt when the baby kicks again; he shifts on the bed because it didn’t startle him like he’s some pussy.
“Puck, what are you doing?”
“I just wanted to see,” he mumbles.
“Oh.”
Quinn’s arm is still thrown over her eyes but the dramatics have stopped and it’s almost quiet in the room; he can hear the sound of Sara rolling around in her bedroom beside his, and there’s the shallow sound of Quinn’s breath, and Puck figures his breathing is mixed in there somewhere too. This feels way too intimate for them because there is no them, not in the sense that would mean they could do this. That Puck could put his hand back on Quinn’s stomach without her grasp leading his, pressing down slightly on the spot where a foot extends her skin.
“She’s kicking with both feet?”
“Yeah…”
He’s not sure why but the airy way Quinn answers him makes his stomach do something funny and fuck, Puck does not do funny stomach feelings. He’s Puckzilla. Puckzilla doesn’t do feelings in general, unless they’re related to sex or wanting to punch some douche for being a douche. That is it. Unless it’s Sara or his mom and then yeah, he’s got a lot of feelings because they’re his girls and he’s sort of got a soft spot for Berry because she’s fucking Berry and Chang and Rutherford are cool because they’re his bros. But for real, that’s it. Puck has no clue how the fuck Quinn fits in anywhere, or even if she does at all except she’s his baby mama and that’s gotta mean something.
The snap of Quinn’s eyes opening is almost audible but Puck chooses not to acknowledge it; he can’t acknowledge it because if Puck stops now he knows he’ll never start again and this might be the only chance he gets. Fuck, he knows this is the only chance he’s ever going to have to do this and it’s breaking his heart and making him feel so good at the same time because the kicks are getting fewer and farther between the longer he sings softly at Quinn’s stomach and this is what a father does, you know? His baby can’t sleep and his baby mama can’t sleep and so he’s manning up and taking care of them. Like a real man does. Like a Lima loser doesn’t do.
Her hand comes to rest on his and it’s then he chances looking at her because until now he’s been focused completely on the purple and pink flowers of her pajama top; Puck still thinks it makes her look twelve but it’s something. His voice trails off when her fingers squeeze his, throat dry and hoarse as the last notes of “arise…” fall into the night.
“Why,” she pauses and Puck watches the line of her neck as she swallows, “why that song?”
“’S the only one I know.”
“That doesn’t seem truthful.”
He’s not sure what Quinn’s getting at because their fingers are still together on her stomach and she’s looking at him in a way Puck totally can’t handle- not with the way her eyelashes are fluttering and her tongue keeps peeking out to wet her lips and he’s so fucking screwed. Screwed screwed screwed. He doesn’t know what to do when they’re not bitching at each other and she’s not saying she hates him and this is the most fucked up relationship Puck’s ever been in and that includes the combined fuckery of whatever he had going on with Santana, half the mother’s in Lima and the time that college girl he met in Breadstix two summers ago tied him too her bed for three days. This shit with Quinn tops all of that.
“Mom used to work nights after my Dad left. So I’d sing that to Sara when she couldn’t sleep. And, y’know, it’s a Jesus song so I thought you’d approve.”
The smile that ghosts over Quinn’s face in the most genuine emotion Puck’s felt from her since, well, ever. Like she honest to God likes him. Like he’s not the jackass who knocked her up, or ruined her relationship, or hell, even when he was just Finn’s best friend she never actually looked at him. Not like she’s doing now, that’s for sure.
“It was nice. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The awkward is back but it’s not like the awkward of before; where Puck felt like by just existing in the same room as Quinn he was annoying her. Or she was annoying him. Or hell, both of them were annoying the living shit out of each other because that’s what they just did. Normally she would have bitten his head off about the Jesus comment because she’s really touchy about there being no bacon in the house (and her good Christian parents throwing her out probably soured her a bit on religion too) but Puck’s kind of enthralled with the peaceful, quirky smile Quinn’s got going on because she just looks so okay. Like this fucked up mess is going to be okay and he really wants to believe it.
“Puck?”
“Yeah, Q?”
“Could you kiss me?”
This is the top of the fuckery cake he vaguely thinks, because Quinn Fabray has honest to God just asked him to kiss her, and it didn’t involve wine coolers and even then she never asked Puck to do anything, he sort of convinced her and shit. She tastes different this time, definitely not like wine coolers, and it’s sort of sweet but not sugary sweet; sweet like apples or pears but a bit tart too because she’s still the same girl who was Head Cheerio. There’s still a lot of sass and bitch in her and it’s kind of fucking weird how she tastes exactly like her personality. Rachel hadn’t tasted like sugar cookie, and Santana sure as hell didn’t taste like chocolate chili or whatever, but Quinn tastes and smells and is everything Puck’s ever thought about her. Really fucking weird in a really awesome way.
She’s breathless and pink cheeked when Puck finally pulls away from her; it had been a bit strange with her baby bump between them but they’re both sort of on their sides and fuck he’d be pissed at how cold Quinn’s feet are against his calves if it weren’t for the fact that she had her legs tangled a bit with his. He’s breathless too and there’s a lot of shit he wants to say right now, like how he’s sorry (again) and he’ll take care of them (both of them) and he didn’t mean to fuck up her life and he knows there’s no way to make it right but please, God, just let him try? Let him prove to her he’s really not the asshole everyone thinks he is. But Quinn’s shifting over kind of awkwardly, which is a given considering she’s all pregnant and stuff, and her head’s fucking on his shoulder and her arm’s draped around his waist and the level of fuckery just keeps going up and up as Puck rests a tentative hand on her stomach while the other one slides beneath her shoulder and into her messy hair.
He’s okay pretending that they don’t have sides for one night.
Pairings: Noah Puckerman and Quinn Fabray
Rating: PG13 for swearing
Summary: Quinn may be his baby mama and all, but she's also keeping him awake and it's really not cool.
Written for jungle_ride who was kind enough to bid on me for fandomaid's Japanese Earthquake and Tsunami auction last month. Thanks so much, bb!
“What’s your problem?”
“What’s your problem?” she bites back in the darkness.
“My problem is you won’t fucking stop moving. It’s keeping me awake.”
“My problem…” she pauses and he hears the way her breath intakes sharply, “My problem is your child keeps kicking me. It’s painful.”
He kind of wishes she weren’t such a light sleeper so the light shade on the window wouldn’t have to be pulled down; it’s completely pitch black in his room and it’s a bit freaky knowing that she’s right beside him, being able to hear her breathe right beside him, but not able to make out even her silhouette. With the way she’s been rolling around and huffing and sighing and fucking flicking her hair in his face all the time Puck figures he might as well just forget about the shade and at least feel comfortable sleeping in his own room. Not that he’s afraid of the dark, because he’s not a pussy, but it’s just a bit weird, that’s all.
“It can’t hurt that bad. She’s like the size of a fucking grapefruit.”
He has no clue how Quinn knows where his hand is, maybe she’s got cat eyes or something, but her fingers are warm and a bit sweaty even as she yanks his arm over to her side of the bed. It’s sudden and unexpected; his body rolling slightly on the mattress, but the feeling of her rounded stomach beneath the soft fabric of her pajama top is even more unexpected. Puck’s sort of at a loss because they don’t do shit like this. They bitch at each other and toss snarky comments around and Quinn elbows him a lot when she thinks he’s being a dick, which seems like all the time, but that’s the extent of their contact. They have sides of the bed and neither of them roll over towards the other during the night, and she changes in the bathroom even though he’s seen it all already (she punched him hard when he said that once) and they just don’t do this shit. She’s living here because she needs a place to live and his Mom might not be down with him having a non-Jewish baby but Puck knows she’s his responsibility now. They both are.
“What the fuck was that?” he yelps, retracting his hand from her stomach.
“That was your daughter kicking me.”
“Holy shit! Kid’s got a leg on her. She’s gonna be a damn kicker one day.”
"I don’t care what she kicks as long as it’s not me anymore."
He rolls over on the bed, back to his side, and gropes around the nightstand until Puck feels the little black knob of the table lamp. He hadn’t really wanted the thing in his room, because he’s not a chick for fuck’s sake, but it’s sort of handy now because he doesn’t have to get out of bed or anything. Everything’s a bit blurry for a minute because it was dark and now everything’s got a weird yellow orange glow; Puck ignores the curses that stream out of Quinn’s mouth (proper Quinn Fabray cursing up a storm, who would have thought?) and skids back over until he’s very much definitely on her side of the mattress.
“What are you doing?”
Her arm is thrown dramatically over her eyes but the condescending annoyance is completely evident in her voice; it’s fucking creepy how similar she and Hummel sound when they’re having a diva piss fit. Aretha too. But he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of a response, legs crossed as he stares at her stomach; it’s gotten really big really fast and it’s still a bit fucking crazy to think there’s a real person in there. A real person who’s obviously more than just a grapefruit. Puck’s gonna amend that to a pineapple but without the prickly bits because that would just be weird. And even though he’s daydreaming a bit he totally sees the movement of Quinn’s shirt when the baby kicks again; he shifts on the bed because it didn’t startle him like he’s some pussy.
“Puck, what are you doing?”
“I just wanted to see,” he mumbles.
“Oh.”
Quinn’s arm is still thrown over her eyes but the dramatics have stopped and it’s almost quiet in the room; he can hear the sound of Sara rolling around in her bedroom beside his, and there’s the shallow sound of Quinn’s breath, and Puck figures his breathing is mixed in there somewhere too. This feels way too intimate for them because there is no them, not in the sense that would mean they could do this. That Puck could put his hand back on Quinn’s stomach without her grasp leading his, pressing down slightly on the spot where a foot extends her skin.
“She’s kicking with both feet?”
“Yeah…”
He’s not sure why but the airy way Quinn answers him makes his stomach do something funny and fuck, Puck does not do funny stomach feelings. He’s Puckzilla. Puckzilla doesn’t do feelings in general, unless they’re related to sex or wanting to punch some douche for being a douche. That is it. Unless it’s Sara or his mom and then yeah, he’s got a lot of feelings because they’re his girls and he’s sort of got a soft spot for Berry because she’s fucking Berry and Chang and Rutherford are cool because they’re his bros. But for real, that’s it. Puck has no clue how the fuck Quinn fits in anywhere, or even if she does at all except she’s his baby mama and that’s gotta mean something.
The snap of Quinn’s eyes opening is almost audible but Puck chooses not to acknowledge it; he can’t acknowledge it because if Puck stops now he knows he’ll never start again and this might be the only chance he gets. Fuck, he knows this is the only chance he’s ever going to have to do this and it’s breaking his heart and making him feel so good at the same time because the kicks are getting fewer and farther between the longer he sings softly at Quinn’s stomach and this is what a father does, you know? His baby can’t sleep and his baby mama can’t sleep and so he’s manning up and taking care of them. Like a real man does. Like a Lima loser doesn’t do.
Her hand comes to rest on his and it’s then he chances looking at her because until now he’s been focused completely on the purple and pink flowers of her pajama top; Puck still thinks it makes her look twelve but it’s something. His voice trails off when her fingers squeeze his, throat dry and hoarse as the last notes of “arise…” fall into the night.
“Why,” she pauses and Puck watches the line of her neck as she swallows, “why that song?”
“’S the only one I know.”
“That doesn’t seem truthful.”
He’s not sure what Quinn’s getting at because their fingers are still together on her stomach and she’s looking at him in a way Puck totally can’t handle- not with the way her eyelashes are fluttering and her tongue keeps peeking out to wet her lips and he’s so fucking screwed. Screwed screwed screwed. He doesn’t know what to do when they’re not bitching at each other and she’s not saying she hates him and this is the most fucked up relationship Puck’s ever been in and that includes the combined fuckery of whatever he had going on with Santana, half the mother’s in Lima and the time that college girl he met in Breadstix two summers ago tied him too her bed for three days. This shit with Quinn tops all of that.
“Mom used to work nights after my Dad left. So I’d sing that to Sara when she couldn’t sleep. And, y’know, it’s a Jesus song so I thought you’d approve.”
The smile that ghosts over Quinn’s face in the most genuine emotion Puck’s felt from her since, well, ever. Like she honest to God likes him. Like he’s not the jackass who knocked her up, or ruined her relationship, or hell, even when he was just Finn’s best friend she never actually looked at him. Not like she’s doing now, that’s for sure.
“It was nice. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The awkward is back but it’s not like the awkward of before; where Puck felt like by just existing in the same room as Quinn he was annoying her. Or she was annoying him. Or hell, both of them were annoying the living shit out of each other because that’s what they just did. Normally she would have bitten his head off about the Jesus comment because she’s really touchy about there being no bacon in the house (and her good Christian parents throwing her out probably soured her a bit on religion too) but Puck’s kind of enthralled with the peaceful, quirky smile Quinn’s got going on because she just looks so okay. Like this fucked up mess is going to be okay and he really wants to believe it.
“Puck?”
“Yeah, Q?”
“Could you kiss me?”
This is the top of the fuckery cake he vaguely thinks, because Quinn Fabray has honest to God just asked him to kiss her, and it didn’t involve wine coolers and even then she never asked Puck to do anything, he sort of convinced her and shit. She tastes different this time, definitely not like wine coolers, and it’s sort of sweet but not sugary sweet; sweet like apples or pears but a bit tart too because she’s still the same girl who was Head Cheerio. There’s still a lot of sass and bitch in her and it’s kind of fucking weird how she tastes exactly like her personality. Rachel hadn’t tasted like sugar cookie, and Santana sure as hell didn’t taste like chocolate chili or whatever, but Quinn tastes and smells and is everything Puck’s ever thought about her. Really fucking weird in a really awesome way.
She’s breathless and pink cheeked when Puck finally pulls away from her; it had been a bit strange with her baby bump between them but they’re both sort of on their sides and fuck he’d be pissed at how cold Quinn’s feet are against his calves if it weren’t for the fact that she had her legs tangled a bit with his. He’s breathless too and there’s a lot of shit he wants to say right now, like how he’s sorry (again) and he’ll take care of them (both of them) and he didn’t mean to fuck up her life and he knows there’s no way to make it right but please, God, just let him try? Let him prove to her he’s really not the asshole everyone thinks he is. But Quinn’s shifting over kind of awkwardly, which is a given considering she’s all pregnant and stuff, and her head’s fucking on his shoulder and her arm’s draped around his waist and the level of fuckery just keeps going up and up as Puck rests a tentative hand on her stomach while the other one slides beneath her shoulder and into her messy hair.
He’s okay pretending that they don’t have sides for one night.