Teach Me Somethin' Cool
Title: Teach Me Somethin' Cool
Pairing: Noah Puckerman/Rachel Berry friendship, past Noah Puckerman/Quinn Fabray
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S1.
Summary: If anyone's qualified to teach Badass 101, it’s Noah Puckerman. Most of the time, anyway.
Sometimes, he really does feel like the perpetual second-string, and it’s time to be honest about it: it drives him completely fucking insane. Nothing he ever does seems to be enough. Date the popular cheerleader? She’ll leave you like a shot-and for a girl, no less. Score the winning touchdown? It’s the quarterback everyone will be watching when you throw your arms into the air. Put everything you’ve got into singing and rocking out for Glee? The drummer gets the glory.
Even having a baby wasn’t enough to give him that push over the top into meaning something. Quinn carried his child-genes, blood, love-for nine months, and what has he got to show for it?
It’s a sad life he’s leading. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that. So when Rachel Berry turns and gives him that look in the middle of Glee practice, it takes all his energy not to jump out of the seat he’s slumped in and throw it at her.
She’s all right, but every once in a while, she still makes him want to light himself on fire.
“What?” he snaps under his breath, glaring. She gives a maddening little shrug, brown eyes burning into the side of his head.
“You’re being quiet.”
“We don’t all have to run our football-sized mouths all the time,” he replies unkindly, head bouncing off the wall when he throws it back. She makes a miffed little noise, lips pursing, and squeezes her skirt in one tiny fist.
“There’s no need to be rude, Noah.”
Noah. He loves and hates that she calls him that. Outside of his mother, she is the only one allowed to.
(Lopez doesn’t count. There is no such thing as allowance where she’s concerned; she has always done whatever she wanted, ever since kindergarten, when she shoved the classroom salamander down his pants and somehow got away with it.)
“Anyway,” she goes on briskly, as if she is so accustomed to being insulted that she barely even notices anymore, “I wanted to ask you something. If you don’t mind.”
He grunts. In Rachel Berry World, that’s permission.
“I was hoping,” she begins, craning her neck to seek out his eyes even as he glares up at the ceiling tiles, “that you could help me with a project. If it isn’t too much trouble. I would do it myself, but you see, I find I lack the proper firsthand knowledge, and you’re really the perfect person to ask-“
He won’t admit it out loud, but she had him at “project.” Projects with Rachel Berry usually end on her bed with his hand halfway up her sweater. It might be just the thing he needs to feel less like a steaming pile of crap right now.
“What do you want?” He tries to feed some of those elusive manners his mother raves about so often into his tone. Getting to the making out part is so much easier when the girl doesn’t feel like she’s being attacked from the get-go by some ungrateful asshole.
From the way she wrinkles her nose in displeasure, he doesn’t figure he’s doing too good a job.
“I would like,” she sniffs daintily, “for you to assist me with some…image-related concerns.”
How interesting. “What, like, new sexy little skirts or whatever? I don’t do shopping, Berry.”
“I’m not proposing we spend a girlish day at the mall,” she replies with a short giggle he can’t help but smile at. “I’m simply asking-“
“Guys, you want to maybe pay attention?” Schuester interrupts, sounding aggravated. Normally, Puck would barely be able to bite down on a nasty retort, but Schue’s been through a lot in the last year, and besides, he figures he’d be pretty pissy if he’d spent the last half hour trying to convince Brittany to clamber off Santana’s lap.
(Scratch that. Lesbians are fuckin’ hot. What kind of dude is Schue, anyway?)
Rachel catches his eye, determined as ever, and exaggeratedly mouths, After. He shrugs. Not like he’s got anything too interesting to rush home to.
True to form, the second Schuester releases them for the afternoon with a sigh and a dejected slump over the piano, she wheels around and catches him by the sleeve of his jacket. “Now,” she blurts before he can begin to think of a fun-yet-sexy comment about her need to always be touching him. “About my project.”
Finn’s staring at them from the doorway, gaze narrow and suspicious, so Puck bucks against instinct and shakes free of her surprisingly strong grip. “Right. The skirts. Or the mall.”
“Not the mall,” she corrects fiercely, adjusting her tiger-cub sweater until its creepily huge eyes feel like they’re burning holes in his t-shirt. “This is about my image.”
“What about it?” he demands gruffly, relieved when Finn finally tears his gaze away and slumps out the door. Rachel beams.
“I want you to help me make a few adjustments.”
He’s not even sure he wants to know what that means, not with the dangerous gleam in those doe eyes. That’s the sort of look that tends to lead to three-man protests outside the nearest record store when they fail to stock the ideal number of Broadway soundtracks.
That’s one of the biggest curiosities of his life, trying to figure out how she convinced Kurt and Quinn, of all people, to join her for that. Maybe someday, when she’s no longer so sore about the whole bearing his kid thing, Quinn will let him in on that one.
(Who is he kidding? At this point, Hummel would be ten times more likely to tell the story over tea and fucking crumpets. Quinn hasn’t let him past her front step in months, and the last time he tried to pay her a visit, she locked the door and blared Motown records until he gave up.)
“What kind of adjustments?” he asks cautiously, stuffing his hands into his pockets and raising an eyebrow. Rachel’s smile brightens.
“I want to be different,” she decides firmly, nodding in time with the words. “Cooler. Sexier.”
“So you come to me.” He bites his tongue before a bitter chuckle can work its way out. “I don’t get you, Berry.”
“I don’t understand your confusion,” she replies primly. “You’re the coolest boy in school. I want to be like you. It’s only logical that you lend me the value of your experiences.”
It’s too much; the laugh snaps out before he can stop it, all acid and pent-up rage on his chapped lips. “Bad call, babe. You do not want to be like me. Whatever the opposite is, that’s what you want. Artie. Be like Artie.”
“But you’re the plan!” she protests. Before he can stop her, she’s pulling a neatly-folded square of paper from her skirt pocket, waving it under his nose. “We have to stick to the plan!”
“Rework the plan,” he advises, pushing past her and motoring out the door. Her legs are marvelously long, but she’s still a tiny fairy of a person. Maybe he can outrun her.
“I can’t rework the plan!” she shrills, huffing along after him with both arms pumping desperately. “Noah, please, you have to help me. You’re the only one I can trust with this.”
“Why’s that?” he tosses back over his shoulder, rolling his eyes.
“Because,” she replies, her voice very small. “You’re the only cool person in this school who’s ever been nice to me.”
He slows a bit, shoulders slumping, and reaches up to scratch his mohawk.
“Low blow, Berry.”
Damn her, she actually looks proud of that. “So...you’ll do it?”
He stops walking, turning to face her with a scowl. “What are you gonna give me?”
“Not my virginity,” she snaps off, and damn, now he’s actually proud for her. Six months ago, Rachel Berry would never have stooped to such a harsh retort as that. Of course, six months ago, he probably would have kicked off his day with a ritual grape-splash to the front of that ugly-ass sweater. Things change.
And now, Rachel’s looking to change too.
Really, what’s the harm? It’s not like she can get anyone pregnant (and hell would freeze over, he thinks with a wry smirk, before Quinn would ever let her get close enough to try). The shit he’s done, the mistakes he’s made, it’s all stuff she’ll never have to worry about.
“Sure,” he says at last, shaking his head. “Sure. Fine. I’ll help you. But damn it, Berry, there better be food involved. I haven’t eaten in two hours. That’s fucking criminal.”
He wishes she’d stop smiling like he just dropped that Streisand bitch on her damn doorstep.
***
“You almost done in there?”
He’s leaning against the wall just outside the Target dressing rooms, restlessly tapping out the beat to “Uptown Girl” on his thigh. Rachel has been in there for fifteen minutes, muttering to herself about Grease and “sad clown hookers,” which leaves him feeling kind of regretful about taking this whole deal on.
Hookers are okay and everything, but clowns suck.
“Rachel.” He raps on the wall, as close to the door as he’s ever going to get with Mrs. Butterworth in her bright red vest glaring at him from the clearance rack. “Come on, chick time is so up. Lesson one in badassery: speed your shit along.”
“I thought lesson one was about clothes,” her voice, ever melodic and just the tiniest bit grating, drifts out. He rolls his eyes.
“Who’s the teacher here? I’ve got full rights to move shit around. Come on, I’m starving!”
The click of the latch sounds, and she steps into view, arms wrapped tight around her middle. “I don’t know about this, Noah. It’s not really the sort of look my dads would approve of.”
“Fuck your dads,” he replies mildly, wincing when her nose wrinkles and her eyebrows scrunch together disapprovingly. “Um. Sorry. I mean, you wanted a change. To look all cool and shit. Believe me, babe, this is totally it. Besides, you have to quit letting your folks stock your closet sometime, right?”
Slowly, she releases herself, spinning in a tight circle and inspecting the outfit he picked out. The artful-yet-carelessly torn jeans are more expensive than anything he’d ever blow cash on, but he figures that’s the price of shopping for a chick. Either way, they’re gripping her ass like there’s no tomorrow. Worth it.
The tight 80s tee and baggy zip-up couldn’t be less Rachel either, and he thinks she should have picked up a pair of combat boots years ago. Bullying is so much less likely when you look like you could kick the ass of anyone wanting to fuck with you.
And, for once, uneasy smile aside, Rachel looks exactly that competent.
He grins.
“Hell yeah. That’s the way to do it. Sexy without bein’ slutty.”
She smiles back, brushing a lock of hair behind her ears. “I thought slutty was your forte, Noah Puckerman. When did that change?”
He raises both hands. “Hey, it works for some. Look at Lopez. But you’re a baby badass. You want to start off owning the shit out of everybody before they even think about owning you. You get me?”
He can tell from the way she tilts her head curiously that she doesn’t, but it’s fine. He’ll leave that lesson for later. Right now-
“Scratch the headbands,” he announces, circling her with his chin propped against his hand. “Loose flowing hair, or one of those quick-ass ponytails girls are born knowing how to do. Which, by the way, what is that? It’s like a Marine putting together a fucking rifle or something, except you do it in like three seconds flat-“
“Hair,” Rachel interrupts impatiently, “check. What else?”
“Wristbands are for lesbians and guitarists,” he snaps back, refocusing. “You play?”
“Piano,” she replies. He snorts.
“Keep that shit to yourself, unless you’re up on the blues. Anyway. I think you’re good for now. Stay a little grungy around the edges. Wash the shirt after the third wear or so, unless you spill something on it. Like ranch. Don’t ever wear a ranch-shirt, that shit smells forever.”
“I’m aware of how hygiene works, Noah,” she says snippily. He nudges her shoulder.
“You’ve got smart-assing down. That’s lesson three.”
“Weren’t we on two?”
“Hey.” He points to his own eyes, then back to hers again. “Who’s the teacher here?”
The amusement on her face could power a lawn mower. “You are, Noah.”
“Damn right,” he agrees, twisting around to search for the accessory counter. “Now, where do they keep the sunglasses in this place? Need you lookin’ all kinds of bomb in the eyewear department.”
***
“I really don’t know about this, Noah,” Rachel calls nervously, one hand plastered to her hip. “I’m not sure I’m in the properly maintained physical condition to achieve-“
“Dude,” he interrupts. “I’m not asking you to steal a fuckin’ Camaro, am I?”
He kind of likes the way her eyes flash: two parts indignant, one part sheer terror. “I certainly hope not.”
“Mellow out,” he advises, adjusting his helmet and flashing a smile she can’t see. “You ready?”
“No!” she calls back, inching forward a step and spreading her arms wide. His spare jersey drapes down over the knees of her new jeans, and his dented freshman-year helmet cocks strangely to the left. She’s adorable, and utterly useless, and when he lobs the ball as he might to a golden retriever puppy, she lets out a strangled scream and promptly drops it at her feet.
“Good effort!” he calls, smothering a burst of laughter. He can’t explain it, but this is the lightest he’s felt in months. His chest, usually so tight and uncomfortable, is actually allowing air into his lungs again. It’s fucking great.
Might have something to do with the four burgers he scarfed an hour ago at Mickey D’s too, but whatever. For now, he’s going with sunshine and the Rachel Berry Project, which actually doesn’t suck even half as hard as projects usually do.
It really is cute, how she can’t throw worth a damn.
“What does football have to do with being cool?” she huffs when he trots over, flipping the ball between his hands. “They don’t even let girls on the team.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, thumping her gently on the top of her helmet. “Sports make you look tough. Tough is badass. And seriously, babe, you can use all the help you can get there. Show tunes aren’t doing jack shit to keep you cool.”
“But you guys never win,” she protests, adjusting the helmet and blinking up at him. For half a second, he forget where he is and who he’s with; the temptation to reach forward and grasp her by the grill is strong, almost as strong as the urge to pull that helmet off and press his lips against hers.
Somehow, Rachel Berry is a hell of a kisser. It’s the one lesson in cool she’s never needed help with.
“Doesn’t matter,” he repeats with some effort, shaking his head. “You’ve seen the nutsacks who get by in this school. You really think Hudson would be half as interesting to everybody else if he couldn’t throw a skin?”
She doesn’t respond. Right. Hudson’s probably wasn’t the right name to throw on that count.
“I’m guessing that’s what this is,” he observes after an awkward moment. “Hudson’s being a dick again, so you’re trying to get his attention.”
“No!” she blurts, too quickly to be trusted. He shrugs.
“Hey, not judging. I mean, Finn’s my boy. Dude’s a total assface eighty percent of the time, but he’s kind of addicting or whatever. You get attached.”
“I’m not attached,” she mumbles, deflating when he arches an eyebrow. “Fine. I care about him. But that still isn’t what this is about. I just…I want to be noticed. Taken seriously. I want to be like you.”
“Still a bad road to fly down,” he warns, tossing the football skyward and catching it. She shrugs.
“You’re confident. You’re smart. You’re a much nicer person than you like people to think-you are, stop shaking your head like that. I enjoy your company, Noah, like it or not.”
“Not,” he teases, suddenly uncomfortable with how heavy the conversation has grown. Before she can respond, he spikes the ball into the ground and lunges for her, tossing her tiny body over one shoulder and roaring with laughter. She shrieks, pummeling his back with fierce little fists, and giggles when he twirls her around and around.
“This has nothing to do with being cool, Noah Puckerman!” she cries, grasping hold of his shirt and hanging on for dear life. He grins, head bowed into the spin, and holds on a little tighter.
“Not true. Lesson four: laugh your ass off. If you’re laughing, it’ll scare the shit out of the assholes who want to do it for you.”
***
“I thought music wasn’t cool,” Rachel observes uncertainly, flipping through the CD rack on his dresser. Stretched out on his bed, Puck lifts his head to stare at her.
“You take that back.”
“You said it!” she accuses, chucking a smile over her shoulder. “You said music wasn’t tough enough.”
“No, I said show tunes weren’t tough,” he corrects, nuzzling into his pillow. “You don’t listen to the kind of music cool people listen to, Berry. You’ve got all the old ladies whining about their problems and the gay dudes wailing about feather boas. What’s cool is the opposite of that shit.”
She holds up a CD, clearly amused. “Weird Al Yankovic?”
“Dude’s got some solid jams,” he replies, somewhat ineffectually. She giggles.
“I see.”
He sits up slowly, smoothing a hand over his mohawk as he searches for the words to explain. “Look, it’s not about what you listen to. It’s about how you wear it. Like the clothes, or the jock shit. That stuff isn’t cool by itself. You have to fuckin’ own it.”
“Like you own your swearing,” she suggests, abandoning the CD rack and perching on the edge of the bed. “Which I believe is unnecessarily crude and off-putting, by the way.”
“Being a badass is all about crude and off-putting,” he insists. “That’s what makes you cool. Other people being too scared of you to get in your face.”
Her lips pull into a thoughtful expression, fingers tangling in her lap. “I’m not sure I’m okay with that,” she admits slowly, looking at him regretfully. “I don’t want people to be afraid of me.”
“I thought you wanted-“
“To be noticed,” she interrupts gently. “And respected. Not feared.”
“They kind of go hand-in-hand, babe,” he informs her, a little more sullenly than intended. Surprisingly, she reaches over and lays a hand on his arm. It feels nice, but too much like pity for his taste.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she says softly. “And neither is Quinn.”
“How would you know?” he snaps, embarrassed as he feels the blood rushing to his ears. “You guys hate each other.”
“We do not,” Rachel huffs, clearly annoyed. “We just-“
“Can’t get along to save your lives,” he corrects himself, calming as he falls back against the pillows again. Rolling her eyes, Rachel smoothes a hand across her pant leg.
“She gave her baby to my mom,” she points out quietly. It’s like a sucker punch; heat flares in his chest, tightening around his heart painfully. He scowls.
“Our baby. My baby.”
“Of course,” Rachel amends hurriedly. “Of course, I didn’t mean to imply-“
“Whatever.” Waving her off, he closes his eyes. Suddenly, his head is pounding too hard to think around. “You guys talked about that?”
Rachel hesitates, like she can tell he doesn’t really want to discuss this right now. Or ever. “Yes. I mean, not a lot. She just…over the summer, she came by a few times. She needed to confide in someone, and I think she realized all her other friends are infuriating gossips. I mean, really, between Santana and Mercedes, I can’t say who is worse, but-“
“The point, Berry,” he presses tiredly, suddenly hating that she’s in his room, running her mouth again. Today has been fun-bizarrely so-but enough is enough. Time for things to go back to normal.
“The point,” she says, almost timidly, “is that she’s having a hard time, Noah.”
“And I’m not?” he explodes, sitting bolt upright and glowering at her. “Jesus, Berry, they took my kid. And I loved her, and I loved Quinn, and now I’ve got-fuck, I’ve got nothing.”
“You’ve got me,” she counters, placing a hand firmly upon his knee. He scoffs at the ceiling, head shaking fervently. “You do. Noah, like it or not, you and I are friends.”
“Are not,” he mutters. She smiles.
“You spent the whole afternoon with me. We played catch, and went shopping, and talked. I hate to break it to you, but that’s friendship. You, Noah Puckerman, are my friend.”
“I’m your teacher,” he corrects her stubbornly, unable to resist a small smile when she laughs.
“Yes. A truly awful, wonderful one at that.”
“Better than Schue?” he asks hopefully, not knowing why it matters but unable to prevent himself from asking anyway. Her head flings back with mirth, fingers clenching against his denim-covered knee.
“Sure. Much cooler, at least.”
“Damn straight,” he replies proudly, smile mirroring hers. She’s beautiful, he allows himself to think in a rare moment of honesty, and so much kinder than anyone realizes. They don’t even have to be making out for him to see it, which is kind of awesome and kind of scary at the same time.
“So,” she says at last, patting his knee and pulling her hand back into her lap in the same motion. “What’s the verdict? Have I passed Badass 101?”
“Babe,” he drawls, “you have not yet begun to cool.”
The whump of the pillow against his head feels startlingly like Before. Her laugh echoes off his walls, drawing Anna curiously to the doorway just in time to watch him tackle Rachel and dig his fingers recklessly into her sides. As Rachel squirms, giggling and kicking her feet, and Anna clambers excitedly onto his back with her arms wound tight around his neck, Puck grins and feels, for the first time in almost a year, far beyond second-string.
Fine. He’ll admit it. Rachel Berry is maybe his friend.
He’s kind of weirdly stoked about that.
Pairing: Noah Puckerman/Rachel Berry friendship, past Noah Puckerman/Quinn Fabray
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S1.
Summary: If anyone's qualified to teach Badass 101, it’s Noah Puckerman. Most of the time, anyway.
Sometimes, he really does feel like the perpetual second-string, and it’s time to be honest about it: it drives him completely fucking insane. Nothing he ever does seems to be enough. Date the popular cheerleader? She’ll leave you like a shot-and for a girl, no less. Score the winning touchdown? It’s the quarterback everyone will be watching when you throw your arms into the air. Put everything you’ve got into singing and rocking out for Glee? The drummer gets the glory.
Even having a baby wasn’t enough to give him that push over the top into meaning something. Quinn carried his child-genes, blood, love-for nine months, and what has he got to show for it?
It’s a sad life he’s leading. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that. So when Rachel Berry turns and gives him that look in the middle of Glee practice, it takes all his energy not to jump out of the seat he’s slumped in and throw it at her.
She’s all right, but every once in a while, she still makes him want to light himself on fire.
“What?” he snaps under his breath, glaring. She gives a maddening little shrug, brown eyes burning into the side of his head.
“You’re being quiet.”
“We don’t all have to run our football-sized mouths all the time,” he replies unkindly, head bouncing off the wall when he throws it back. She makes a miffed little noise, lips pursing, and squeezes her skirt in one tiny fist.
“There’s no need to be rude, Noah.”
Noah. He loves and hates that she calls him that. Outside of his mother, she is the only one allowed to.
(Lopez doesn’t count. There is no such thing as allowance where she’s concerned; she has always done whatever she wanted, ever since kindergarten, when she shoved the classroom salamander down his pants and somehow got away with it.)
“Anyway,” she goes on briskly, as if she is so accustomed to being insulted that she barely even notices anymore, “I wanted to ask you something. If you don’t mind.”
He grunts. In Rachel Berry World, that’s permission.
“I was hoping,” she begins, craning her neck to seek out his eyes even as he glares up at the ceiling tiles, “that you could help me with a project. If it isn’t too much trouble. I would do it myself, but you see, I find I lack the proper firsthand knowledge, and you’re really the perfect person to ask-“
He won’t admit it out loud, but she had him at “project.” Projects with Rachel Berry usually end on her bed with his hand halfway up her sweater. It might be just the thing he needs to feel less like a steaming pile of crap right now.
“What do you want?” He tries to feed some of those elusive manners his mother raves about so often into his tone. Getting to the making out part is so much easier when the girl doesn’t feel like she’s being attacked from the get-go by some ungrateful asshole.
From the way she wrinkles her nose in displeasure, he doesn’t figure he’s doing too good a job.
“I would like,” she sniffs daintily, “for you to assist me with some…image-related concerns.”
How interesting. “What, like, new sexy little skirts or whatever? I don’t do shopping, Berry.”
“I’m not proposing we spend a girlish day at the mall,” she replies with a short giggle he can’t help but smile at. “I’m simply asking-“
“Guys, you want to maybe pay attention?” Schuester interrupts, sounding aggravated. Normally, Puck would barely be able to bite down on a nasty retort, but Schue’s been through a lot in the last year, and besides, he figures he’d be pretty pissy if he’d spent the last half hour trying to convince Brittany to clamber off Santana’s lap.
(Scratch that. Lesbians are fuckin’ hot. What kind of dude is Schue, anyway?)
Rachel catches his eye, determined as ever, and exaggeratedly mouths, After. He shrugs. Not like he’s got anything too interesting to rush home to.
True to form, the second Schuester releases them for the afternoon with a sigh and a dejected slump over the piano, she wheels around and catches him by the sleeve of his jacket. “Now,” she blurts before he can begin to think of a fun-yet-sexy comment about her need to always be touching him. “About my project.”
Finn’s staring at them from the doorway, gaze narrow and suspicious, so Puck bucks against instinct and shakes free of her surprisingly strong grip. “Right. The skirts. Or the mall.”
“Not the mall,” she corrects fiercely, adjusting her tiger-cub sweater until its creepily huge eyes feel like they’re burning holes in his t-shirt. “This is about my image.”
“What about it?” he demands gruffly, relieved when Finn finally tears his gaze away and slumps out the door. Rachel beams.
“I want you to help me make a few adjustments.”
He’s not even sure he wants to know what that means, not with the dangerous gleam in those doe eyes. That’s the sort of look that tends to lead to three-man protests outside the nearest record store when they fail to stock the ideal number of Broadway soundtracks.
That’s one of the biggest curiosities of his life, trying to figure out how she convinced Kurt and Quinn, of all people, to join her for that. Maybe someday, when she’s no longer so sore about the whole bearing his kid thing, Quinn will let him in on that one.
(Who is he kidding? At this point, Hummel would be ten times more likely to tell the story over tea and fucking crumpets. Quinn hasn’t let him past her front step in months, and the last time he tried to pay her a visit, she locked the door and blared Motown records until he gave up.)
“What kind of adjustments?” he asks cautiously, stuffing his hands into his pockets and raising an eyebrow. Rachel’s smile brightens.
“I want to be different,” she decides firmly, nodding in time with the words. “Cooler. Sexier.”
“So you come to me.” He bites his tongue before a bitter chuckle can work its way out. “I don’t get you, Berry.”
“I don’t understand your confusion,” she replies primly. “You’re the coolest boy in school. I want to be like you. It’s only logical that you lend me the value of your experiences.”
It’s too much; the laugh snaps out before he can stop it, all acid and pent-up rage on his chapped lips. “Bad call, babe. You do not want to be like me. Whatever the opposite is, that’s what you want. Artie. Be like Artie.”
“But you’re the plan!” she protests. Before he can stop her, she’s pulling a neatly-folded square of paper from her skirt pocket, waving it under his nose. “We have to stick to the plan!”
“Rework the plan,” he advises, pushing past her and motoring out the door. Her legs are marvelously long, but she’s still a tiny fairy of a person. Maybe he can outrun her.
“I can’t rework the plan!” she shrills, huffing along after him with both arms pumping desperately. “Noah, please, you have to help me. You’re the only one I can trust with this.”
“Why’s that?” he tosses back over his shoulder, rolling his eyes.
“Because,” she replies, her voice very small. “You’re the only cool person in this school who’s ever been nice to me.”
He slows a bit, shoulders slumping, and reaches up to scratch his mohawk.
“Low blow, Berry.”
Damn her, she actually looks proud of that. “So...you’ll do it?”
He stops walking, turning to face her with a scowl. “What are you gonna give me?”
“Not my virginity,” she snaps off, and damn, now he’s actually proud for her. Six months ago, Rachel Berry would never have stooped to such a harsh retort as that. Of course, six months ago, he probably would have kicked off his day with a ritual grape-splash to the front of that ugly-ass sweater. Things change.
And now, Rachel’s looking to change too.
Really, what’s the harm? It’s not like she can get anyone pregnant (and hell would freeze over, he thinks with a wry smirk, before Quinn would ever let her get close enough to try). The shit he’s done, the mistakes he’s made, it’s all stuff she’ll never have to worry about.
“Sure,” he says at last, shaking his head. “Sure. Fine. I’ll help you. But damn it, Berry, there better be food involved. I haven’t eaten in two hours. That’s fucking criminal.”
He wishes she’d stop smiling like he just dropped that Streisand bitch on her damn doorstep.
***
“You almost done in there?”
He’s leaning against the wall just outside the Target dressing rooms, restlessly tapping out the beat to “Uptown Girl” on his thigh. Rachel has been in there for fifteen minutes, muttering to herself about Grease and “sad clown hookers,” which leaves him feeling kind of regretful about taking this whole deal on.
Hookers are okay and everything, but clowns suck.
“Rachel.” He raps on the wall, as close to the door as he’s ever going to get with Mrs. Butterworth in her bright red vest glaring at him from the clearance rack. “Come on, chick time is so up. Lesson one in badassery: speed your shit along.”
“I thought lesson one was about clothes,” her voice, ever melodic and just the tiniest bit grating, drifts out. He rolls his eyes.
“Who’s the teacher here? I’ve got full rights to move shit around. Come on, I’m starving!”
The click of the latch sounds, and she steps into view, arms wrapped tight around her middle. “I don’t know about this, Noah. It’s not really the sort of look my dads would approve of.”
“Fuck your dads,” he replies mildly, wincing when her nose wrinkles and her eyebrows scrunch together disapprovingly. “Um. Sorry. I mean, you wanted a change. To look all cool and shit. Believe me, babe, this is totally it. Besides, you have to quit letting your folks stock your closet sometime, right?”
Slowly, she releases herself, spinning in a tight circle and inspecting the outfit he picked out. The artful-yet-carelessly torn jeans are more expensive than anything he’d ever blow cash on, but he figures that’s the price of shopping for a chick. Either way, they’re gripping her ass like there’s no tomorrow. Worth it.
The tight 80s tee and baggy zip-up couldn’t be less Rachel either, and he thinks she should have picked up a pair of combat boots years ago. Bullying is so much less likely when you look like you could kick the ass of anyone wanting to fuck with you.
And, for once, uneasy smile aside, Rachel looks exactly that competent.
He grins.
“Hell yeah. That’s the way to do it. Sexy without bein’ slutty.”
She smiles back, brushing a lock of hair behind her ears. “I thought slutty was your forte, Noah Puckerman. When did that change?”
He raises both hands. “Hey, it works for some. Look at Lopez. But you’re a baby badass. You want to start off owning the shit out of everybody before they even think about owning you. You get me?”
He can tell from the way she tilts her head curiously that she doesn’t, but it’s fine. He’ll leave that lesson for later. Right now-
“Scratch the headbands,” he announces, circling her with his chin propped against his hand. “Loose flowing hair, or one of those quick-ass ponytails girls are born knowing how to do. Which, by the way, what is that? It’s like a Marine putting together a fucking rifle or something, except you do it in like three seconds flat-“
“Hair,” Rachel interrupts impatiently, “check. What else?”
“Wristbands are for lesbians and guitarists,” he snaps back, refocusing. “You play?”
“Piano,” she replies. He snorts.
“Keep that shit to yourself, unless you’re up on the blues. Anyway. I think you’re good for now. Stay a little grungy around the edges. Wash the shirt after the third wear or so, unless you spill something on it. Like ranch. Don’t ever wear a ranch-shirt, that shit smells forever.”
“I’m aware of how hygiene works, Noah,” she says snippily. He nudges her shoulder.
“You’ve got smart-assing down. That’s lesson three.”
“Weren’t we on two?”
“Hey.” He points to his own eyes, then back to hers again. “Who’s the teacher here?”
The amusement on her face could power a lawn mower. “You are, Noah.”
“Damn right,” he agrees, twisting around to search for the accessory counter. “Now, where do they keep the sunglasses in this place? Need you lookin’ all kinds of bomb in the eyewear department.”
***
“I really don’t know about this, Noah,” Rachel calls nervously, one hand plastered to her hip. “I’m not sure I’m in the properly maintained physical condition to achieve-“
“Dude,” he interrupts. “I’m not asking you to steal a fuckin’ Camaro, am I?”
He kind of likes the way her eyes flash: two parts indignant, one part sheer terror. “I certainly hope not.”
“Mellow out,” he advises, adjusting his helmet and flashing a smile she can’t see. “You ready?”
“No!” she calls back, inching forward a step and spreading her arms wide. His spare jersey drapes down over the knees of her new jeans, and his dented freshman-year helmet cocks strangely to the left. She’s adorable, and utterly useless, and when he lobs the ball as he might to a golden retriever puppy, she lets out a strangled scream and promptly drops it at her feet.
“Good effort!” he calls, smothering a burst of laughter. He can’t explain it, but this is the lightest he’s felt in months. His chest, usually so tight and uncomfortable, is actually allowing air into his lungs again. It’s fucking great.
Might have something to do with the four burgers he scarfed an hour ago at Mickey D’s too, but whatever. For now, he’s going with sunshine and the Rachel Berry Project, which actually doesn’t suck even half as hard as projects usually do.
It really is cute, how she can’t throw worth a damn.
“What does football have to do with being cool?” she huffs when he trots over, flipping the ball between his hands. “They don’t even let girls on the team.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, thumping her gently on the top of her helmet. “Sports make you look tough. Tough is badass. And seriously, babe, you can use all the help you can get there. Show tunes aren’t doing jack shit to keep you cool.”
“But you guys never win,” she protests, adjusting the helmet and blinking up at him. For half a second, he forget where he is and who he’s with; the temptation to reach forward and grasp her by the grill is strong, almost as strong as the urge to pull that helmet off and press his lips against hers.
Somehow, Rachel Berry is a hell of a kisser. It’s the one lesson in cool she’s never needed help with.
“Doesn’t matter,” he repeats with some effort, shaking his head. “You’ve seen the nutsacks who get by in this school. You really think Hudson would be half as interesting to everybody else if he couldn’t throw a skin?”
She doesn’t respond. Right. Hudson’s probably wasn’t the right name to throw on that count.
“I’m guessing that’s what this is,” he observes after an awkward moment. “Hudson’s being a dick again, so you’re trying to get his attention.”
“No!” she blurts, too quickly to be trusted. He shrugs.
“Hey, not judging. I mean, Finn’s my boy. Dude’s a total assface eighty percent of the time, but he’s kind of addicting or whatever. You get attached.”
“I’m not attached,” she mumbles, deflating when he arches an eyebrow. “Fine. I care about him. But that still isn’t what this is about. I just…I want to be noticed. Taken seriously. I want to be like you.”
“Still a bad road to fly down,” he warns, tossing the football skyward and catching it. She shrugs.
“You’re confident. You’re smart. You’re a much nicer person than you like people to think-you are, stop shaking your head like that. I enjoy your company, Noah, like it or not.”
“Not,” he teases, suddenly uncomfortable with how heavy the conversation has grown. Before she can respond, he spikes the ball into the ground and lunges for her, tossing her tiny body over one shoulder and roaring with laughter. She shrieks, pummeling his back with fierce little fists, and giggles when he twirls her around and around.
“This has nothing to do with being cool, Noah Puckerman!” she cries, grasping hold of his shirt and hanging on for dear life. He grins, head bowed into the spin, and holds on a little tighter.
“Not true. Lesson four: laugh your ass off. If you’re laughing, it’ll scare the shit out of the assholes who want to do it for you.”
***
“I thought music wasn’t cool,” Rachel observes uncertainly, flipping through the CD rack on his dresser. Stretched out on his bed, Puck lifts his head to stare at her.
“You take that back.”
“You said it!” she accuses, chucking a smile over her shoulder. “You said music wasn’t tough enough.”
“No, I said show tunes weren’t tough,” he corrects, nuzzling into his pillow. “You don’t listen to the kind of music cool people listen to, Berry. You’ve got all the old ladies whining about their problems and the gay dudes wailing about feather boas. What’s cool is the opposite of that shit.”
She holds up a CD, clearly amused. “Weird Al Yankovic?”
“Dude’s got some solid jams,” he replies, somewhat ineffectually. She giggles.
“I see.”
He sits up slowly, smoothing a hand over his mohawk as he searches for the words to explain. “Look, it’s not about what you listen to. It’s about how you wear it. Like the clothes, or the jock shit. That stuff isn’t cool by itself. You have to fuckin’ own it.”
“Like you own your swearing,” she suggests, abandoning the CD rack and perching on the edge of the bed. “Which I believe is unnecessarily crude and off-putting, by the way.”
“Being a badass is all about crude and off-putting,” he insists. “That’s what makes you cool. Other people being too scared of you to get in your face.”
Her lips pull into a thoughtful expression, fingers tangling in her lap. “I’m not sure I’m okay with that,” she admits slowly, looking at him regretfully. “I don’t want people to be afraid of me.”
“I thought you wanted-“
“To be noticed,” she interrupts gently. “And respected. Not feared.”
“They kind of go hand-in-hand, babe,” he informs her, a little more sullenly than intended. Surprisingly, she reaches over and lays a hand on his arm. It feels nice, but too much like pity for his taste.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she says softly. “And neither is Quinn.”
“How would you know?” he snaps, embarrassed as he feels the blood rushing to his ears. “You guys hate each other.”
“We do not,” Rachel huffs, clearly annoyed. “We just-“
“Can’t get along to save your lives,” he corrects himself, calming as he falls back against the pillows again. Rolling her eyes, Rachel smoothes a hand across her pant leg.
“She gave her baby to my mom,” she points out quietly. It’s like a sucker punch; heat flares in his chest, tightening around his heart painfully. He scowls.
“Our baby. My baby.”
“Of course,” Rachel amends hurriedly. “Of course, I didn’t mean to imply-“
“Whatever.” Waving her off, he closes his eyes. Suddenly, his head is pounding too hard to think around. “You guys talked about that?”
Rachel hesitates, like she can tell he doesn’t really want to discuss this right now. Or ever. “Yes. I mean, not a lot. She just…over the summer, she came by a few times. She needed to confide in someone, and I think she realized all her other friends are infuriating gossips. I mean, really, between Santana and Mercedes, I can’t say who is worse, but-“
“The point, Berry,” he presses tiredly, suddenly hating that she’s in his room, running her mouth again. Today has been fun-bizarrely so-but enough is enough. Time for things to go back to normal.
“The point,” she says, almost timidly, “is that she’s having a hard time, Noah.”
“And I’m not?” he explodes, sitting bolt upright and glowering at her. “Jesus, Berry, they took my kid. And I loved her, and I loved Quinn, and now I’ve got-fuck, I’ve got nothing.”
“You’ve got me,” she counters, placing a hand firmly upon his knee. He scoffs at the ceiling, head shaking fervently. “You do. Noah, like it or not, you and I are friends.”
“Are not,” he mutters. She smiles.
“You spent the whole afternoon with me. We played catch, and went shopping, and talked. I hate to break it to you, but that’s friendship. You, Noah Puckerman, are my friend.”
“I’m your teacher,” he corrects her stubbornly, unable to resist a small smile when she laughs.
“Yes. A truly awful, wonderful one at that.”
“Better than Schue?” he asks hopefully, not knowing why it matters but unable to prevent himself from asking anyway. Her head flings back with mirth, fingers clenching against his denim-covered knee.
“Sure. Much cooler, at least.”
“Damn straight,” he replies proudly, smile mirroring hers. She’s beautiful, he allows himself to think in a rare moment of honesty, and so much kinder than anyone realizes. They don’t even have to be making out for him to see it, which is kind of awesome and kind of scary at the same time.
“So,” she says at last, patting his knee and pulling her hand back into her lap in the same motion. “What’s the verdict? Have I passed Badass 101?”
“Babe,” he drawls, “you have not yet begun to cool.”
The whump of the pillow against his head feels startlingly like Before. Her laugh echoes off his walls, drawing Anna curiously to the doorway just in time to watch him tackle Rachel and dig his fingers recklessly into her sides. As Rachel squirms, giggling and kicking her feet, and Anna clambers excitedly onto his back with her arms wound tight around his neck, Puck grins and feels, for the first time in almost a year, far beyond second-string.
Fine. He’ll admit it. Rachel Berry is maybe his friend.
He’s kind of weirdly stoked about that.