Chapter Text
Six hours and a fitful sleep on the couch later finds Puck in the small kitchenette cradling a cup of lukewarm coffee.
Finn wakes up loudly a little after him -- a pained groan accompanied by the heavy footfalls of someone groggy and sore. The blankets shift, some drawers open, the sink turns on and the toilet flushes. It’s not long before Finn finds him though, and his expression both brightens and droops at the same time like a kicked puppy, and damn if that doesn’t make Puck feel like a piece of shit. He still stands by what he said last night and he knows Finn probably does too, but the point is moot and Puck is tired of petty things getting in between their mending relationship. What’s done is done and as long as Finn doesn’t try to pull that stupid shit again then Puck won’t have to beat him into the ground himself.
He’s pretty used to this. As much as he tends to romanticize Finn in his memories and even now, he’s well aware of all of Finn’s faults, including his inability to think things through even if they’re selfish things for his own benefit. They’re traits he’s come to accept despite them grating at his nerves all through their childhood, especially high school, but he thinks he’s come to make hid peace with them at this point.
He offers another mug, fresh and hot, and Finn does his little side smile before sitting at the counter, sipping on Puck’s peace offering.
Puck wants to say something even though the small exchange has pretty much resolved what happened yesterday. They’re guys, they don’t need to have deep, sappy confessions every time something even remotely unpleasant happens, and already Puck is feeling much lighter than before, but he still can’t help but replay what Kurt had said to him last night.
“Wha-um, what are you talking about?”
“There’s this video one of my assistants in California sent me...it’s...it sounds just like him, Noah.”
Even with perfect speech, Puck could hear the slur while he explained this video one of his assistants had shown him of a man singing One Republic in some smokey bar, the slightly less clipped tone of voice, the sorrow that dripped off each word like spoiled honey. The explanation had sent chills down Puck’s spine because he knows exactly which performance he’s talking about and it must’ve been a damn decent shot of Finn if it’s shaken Kurt this much. He’s never known Kurt to get drunk recreationally these days, especially with a little baby Hummel-Anderson bouncing around happily at home, and the raw grief was almost enough to evoke Puck’s own despite knowing better because Puck knows he doesn’t have to grieve someone who’s actually alive.
It brought out a new feeling of guilt though, one he’s been able to push back until now when Kurt’s choked confession broke through whatever small, peaceful wall existed between him, Finn, and the world surrounding them.
“Am I going crazy?”
Puck hadn’t known what to say.
Kurt had fallen asleep a little after that, still on the phone until the battery died, probably home alone with Blaine taking their kid to his parents' place in Ohio while Kurt stayed behind for a few days to finish up a project in New York -- or so Berry’s biweekly email update says. Puck wants to tell Finn, but he doesn’t think he can when his best friend still looks so tired and beat down from the last week and what’s to come. He hasn’t gotten a call back from Kurt so he’s relatively sure the fashionista probably doesn’t remember last night or is too mortified to confront what he said, and Puck knows mentioning his brother will only hurt Finn more than help him.
This will be Pucks cross to bear until Finn is feeling better, until the trial is over, until he can finally, f inally bring Finn home where he belongs.
Until then, “Clara sent some food.”
“Chocolate chip and banana pancakes?”
“Yeah, you weirdo.”
“Awesome.”
Just when Puck thinks they’re good again, Finn just has to go and prove him wrong, and in a way he would have never anticipated.
They’re at their usual bar for Puck’s last day of leave when a guy neither of them has ever seen before decides to, for lack of a better phrase, aggressively hit on Puck.
Now, Puck’s been around the block, and since graduating high school and Quinn, he’s fully accepted and embraced his taste for both men and women -- more choices, right? And Puck’s always been opportunistic. Under normal circumstances, he probably would’ve considered taking the guy up on his very obvious offer, but this is not a normal situation and he honestly just wants the guy to leave so he can make Finn laugh hard enough to shoot beer out of his nose again.
Before he can tell the guy to politely fuck off, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. When he looks, his mouth goes dry because Finn...doesn’t look like Finn. Not the soft, goofy, kind of boyishly handsome childhood friend Puck has always seen him as, or even the irritatingly smarmy, kind of cool detective he pretends to be when they’re not alone in his apartment. There’s a set to his jaw now that looks both equal parts threatening and challenging, the lines of his shoulders tense and broad, and he suddenly seems much bigger than Puck knows he is. Even the sling doesn’t diminish from the intimidating picture he makes, leaning against the counter next to where Puck is seated with two drinks in his hands, eyeing the new guy with a sort of cocky, antagonizing smirk that really does something for Puck.
It’s familiar but he can’t place why.
Finn doesn’t even have to say anything and the guy is backing off with obviously the wrong idea, and Puck can’t tell if he’s annoyed as hell or really horny.
“What the hell was that dude?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Finn.
Finn doesn’t even have the gall to look sheepish like he would’ve in high school, just shrugs his good shoulder and hands him his beer. At least he isn’t puffed up like some peacock anymore. “You would’ve turned him down anyway, just made it less embarrassing for him.”
Puck laughs, “By making him almost piss himself? And who says I would’ve said no? Dude was pretty hot and it’s been a while.”
Finn goes silent at that and it takes Puck a solid minute to figure out why. He’s never outright told anyone he batted for both teams but they all know -- it’s just a Puck thing to take home any hot piece of meat walking on two legs, even though that’s not really his style anymore. He knows they all know because Santana’s about as subtle as a bullet train and they’re so irritatingly supportive without even saying anything .
But Finn...doesn’t.
“You really would’ve went home with him?” Finn asks, and he doesn’t sound disgusted or freaked out, just weirdly contemplative.
Puck shrugs and he doesn’t know why he suddenly feels awkward talking about it. It’s not like Finn knows he has a thing for him, and Finn’s never been the judgmental type outside of what Ohio life had ingrained in him through small town conditioning. They’re both grown men with grown problems that far outstrip anything they faced in high school. But still, the worry remains.
He shrugs. “Probably not. I have better things to do.”
“You can, you know,” Finn mutters after a while, playing with a napkin and not meeting Puck’s slightly surprised look. “I mean, you don’t have to babysit me. You have a life outside of me, before you found out-”
“Cut that shit out right now, Hudson,” Puck snaps, knee knocking against Finn's admonishingly. “If I wanna take somebody home, I sure as shit can and will. But I’d rather hang out with my best friend, okay? We have eight years of video game nights to make up for and football games to watch before you even think about getting sick of me, got it? ‘Sides, not like I have an eye on anyone.” He takes a swig of his drink to chase down the taste of the lie.
Finn finally looks at him, looking relieved and happy and maybe a little bit disappointed, and for the life of him Puck can’t figure out why.
Puck pretends he’s not watching his friend's face from the corner of his eye as he surreptitiously takes a bite out of his burger, supposedly watching the game on Finn’s nice flat screen, but he doesn’t need to try too hard. With the way Finn’s brows are furrowed in deep thought, the hard set of his mouth that’s both hot and worrying, Puck can’t imagine Finn noticing or caring at the moment.
Just when they’d come down from those tumultuously, exhausting first few weeks of recovery following the shooting, it seems like they’ve hit another snag.
He idly keeps an eye on his watch. He’s got physical therapy in a couple hours, I should make something light when we get back. Finn’s never in a good mood after working out his healing shoulder, but they both know it’s a painful necessity that’s already started to show promising results.
“Yeah, thanks Rick. G’night,” Finn says at last, dropping his phone onto the counter and slouching back to the sofa right up next to him, thigh to thigh almost.
Puck doesn’t say anything about it and asks instead, “Another dead end?”
Finn sighs roughly. “Not that bad, but it’s not getting any easier. Another piece of evidence just got thrown out. I don’t know why this time, but it was pretty important to the possession charges.”
Puck swallows hard. “But they still have enough to nail his ass, right?”
“Sanchez is a crafty bastard,” Finn admits reluctantly, “and he’s got a lot of loyal, competent people on his side.”
Puck hates the downtrodden look on his face and gently bumps his good shoulder with his own. “Hey, they don’t have Detective Darren Hale on their side though, do they?”
That makes his friend laugh, startled and ending in an embarrassed groan, but it wipes away the slowly, creeping desolation threatening to swallow that smile whole. “Shut up, dude. But you’re right, we still have a lot on him...and we have my testimony. He’s going to court for the smaller stuff in a month, and then…”
“And then…” Puck echoes quietly, not really looking for an answer. A lot of the hard work has been done, the efforts of a decade of police work and brave informants coming forward finally paying off. Court cases always take a long time, even more so when it involves big names like Sanchez and his far reaching web of bullshit, and it feels almost anticlimactic, all this waiting and waiting and waiting . He feels useless on top of it all, he hasn’t done shit to actually help catch the guy that put his best friend through hell, and by extension all of Glee Club and everyone that Finn has ever loved and loved him in return.
Before he spirals, he feels a hand on his arm. Not quite a pat, not quite a tight grip. Just a loose hold, like he’s tethering himself to whatever he can, and Puck can feel Finn’s intense gaze on his face. He meets those warm brown eyes unflinchingly, nearly drowns in the myriad of emotions he finds. “Thank you.”
Puck quirks a brow, internally wondering if Finn is still able to practically read his mind like before. “For lunch? I can’t exactly let an invalid like you move around in the kitchen.”
But Finn doesn’t take the distraction like Puck somewhat hopes, and his chest goes tight at the wonder and regard still directed at him, all for him. Finn’s not letting him get away that easy it seems, and his gut squirms with something like terror and excitement. “You know exactly what I mean, Puck. Thank you.”
For finding me. For staying by me. For everything.
Puck can’t find it in himself to try deflecting again, throat tight with anticipation and longing, and he doesn’t think he’s crazy when he thinks Finn might be leaning towards him, both of them drawn together by something magnetic. “You don’t have to thank me for something I’d do anyway,” he says roughly, the hand on his arm burning like a brand.
“Still,” Finn replies, quietly, a whisper.
Puck can feel his breath on his skin, pounding against his ribcage.
BEEP BEEP BEEP!
They jump apart, and Puck knows he isn’t crazy when he sees that the disappointment he feels is perfectly mirrored by the expression on Finn’s face.
He clears his throat, “Um, physical therapy time. We should probably...leave soon…”
“Right,” Finn nods, but there’s a look of determination now that Puck hasn’t seen until now. “Soon.”
A shiver goes down Pucks spine.
Soon .
Puck snorts at his phone and ignores his colleagues' curious looks.
It’s a picture of that same middle-aged, overweight desk officer from the first night Puck went to the precinct, passed out with half a donut in his mouth in the background of Finn’s selfie. It only has half of Finn’s face and it's a little blurry, likely trying to snap the picture quickly and run, but Puck can still see a goofy grin, like he’is trying not to laugh.
His heart does a little backflip in his chest, a more and more common occurrence that seems to have tripled in frequency since the night at the bar.
It’s like whatever barriers left between them had crumbled to dust ever since those final confessions came out -- admissions that had hurt Puck to hear, but needed to be spoken. He thinks they’re almost completely back to where they were before even his betrayal with Quinn back in high school, except it feels...stronger. Their relationship has been built and rebuilt on the ruins of their past, Puck’s grief and Finn’s terror, the eight year absence slowly filling with new experiences and memories made by men instead of boys. It’s crazy, Puck thinks, how different their interactions are now that they’ve both grown up a bit, lived life a little in a world outside of Lima, Ohio, but it’s in a positive way. He misses what they were, will always cherish the memories, but he can’t say he’d take those over what they are now.
His phone buzzes in his hand and he looks down, expecting another runaway selfie, but he gets a text from Lady Fingers instead that makes his stomach sink.
We need to talk.