We're official, 1/1
Title: We're official
Rating: PG-17 (for language)
Words: 1,916
Spoilers: I think... up to Sectionals.
Summary: This was supposed to be a drabble in response to the "No one knows we've been married since we graduated" prompt at puckrachel. Supposed to be.
The first time Puck sees the red and white invitation, he almost, almost considers going.
But it’s in the trash two seconds later.
It’s the second one that comes in the mail as a ‘friendly reminder’ that fucks him over.
Under all normal circumstances, there’s no way he’d touch this shit with a ten foot pole. But coercion is a funny thing. Not to mention, he can admit that it might be fun to see what these assholes have been up to the last few years; ten to be exact. Damn.
He hasn’t been back to Lima since his sophomore year of college, when a number of things happened.
First off, his mom met Ray, a fellow nurse who shared the same shift one fateful night. He bought her a cup of coffee and that was that. He still rails on Ray about being a nurse ‘cause c’mon, it’s kinda gay. But, dude’s cool as shit and has this impeccable taste in firearms. Plus, he treats Ma like a queen. Like seriously, he has to limit the time he spends with her to like two hours because woman is spoiled. So, like six months later, they got married and they moved out to a bigger place in Greenville. His kid sister, Arielle, was all for it.
That year, he also simultaneously dropped out and networked his way into the realm of importing organic goods; in upstate New York. He had the help of an extended family relative. It’s not his passion, but who the fuck cares? Money is a pretty good driver and helps him fulfill whatever his passion is of the week. His latest has involved Thai boxing.
So, y’know, there was just no real reason for him to revisit that part of his history.
Aside from the trophy wall worshipping the Cheerios’ accolades during Sue Sylvester’s reign, nothing seems the same. The football team is slightly good now, apparently. And the Glee Club has six trophies showcased in a humble display at the front entrance of the school; including last year’s state title. Puck smirks at the douchy picture of Mr. Schuester; it’s well deserved.
Some song that was really popular the summer of his freshman year is blaring loudly from the dimly lit gymnasium. It’s like prom all over again. But he’s surprised when he walks in because it’s nice and neat with several banquet tables of professionally catered foods, a makeshift bar on wheels, and a DJ who doesn’t seem entirely lame.
He discreetly crumples the name tag handed to him by the classmate who he doesn’t remember and heads straight for the bar, which seems to be the hot spot.
It doesn’t take long for him to reacquaint with the familiar faces.
Finn is the only person he sorta keeps tabs on, by way of Facebook, because after their high school graduation, it was just too hard to keep avoiding all that had happened. Finn’s married to this chick he met doing volunteer work during college. She’s black, by the way. (What? It’s worth mentioning.) They have two and a half kids (one on the way - all girls, he pities the fool) and he’s a guidance counselor at some troubled youth center out in Youngstown, which is amazingly fitting.
Quinn went rogue on her family, went to the west coast and became some artsy photographer. She’s been in touch with Shelby Cochran, which is weird in itself, so he gets emails from her once in a blue moon attached with a picture of a growing girl who doesn’t know him.
He doesn’t know nor does he really care what everyone else has been up to, other than running into Artie A. at some club in NYC. Dude was straight up pimp with a ginormous security guard, pushing him around the VIP section. He’s a big music producer, nowadays.
Everyone kind of falls into the routine of their past relationships since it’s the easiest thing to do.
It takes about a whole minute of conversing with a select number of former members of glee club before Mercedes Jones-Wright gasps dramatically and reaches for his left hand.
“Puck, honey, please tell me how this happened,” she demands.
He rolls his eyes and takes a heavy swig of his Jack and coke, while Mercedes’ husband tries to tactfully tell her to shut up. Kurt Hummel looks on with that same look of wicked amusement on his face. For some reason, Puck remembers him best that way.
He excuses himself to refill his drink.
That’s when he sees her at the bar, requesting a martini, dry. He appreciates the view from behind, admiring the slinky gray dress that wraps around her body, and his eyes linger on her modestly revealed legs - they always were his favorite.
“Hard day, huh?”
She turns to him, a knowing smile playing on her done up lips.
“Why do you say that?”
The bartender places her drink on the table, to which he looks pointedly. She laughs softly in response.
“You have a point.”
He puts his cup on the bar table and requests another drink, before catching her attention.
“So, Berry-”
“After all these years, and you still can’t simply call me by my real name?”
“So, Rach,” he replies softly, “where’re you staying tonight?”
“Once a creep, always a creep,” she sighs.
“What? It’s a viable question,”
She looks slightly impressed, sipping slowly at her cocktail.
“I’m almost thirty now, so don’t be so surprised that my vocab is fuckin’ better,”
“Just ‘cause you’re older, doesn’t make you smarter,” a recognizable voice sneers from behind him.
He turns around to find Santana and Brittany approach the bar. He thought he could smell a bitch. They’re holding hands like the school girls they’ve always been (in his mind, anyway).
Puck makes room for the… er… couple, sliding beside Rachel before subtly placing his hand on her lower back. She doesn’t hate it, it seems.
“Your wrinkles are showing,” he responds loudly, immediately chugging down his drink after.
Brittany looks offended and starts digging around her purse, pulling out a compact mirror.
“Babe, ignore Old Man Puck over here,” Santana says reassuringly. She glances down at Puck’s left hand. “So, what’d you do? Sprain it from wanking off too hard?”
Puck smirks, looking down at the brace on his wrist. “Thai boxing,” he replies nonchalantly.
“So, I take it you two are… together?” Rachel intervenes, briefly running her eyes over their interlaced hands.
The blonde one tears her hand from her partner, flaunting a rather subtle band on her ring finger.
“We’re official!” she exclaims.
“Well, congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Lopez,” Puck laughs, enjoying the look Santana gives him.
“We’ve been official, thanks,” Santana retorts, flipping her shortly cropped hair over her shoulder.
“No one knows we’ve been married since we graduated.” Brittany explains, which is yeah, pretty motherfucking shocking.
She goes into what happened to them after undergrad, before veering off onto something about Pilates. Rachel seems enthralled by whatever Britt is blabbering about while Puck is amazed by the fact that girlfriend actually finished her Bachelor’s, in four years no less. Santana then goes into her ‘I’m awesome and bitches best recognize’ talk of having completed grad school several years ago and doing some technical writing for some DOD contractor. Whatever.
They don’t really talk about what Puck does and amazingly Rachel doesn’t start listing off her resume, since Santana doesn’t give a shit and Brittany’s attention span is too short.
In the midst of a pretty slow evening, he makes plans to get together with Chang and Rutherford the next night. Finn is like totally out of the picture since his wife, Keisha, apparently hates every single one of his graduating class, which, considering the history there, it’s pretty understandable.
Artie brings this hot Asian chick (which is just a little awkward). Apparently she’s a video girl/catalog model/Playmate-of-year-applicant. Hey… let a playa play.
And Tina is like not goth anymore, which is weird.
The night is coming to a close and Rachel Berry? Looks fucking tempting.
“Wanna get out of here?” He asks her in a low voice, before breezing past her to dump his beer in the trash bin.
She’s among a big circle of folks talking about nothing. She turns with a private smile and tips her head once, excusing herself to use the restroom.
After about five minutes of catching up with someone, he follows Berry’s suit and excuses himself, heading to the front hall.
She’s standing in front of the trophy displays, a small smile on her face. She looks up at him as his feet tap against the cheap linoleum.
“Hey,” he greets her, walking in her direction.
Before she can say anything, his mouth is on hers, hot and desperate. She stills momentarily, before responding to the kiss fully, tracing her tongue on his lower lip. He trails his hands around her waist before sliding them down her hips and presses himself against her.
“I missed you,” she breathes heavily, breaking the kiss.
“This is fucking retarded. Tell me again, why we can’t do this, in there?”
His hands fall to his sides, ‘cause the moments kind of gone and y’know, he’s gotta prove a point.
“First of all, there are certain types of displays of affection that just aren’t appropriate in a public setting, which I’m sure may surprise you. And I haven’t even told my fathers that I’m seeing anyone and if they happen to find out from anyone else, they’ll be so upset with me.”
“Then, why did you force me to come here?”
“Don’t be absurd. I did not force you to come here. It’s our ten-year high school reunion. I shouldn’t have to force you to come here,”
“You forced me by propositioning with a week's worth of BJs.”
“Four, Noah! I promised you a total of four for next week. And it’s called persuasion, not force,”
“Whatever. What about opening someone else’s mail? That's pretty fucking forceful. And a federal offense.”
“It was a postcard invite on your countertop. I got the same one, you imbecile,” she seethes in a low, angry tone.
She’s pissed and her arms are crossed against her chest which basically means I fucking hate you and this was not at all how he had pictured his evening with her.
Maybe it’s because he’s had several glasses of Jack and coke, plus three beers, but he can’t help it when he asks, “Why can’t you just tell your dads about me?”
Call it a moment of a weakness, and he’ll cut a bitch.
Rachel narrows her eyes at him.
“Let me know when you’re actually ready to admit that I’m your girlfriend and maybe then; only then will I tell my dads that I’ve been sleeping with my boyfriend and not just some asshole for almost six months.”
Ouch.
“You know I hate labels, Baby,”
“Take it or leave it, Noah Puckerman. Because other than that, we are just fuck buddies,”
She leaves him alone in the hall, heading back in the direction of the gymnasium.
It takes him two shots of tequila, but fifteen minutes later, he grabs the mic from the DJ and serenades Rachel and asks her to be his girlfriend. It’s kind of ironic and humiliating that it had to be done in front all these fuckers, but he’s pretty sure it’s payback for something.
Anyway, she eats it up and he’s rewarded for his efforts; three times that very night.
Rating: PG-17 (for language)
Words: 1,916
Spoilers: I think... up to Sectionals.
Summary: This was supposed to be a drabble in response to the "No one knows we've been married since we graduated" prompt at puckrachel. Supposed to be.
The first time Puck sees the red and white invitation, he almost, almost considers going.
But it’s in the trash two seconds later.
It’s the second one that comes in the mail as a ‘friendly reminder’ that fucks him over.
Under all normal circumstances, there’s no way he’d touch this shit with a ten foot pole. But coercion is a funny thing. Not to mention, he can admit that it might be fun to see what these assholes have been up to the last few years; ten to be exact. Damn.
He hasn’t been back to Lima since his sophomore year of college, when a number of things happened.
First off, his mom met Ray, a fellow nurse who shared the same shift one fateful night. He bought her a cup of coffee and that was that. He still rails on Ray about being a nurse ‘cause c’mon, it’s kinda gay. But, dude’s cool as shit and has this impeccable taste in firearms. Plus, he treats Ma like a queen. Like seriously, he has to limit the time he spends with her to like two hours because woman is spoiled. So, like six months later, they got married and they moved out to a bigger place in Greenville. His kid sister, Arielle, was all for it.
That year, he also simultaneously dropped out and networked his way into the realm of importing organic goods; in upstate New York. He had the help of an extended family relative. It’s not his passion, but who the fuck cares? Money is a pretty good driver and helps him fulfill whatever his passion is of the week. His latest has involved Thai boxing.
So, y’know, there was just no real reason for him to revisit that part of his history.
Aside from the trophy wall worshipping the Cheerios’ accolades during Sue Sylvester’s reign, nothing seems the same. The football team is slightly good now, apparently. And the Glee Club has six trophies showcased in a humble display at the front entrance of the school; including last year’s state title. Puck smirks at the douchy picture of Mr. Schuester; it’s well deserved.
Some song that was really popular the summer of his freshman year is blaring loudly from the dimly lit gymnasium. It’s like prom all over again. But he’s surprised when he walks in because it’s nice and neat with several banquet tables of professionally catered foods, a makeshift bar on wheels, and a DJ who doesn’t seem entirely lame.
He discreetly crumples the name tag handed to him by the classmate who he doesn’t remember and heads straight for the bar, which seems to be the hot spot.
It doesn’t take long for him to reacquaint with the familiar faces.
Finn is the only person he sorta keeps tabs on, by way of Facebook, because after their high school graduation, it was just too hard to keep avoiding all that had happened. Finn’s married to this chick he met doing volunteer work during college. She’s black, by the way. (What? It’s worth mentioning.) They have two and a half kids (one on the way - all girls, he pities the fool) and he’s a guidance counselor at some troubled youth center out in Youngstown, which is amazingly fitting.
Quinn went rogue on her family, went to the west coast and became some artsy photographer. She’s been in touch with Shelby Cochran, which is weird in itself, so he gets emails from her once in a blue moon attached with a picture of a growing girl who doesn’t know him.
He doesn’t know nor does he really care what everyone else has been up to, other than running into Artie A. at some club in NYC. Dude was straight up pimp with a ginormous security guard, pushing him around the VIP section. He’s a big music producer, nowadays.
Everyone kind of falls into the routine of their past relationships since it’s the easiest thing to do.
It takes about a whole minute of conversing with a select number of former members of glee club before Mercedes Jones-Wright gasps dramatically and reaches for his left hand.
“Puck, honey, please tell me how this happened,” she demands.
He rolls his eyes and takes a heavy swig of his Jack and coke, while Mercedes’ husband tries to tactfully tell her to shut up. Kurt Hummel looks on with that same look of wicked amusement on his face. For some reason, Puck remembers him best that way.
He excuses himself to refill his drink.
That’s when he sees her at the bar, requesting a martini, dry. He appreciates the view from behind, admiring the slinky gray dress that wraps around her body, and his eyes linger on her modestly revealed legs - they always were his favorite.
“Hard day, huh?”
She turns to him, a knowing smile playing on her done up lips.
“Why do you say that?”
The bartender places her drink on the table, to which he looks pointedly. She laughs softly in response.
“You have a point.”
He puts his cup on the bar table and requests another drink, before catching her attention.
“So, Berry-”
“After all these years, and you still can’t simply call me by my real name?”
“So, Rach,” he replies softly, “where’re you staying tonight?”
“Once a creep, always a creep,” she sighs.
“What? It’s a viable question,”
She looks slightly impressed, sipping slowly at her cocktail.
“I’m almost thirty now, so don’t be so surprised that my vocab is fuckin’ better,”
“Just ‘cause you’re older, doesn’t make you smarter,” a recognizable voice sneers from behind him.
He turns around to find Santana and Brittany approach the bar. He thought he could smell a bitch. They’re holding hands like the school girls they’ve always been (in his mind, anyway).
Puck makes room for the… er… couple, sliding beside Rachel before subtly placing his hand on her lower back. She doesn’t hate it, it seems.
“Your wrinkles are showing,” he responds loudly, immediately chugging down his drink after.
Brittany looks offended and starts digging around her purse, pulling out a compact mirror.
“Babe, ignore Old Man Puck over here,” Santana says reassuringly. She glances down at Puck’s left hand. “So, what’d you do? Sprain it from wanking off too hard?”
Puck smirks, looking down at the brace on his wrist. “Thai boxing,” he replies nonchalantly.
“So, I take it you two are… together?” Rachel intervenes, briefly running her eyes over their interlaced hands.
The blonde one tears her hand from her partner, flaunting a rather subtle band on her ring finger.
“We’re official!” she exclaims.
“Well, congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Lopez,” Puck laughs, enjoying the look Santana gives him.
“We’ve been official, thanks,” Santana retorts, flipping her shortly cropped hair over her shoulder.
“No one knows we’ve been married since we graduated.” Brittany explains, which is yeah, pretty motherfucking shocking.
She goes into what happened to them after undergrad, before veering off onto something about Pilates. Rachel seems enthralled by whatever Britt is blabbering about while Puck is amazed by the fact that girlfriend actually finished her Bachelor’s, in four years no less. Santana then goes into her ‘I’m awesome and bitches best recognize’ talk of having completed grad school several years ago and doing some technical writing for some DOD contractor. Whatever.
They don’t really talk about what Puck does and amazingly Rachel doesn’t start listing off her resume, since Santana doesn’t give a shit and Brittany’s attention span is too short.
In the midst of a pretty slow evening, he makes plans to get together with Chang and Rutherford the next night. Finn is like totally out of the picture since his wife, Keisha, apparently hates every single one of his graduating class, which, considering the history there, it’s pretty understandable.
Artie brings this hot Asian chick (which is just a little awkward). Apparently she’s a video girl/catalog model/Playmate-of-year-applicant. Hey… let a playa play.
And Tina is like not goth anymore, which is weird.
The night is coming to a close and Rachel Berry? Looks fucking tempting.
“Wanna get out of here?” He asks her in a low voice, before breezing past her to dump his beer in the trash bin.
She’s among a big circle of folks talking about nothing. She turns with a private smile and tips her head once, excusing herself to use the restroom.
After about five minutes of catching up with someone, he follows Berry’s suit and excuses himself, heading to the front hall.
She’s standing in front of the trophy displays, a small smile on her face. She looks up at him as his feet tap against the cheap linoleum.
“Hey,” he greets her, walking in her direction.
Before she can say anything, his mouth is on hers, hot and desperate. She stills momentarily, before responding to the kiss fully, tracing her tongue on his lower lip. He trails his hands around her waist before sliding them down her hips and presses himself against her.
“I missed you,” she breathes heavily, breaking the kiss.
“This is fucking retarded. Tell me again, why we can’t do this, in there?”
His hands fall to his sides, ‘cause the moments kind of gone and y’know, he’s gotta prove a point.
“First of all, there are certain types of displays of affection that just aren’t appropriate in a public setting, which I’m sure may surprise you. And I haven’t even told my fathers that I’m seeing anyone and if they happen to find out from anyone else, they’ll be so upset with me.”
“Then, why did you force me to come here?”
“Don’t be absurd. I did not force you to come here. It’s our ten-year high school reunion. I shouldn’t have to force you to come here,”
“You forced me by propositioning with a week's worth of BJs.”
“Four, Noah! I promised you a total of four for next week. And it’s called persuasion, not force,”
“Whatever. What about opening someone else’s mail? That's pretty fucking forceful. And a federal offense.”
“It was a postcard invite on your countertop. I got the same one, you imbecile,” she seethes in a low, angry tone.
She’s pissed and her arms are crossed against her chest which basically means I fucking hate you and this was not at all how he had pictured his evening with her.
Maybe it’s because he’s had several glasses of Jack and coke, plus three beers, but he can’t help it when he asks, “Why can’t you just tell your dads about me?”
Call it a moment of a weakness, and he’ll cut a bitch.
Rachel narrows her eyes at him.
“Let me know when you’re actually ready to admit that I’m your girlfriend and maybe then; only then will I tell my dads that I’ve been sleeping with my boyfriend and not just some asshole for almost six months.”
Ouch.
“You know I hate labels, Baby,”
“Take it or leave it, Noah Puckerman. Because other than that, we are just fuck buddies,”
She leaves him alone in the hall, heading back in the direction of the gymnasium.
It takes him two shots of tequila, but fifteen minutes later, he grabs the mic from the DJ and serenades Rachel and asks her to be his girlfriend. It’s kind of ironic and humiliating that it had to be done in front all these fuckers, but he’s pretty sure it’s payback for something.
Anyway, she eats it up and he’s rewarded for his efforts; three times that very night.