Perfect
Title: Perfect
Pairing: Noah Puckerman-centric; hints at Noah Puckerman/Quinn Fabray, Noah Puckerman/Shelby Corcoran
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through the promo for 3x04.
Summary: Perfect worlds don’t exist.
Sometimes, Puck thinks about what it might be like to live in a perfect place. It’s an idea that crossed his mind last year, when he hid out in the library to avoid a history test and wound up skimming through a book on alternate realities to look busy. Most of the crap went right over his head, he has to admit (which, who cares? The crotchety old librarian left him alone, didn’t she?), but bits and pieces of it kind of sunk in, and now he finds himself obsessing from time to time. Namely, on the idea that there could be whole worlds out there like this one…except different.
He wonders what that would be like, to live in a world where everything didn’t go to shit.
Maybe, in that world, the simple little things hold true. Maybe he still has a father. God knows what that would be like, to have a guy to actually talk to about his problems (not that he would, necessarily, but shit, it’d be good to have that option, right?). And hey, maybe Finn’s dad wouldn’t have croaked out in that reality. Maybe, in the perfect world, fatherhood still means something to the universe.
It’d be nice.
And in that world, he thinks, things would be a lot easier on people. That whole gay thing, maybe it doesn’t matter so much in Perfect World. Brittany and Santana could do their thing (possibly in front of him, ‘cuz hey, let freedom ring), Hummel could have whichever chiseled fairy he sees fit, and nobody would be getting the crap kicked out of them for no damn reason. He’d like that, to see his friends breathe easy for once. Not that he’ll ever admit it, but it sucks to watch Kurt flinch each time a football player drifts too close in the hall, or to see Santana subtly bat Brittany’s hand away when she thinks too many people are looking. It’s friggin’ sad, to think about it too long. A perfect world wouldn’t deal with that shit.
In Perfect World, Rachel Berry would be the star of the show, and people would love her for it. It’s weird to think about, but Rachel’s actually pretty sweet, and her body is bangin’. There’s no reason for people to treat her the way they do, he figures, except maybe jealousy. Perfect World doesn’t deal in jealousy either. Just talent, and drive, and what people deserve. A chick like Berry, batshit crazy though she is, deserves to be loved. She deserves applause. She’d get it over there, he’s sure of it.
Perfect World would let the Changster dance his ninja heart out on every damn table and Tina could speak her mind when this world shuts her out. Mercedes could put those stupid insecurities aside and finally be the diva, for real-no more of this bitchin’ and moanin’ bullshit she pulls for the sake of attention. Hell, in Perfect World, maybe Artie could fuckin’ walk. Now there’s a goddamn beautiful idea.
He leans back in his truck, hands drumming nervously on the wheel as he takes the next left. A world where you could sing without people throwing shit at you, where your teachers don’t side-eye you when you let your ‘hawk grow a little long, where love is love and talent counts for more than rep. That’s the world he’d love to live in. To watch Lopez mack on her girl without fear, or Berry belt on a stage and earn that stupid scholarship she’s been mooning after, or Hudson throw a touchdown and barrel across the field to high-five his dino-dad-that shit would be awesome.
And maybe, in that world, Quinn would smile.
It’s hard to imagine that, he thinks grimly, maybe even harder than Hummel as class president or Artie without his wheels. A world where Quinn doesn’t rocket off the deep end every fifteen minutes, where she doesn’t dye her hair or pick up smoking to kill the rage inside, where she can keep a friendship or two and lean on her mom and-
See Beth.
He thumps one hand down on the steering wheel, jumping a little when the horn squawks. He can’t remember the last time he saw Quinn Fabray smile-really smile, not just that little half-smirk she gives him when he makes a joke, like she’s half-plotting his death in the parking lot after rehearsal-and if he’s honest about it, that sort of pisses him off. Quinn’s got a beautiful smile. For a while, that smile was enough to make him think he was-
But he’s not. Not with this Quinn, anyway, the latent serial killer skulking from class to class with her head down. In Perfect World, this Quinn wouldn’t even exist. There’s no room for self-loathing and bitterness in Perfect World.
The curb gently rises up to meet him as he coasts in and jerkily throws the truck into park. Perfect World would be totally awesome, no doubt about it. A world where his baby girl knew him as Daddy, where Quinn could hold her close and bump her nose against one that looks just a little bit like his, where Rachel could come by after school and sing lullabies, Finn could teach her how to throw a ball around, Brittany and Santana could do her nails while Kurt sews little bedazzled bibs in the corner-or whatever gay dudes do for kids, it’s not like he has a fuckin’ clue. Hell, maybe Sam could come by after dinner with his guitar, and they could put on a three-act show while Beth claps and giggles and eventually dozes off in Quinn’s lap…
He hesitates at the door, fingers curling against his fist and loosening again. Yeah, Perfect World would be the best, as ideal as its name. And he has to believe that reality is out there somewhere, for some version of Puck that very much is not him. Maybe a Puck who didn’t half-trick the girl of his dreams into bed. A Puck who didn’t cheat his best bro to do it. A Puck who didn’t find out, too little too late, that the girl of his dreams maybe really isn’t. The Puck living in Perfect World knows how to make Rachel Berry feel special, Kurt Hummel feel safe, Quinn Fabray smile that shining, glorious smile he still sees sometimes in his dreams.
But that isn’t this world, and he has never been that Puck. He’s this one: the one who hasn’t gotten himself a haircut in three months, whose mother shakes her head when he comes through the door. The Puck who has a record and a rep, whose guns are more important than his grade point average, who wins and loses girls at an Olympic-record velocity.
The Puck whose daughter still looks at him with suspicious eyes each time he reaches for her.
It’s this Puck who finds himself standing at this meticulously kept door, anxiously shifting his weight from one boot to the other as he pushes a trembling finger into the bell. It’s this Puck who waits, head bowed, for the door to open, for a pair of still-cautious eyes to take in his raggedy shirt and frayed jeans. It’s this Puck who swings himself into the apartment with a fake-cheerful smile, brandishing the pocket-sized panda bear he won at the arcade last Saturday.
Perfect World isn’t a thing; this world is. In Perfect World, Beth would greet him with a squeal and a kiss, while Quinn looked on in adoration.
In this world, his daughter skeptically accepts the bear he presses into her tiny hands. In this world, Shelby Corcoran, with her purple blouse and Rachel’s cheekbones, tosses her hair nervously around her shoulders and smiles.
Perfect World would be so much better than this, but he is just smart enough to know that Perfect World isn’t for him. He’s not made for it. He’d fuck it up in an instant. Quinn’s smile wouldn’t last there either, if he were around.
This is his world, the one he’s built for himself, and damned if he isn’t going to make the best of it. Because maybe Shelby’s twenty years his senior, burdened with dreams and damages he can’t fathom, and maybe Beth will never launch herself into his arms with reckless, loving abandon. But fuck it; families take work. Families aren’t cut and dry. If anybody knows that, it’s him.
He gathers his daughter against his chest, trying not to wince when she struggles balefully for a moment to escape, and meets dark green eyes over soft blonde curls. A soft mouth curves lightly upward, and he blinks until Rachel is gone, until Shelby remains. It’s weird, and maybe it’s kind of wrong, but it’s something. It’s a family. It’s all he’s ever wanted.
Not perfect. Maybe not even close. But it’s a start.
He lets himself grin back as the door swings shut behind him.
Pairing: Noah Puckerman-centric; hints at Noah Puckerman/Quinn Fabray, Noah Puckerman/Shelby Corcoran
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through the promo for 3x04.
Summary: Perfect worlds don’t exist.
Sometimes, Puck thinks about what it might be like to live in a perfect place. It’s an idea that crossed his mind last year, when he hid out in the library to avoid a history test and wound up skimming through a book on alternate realities to look busy. Most of the crap went right over his head, he has to admit (which, who cares? The crotchety old librarian left him alone, didn’t she?), but bits and pieces of it kind of sunk in, and now he finds himself obsessing from time to time. Namely, on the idea that there could be whole worlds out there like this one…except different.
He wonders what that would be like, to live in a world where everything didn’t go to shit.
Maybe, in that world, the simple little things hold true. Maybe he still has a father. God knows what that would be like, to have a guy to actually talk to about his problems (not that he would, necessarily, but shit, it’d be good to have that option, right?). And hey, maybe Finn’s dad wouldn’t have croaked out in that reality. Maybe, in the perfect world, fatherhood still means something to the universe.
It’d be nice.
And in that world, he thinks, things would be a lot easier on people. That whole gay thing, maybe it doesn’t matter so much in Perfect World. Brittany and Santana could do their thing (possibly in front of him, ‘cuz hey, let freedom ring), Hummel could have whichever chiseled fairy he sees fit, and nobody would be getting the crap kicked out of them for no damn reason. He’d like that, to see his friends breathe easy for once. Not that he’ll ever admit it, but it sucks to watch Kurt flinch each time a football player drifts too close in the hall, or to see Santana subtly bat Brittany’s hand away when she thinks too many people are looking. It’s friggin’ sad, to think about it too long. A perfect world wouldn’t deal with that shit.
In Perfect World, Rachel Berry would be the star of the show, and people would love her for it. It’s weird to think about, but Rachel’s actually pretty sweet, and her body is bangin’. There’s no reason for people to treat her the way they do, he figures, except maybe jealousy. Perfect World doesn’t deal in jealousy either. Just talent, and drive, and what people deserve. A chick like Berry, batshit crazy though she is, deserves to be loved. She deserves applause. She’d get it over there, he’s sure of it.
Perfect World would let the Changster dance his ninja heart out on every damn table and Tina could speak her mind when this world shuts her out. Mercedes could put those stupid insecurities aside and finally be the diva, for real-no more of this bitchin’ and moanin’ bullshit she pulls for the sake of attention. Hell, in Perfect World, maybe Artie could fuckin’ walk. Now there’s a goddamn beautiful idea.
He leans back in his truck, hands drumming nervously on the wheel as he takes the next left. A world where you could sing without people throwing shit at you, where your teachers don’t side-eye you when you let your ‘hawk grow a little long, where love is love and talent counts for more than rep. That’s the world he’d love to live in. To watch Lopez mack on her girl without fear, or Berry belt on a stage and earn that stupid scholarship she’s been mooning after, or Hudson throw a touchdown and barrel across the field to high-five his dino-dad-that shit would be awesome.
And maybe, in that world, Quinn would smile.
It’s hard to imagine that, he thinks grimly, maybe even harder than Hummel as class president or Artie without his wheels. A world where Quinn doesn’t rocket off the deep end every fifteen minutes, where she doesn’t dye her hair or pick up smoking to kill the rage inside, where she can keep a friendship or two and lean on her mom and-
See Beth.
He thumps one hand down on the steering wheel, jumping a little when the horn squawks. He can’t remember the last time he saw Quinn Fabray smile-really smile, not just that little half-smirk she gives him when he makes a joke, like she’s half-plotting his death in the parking lot after rehearsal-and if he’s honest about it, that sort of pisses him off. Quinn’s got a beautiful smile. For a while, that smile was enough to make him think he was-
But he’s not. Not with this Quinn, anyway, the latent serial killer skulking from class to class with her head down. In Perfect World, this Quinn wouldn’t even exist. There’s no room for self-loathing and bitterness in Perfect World.
The curb gently rises up to meet him as he coasts in and jerkily throws the truck into park. Perfect World would be totally awesome, no doubt about it. A world where his baby girl knew him as Daddy, where Quinn could hold her close and bump her nose against one that looks just a little bit like his, where Rachel could come by after school and sing lullabies, Finn could teach her how to throw a ball around, Brittany and Santana could do her nails while Kurt sews little bedazzled bibs in the corner-or whatever gay dudes do for kids, it’s not like he has a fuckin’ clue. Hell, maybe Sam could come by after dinner with his guitar, and they could put on a three-act show while Beth claps and giggles and eventually dozes off in Quinn’s lap…
He hesitates at the door, fingers curling against his fist and loosening again. Yeah, Perfect World would be the best, as ideal as its name. And he has to believe that reality is out there somewhere, for some version of Puck that very much is not him. Maybe a Puck who didn’t half-trick the girl of his dreams into bed. A Puck who didn’t cheat his best bro to do it. A Puck who didn’t find out, too little too late, that the girl of his dreams maybe really isn’t. The Puck living in Perfect World knows how to make Rachel Berry feel special, Kurt Hummel feel safe, Quinn Fabray smile that shining, glorious smile he still sees sometimes in his dreams.
But that isn’t this world, and he has never been that Puck. He’s this one: the one who hasn’t gotten himself a haircut in three months, whose mother shakes her head when he comes through the door. The Puck who has a record and a rep, whose guns are more important than his grade point average, who wins and loses girls at an Olympic-record velocity.
The Puck whose daughter still looks at him with suspicious eyes each time he reaches for her.
It’s this Puck who finds himself standing at this meticulously kept door, anxiously shifting his weight from one boot to the other as he pushes a trembling finger into the bell. It’s this Puck who waits, head bowed, for the door to open, for a pair of still-cautious eyes to take in his raggedy shirt and frayed jeans. It’s this Puck who swings himself into the apartment with a fake-cheerful smile, brandishing the pocket-sized panda bear he won at the arcade last Saturday.
Perfect World isn’t a thing; this world is. In Perfect World, Beth would greet him with a squeal and a kiss, while Quinn looked on in adoration.
In this world, his daughter skeptically accepts the bear he presses into her tiny hands. In this world, Shelby Corcoran, with her purple blouse and Rachel’s cheekbones, tosses her hair nervously around her shoulders and smiles.
Perfect World would be so much better than this, but he is just smart enough to know that Perfect World isn’t for him. He’s not made for it. He’d fuck it up in an instant. Quinn’s smile wouldn’t last there either, if he were around.
This is his world, the one he’s built for himself, and damned if he isn’t going to make the best of it. Because maybe Shelby’s twenty years his senior, burdened with dreams and damages he can’t fathom, and maybe Beth will never launch herself into his arms with reckless, loving abandon. But fuck it; families take work. Families aren’t cut and dry. If anybody knows that, it’s him.
He gathers his daughter against his chest, trying not to wince when she struggles balefully for a moment to escape, and meets dark green eyes over soft blonde curls. A soft mouth curves lightly upward, and he blinks until Rachel is gone, until Shelby remains. It’s weird, and maybe it’s kind of wrong, but it’s something. It’s a family. It’s all he’s ever wanted.
Not perfect. Maybe not even close. But it’s a start.
He lets himself grin back as the door swings shut behind him.