storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2011-01-11 02:37 pm
storypaint) wrote2011-01-11 02:37 pm
[Glee] life's undress rehearsal (Puck & Kurt gen) [2/2]
Title: life's undress rehearsal
Fandom: Glee
Length: 12,119 words
Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic: Glee, Puck(/Kurt), Puck buys a house that's haunted by silent movie star or glam rock legend Kurt Hummel
Pairing: Puck and Kurt gen with background Finn/Rachel and minor Puck/Quinn
Warnings: Homophobic language/attitudes, gay-bashing, and some implied violence. PG-13.
Author's Notes: This is an AU as per the prompt. A note on Jewish exorcisms: They do exist, but you don't exorcise a house, you exorcise a person. So yes, the guy in this story is pretty much just messing around. No offense is intended. It just seemed like Puck to specifically try to get a Jewish one.
I also want to give a warm thank-you to the people who encouraged me as I wrote this, praised the little snippets I posted, and generally helped me find the motivation to finish. You guys know who you are. And you're awesome.
Summary/Excerpt: Puck has a new roommate who doesn't like Puck's taste in TV or music or clothes. Also, he's been dead for thirty years. Noah Puckerman did not believe in ghosts. He believed in beer, in cougars, and in inheritance money. Sure, Nana Puckerman said her house was haunted. She also said he'd get all of her money if he lived there for a year, and he was not going to give up that opportunity.
Part 1
*
They had something like a temporary truce after that -- definitely temporary. Puck watched sports and Calvin -- Kurt? It was his real name, but apparently not the one he preferred, so Puck decided to stick with Calvin -- didn't mess with the cable except during the commercials. He didn't have any weird dreams, or at least, Calvin didn't walk through them very much. Calvin left his wardrobe alone, and didn't create any unusual cold winds. Puck really thought he could get used to this. He went back to work since his vacation was up, and he just left the TV on when he went so Calvin could watch his lady talk shows or whatever. He took out the trash pretty regularly after Calvin knocked it over a couple times, and he occasionally threw in some classic rock when he messed around on his guitar. He didn't know any gay rock like Calvin had sang, but the Beatles were pretty awesome, and they apparently agreed on that one.
It was kind of like having a roommate whom you never saw, like it had been right before Finn got married. Finn would blow through absentmindedly to pay the bills and sleep in his bed once in a while, but he was with Rachel most of the time, slave to her wedding planning. It had the same feel to Puck, except that he didn't ever have to hear Rachel giggling down the hall, or wait for the bathroom. It was amazing what the human mind could adjust to.
He came home late one Friday night from the bars. He'd almost brought a girl with him, but in the end she'd decided to drunkenly hook up with her girlfriend, and since Puck appreciated the sight, he hadn't complained too much. He'd taken pictures on his phone instead. So he was pretty happy when he stumbled in, warm and half-drunk and whistling, and it smacked him like a punch in the gut when he saw someone standing in front of him in the hallway.
It wasn't a dark shadow like his grandma's executor had said, a time that felt like years ago. It was a full manifestation, Calvin glowing in the light from the hall. He was dim and the shadows didn't fall right around him -- they fell through him instead, like he'd barely managed to fade in. Puck jumped backward, surprised, tangling himself in the massive coatrack his grandma had left, twisting his ankle painfully and smacking a warm line of pain into his spine. Calvin's eyes widened; he turned and opened his mouth, but he didn't say anything at first.
He looked just like he had in Puck's dream, down to the ridiculous platform boots. His eyes were sharp and blue, his face oddly young under the makeup. He'd died when he was Puck's age, but he looked like he wasn't even old enough to get into bars.
It was a strange thing to think about when there was a ghost standing in front of him, but he'd read this stupid story in English class once when he couldn't get out of it, about a guy who realized he was going to be in a car accident and still dived to protect his coffee cup, like it was the most important thing in the world. The teacher had said it was about a reaction to trauma. People focused on dumb things, things that didn't really matter, so they didn't have to think about the bigger problems.
So that was probably why he watched the way that Calvin reached up and brushed his bangs back with a sort of morbid fascination.
"Tell my dad," he said. His voice wasn't as strong as it had been when he'd spoken into Puck's half-asleep ear. Puck had to lean forward to hear it, untangling himself from the stupid coatrack and straining his ears.
"He thinks I -- " Calvin paused, pursing his lips. There was so much hurt in his eyes: years of it. "Tell him I didn't."
"How's he going to believe me?"
Calvin's form wavered. For a moment, the color faded from him, dimming him into a shadow person. He seemed to fight himself back into existence, squeezing his fists.
"Ask him what I wanted for my third birthday," he said, just barely smiling. "No one knows that but me and him."
He went out like a candle, and the electric lights faded for a moment, like there was an impending brownout. Puck swore under his breath, but they came back brightly.
"What did you want?" he asked.
Calvin's voice was a whisper in his ear. Puck bent over, laughing until he thought he was going to puke, and that's when the lights went out again.
"I'll do it, fine," he said. There was no answer from the dark, but the electric worked in the morning.
*
Someone was knocking on the door, and by the time Burt Hummel managed to make it to the front hallway, there had been three more knocks. It was probably another vacuum cleaner salesman or religious nut, he figured. He didn't have a lot of visitors since his second wife had died two years before. He peered through the peephole and took in the stranger standing on his doorstep. It was a man, or maybe a tall kid, with a punk haircut but a nice shirt on. He considered the kid. He was pretty sure that neither the Mormons nor the Hoover people would appreciate a haircut like that, but he really didn't know, then, what the kid wanted. Curiosity won; he answered the door, but kept a wary eye on the boy. He wasn't as young as he used to be. If the punk wanted to rob him, he'd probably have no trouble. But who wore a white buttonfront shirt to rob an old man?
"What do you want?" he asked.
The kid met his eyes and gave him this weird look of recognition. Now Burt was fumbling in his memory for the possibility of them being related. Or maybe he was someone on Carole's side? He'd gone to the family reunions, of course, but the people were a blur of names and occupations. He hadn't seen any of them in a long time except for her grandson, Finn, who came by once in a while to check in on him. Good kid, Finn.
Burt was jerked from his thoughts by the kid, who coughed and said, "I'm doing this history thing for, uh, school. History of my house. Library said that you built it -- the one on Maple. You know what I'm talking about?"
Burt blinked in surprise. He gestured gruffly for the kid to come in, turning around and shuffling back into the living room, trying to collect his thoughts. Of course he remembered that house. He'd built it for Elizabeth and Kurt. There were hundreds of happy memories there -- and then there were the bad ones, the ones that had finally provoked him into moving. That was the house his first wife had died in, and the house his son had never come back to. That was the house that had seen twenty great Christmases and hundreds of scraped knees and burnt dinners. He'd been so proud of it at the time.
He hadn't thought about the house in years. The people had been more important than their backdrop: a house was just a place to live, after all. The living was the big deal.
The kid settled himself uneasily on Burt's couch. Burt watched him as he sank into his favorite armchair. The boy was more bothered by this project that he really had any right to be. Burt hadn't chased him off, had he? He was willing to talk a little. The kid could try for his A, if that was actually what he was after. His nerves suggested it might be otherwise.
"Built the house in the early 50s," Burt said after a long moment. "Sold it in 75. You could get that information from the records, though. So what exactly do you need from me?"
*
Puck still wasn't sure how he was going to do this. He'd been thrown off by the way that Calvin had his dad's eyes, and then there were other considerations. Was there any nice way to come out with, "I've been speaking to your dead son"? This guy was pretty old, but he still looked like he had an arm on him. And if he kicked Puck out before he delivered his message, who knew how long Calvin would stick around and irritate him?
"Your son was a rock star, wasn't he?" he asked finally. Not much of a segue, but it was a start. The old man blinked in surprise.
"You did your research, huh?" He laughed, which turned into a cough. "I guess everyone can find stuff out now that the computers are so big. Yeah, that's him. Calvin Cheerio, born Kurt Hummel. Dunno why the name I gave him wasn't good enough, but when I heard what his bandmates were called, I was kinda thankful it wasn't something weirder."
"He grew up in that house, right?" Puck pressed a little. Burt nodded. He spoke slowly, as if lost in thought.
"I built the house when I found out Kurt's mom was pregnant. Had a little money put away from my time in the service, and my dad hired me at his car shop. Elizabeth died when Kurt was 8, but he lived there until he graduated high school and went off to seek his fortune. I tried to get him to do college, but he was such a headstrong kid." Burt laughed again, but this time it was short and had little humor in it. He looked, for a moment, terribly sad. Puck bit his lip so that he didn't just blurt it out.
When Burt spoke again, it was like he was trying to distance himself from the subject a little bit, shifting the focus of the conversation.
"Maybe it's rude of me, but you don't seem like the type who would have liked my son's music. Not enough like the rest of rock and roll."
He peered at Puck again with his old but sharp blue eyes. Puck wondered how old he was if he'd built the house in the early 50s. If he'd been better at math, he would have figured it out. Old guy looked like he could croak any minute. Puck sure hoped he wouldn't. That was another reason to break this gently.
"Nah, I'm more into cool music. Modern stuff," he admitted. "I found the information online."
He looked at his hands, and then shut his eyes for a brief moment. In his head, he saw that frightened look in Calvin's eyes.
"Do you have a heart problem or anything?" he found himself asking, glancing back at the old man. Burt seemed disturbed by the question.
"What does it matter?" He tensed in his chair, gripping the arms.
"I have something really weird to tell you about Cal -- about Kurt. I got kicked out of Scouts when I was eight so I can't really help if you have a heart attack or whatever."
Burt leaned back in the chair. He scowled a little.
"I know my son was gay," he said. "He told me. He was still my son and I don't care what you have to say about that."
"Knew it!" Puck said before could stop himself. But then he lifted his hands placatingly, stopping Burt from getting up. "But no, this is something else. You're probably not going to believe me. But he won't leave me alone until I tell you, and," he rolled his eyes, "he's not the easiest guy to live with."
"He who?" Burt asked. "Who are you talking about?"
Puck took a deep breath. "For his third birthday, all Kurt wanted was a pair of sensible heels."
(It wasn't as hard as he'd expected to not break into laughter again. The air was too tense for that.)
Burt blanched. Several emotions crossed his face, but he settled finally on suspicious concern. He crossed his arms across his chest.
"What's this all about?" he asked, and this time, Puck told him the whole story.
*
"You say my son's been rattling around in that house for years? Why would he do that?"
Burt had his fists clenched on his knees. He still wore that look of suspicion, but he hadn't had a heart attack, and he hadn't stopped Puck except to ask questions. He made Puck describe the dream attack down to the very last detail he could think of, until his head hurt.
"He wants people to know the truth, I guess," Puck said. He wondered if he could ask for some coffee. Would that be overstaying his welcome? He hadn't promised to make the old man believe his story, but since he was here, he figured he'd better try. If he didn't at least try, Kurt would get pissy. And yeah, this was a big deal and all, but he still wanted to watch "Jersey Shore" tonight.
Burt shook his head. "Kid never cared about what other people thought. Not too much." There was a note of pride in it.
"You didn't..." Puck hesitated, and then continued. "You didn't kick him out or anything, did you? Maybe he wants to make up to you?"
"Of course not," Burt answered immediately.
Puck shrugged. "Well, you're his dad. Maybe he just didn't want you to think he gave up."
Burt twisted his fingers in his lap.
"I didn't believe it," he said softly. "My son was a lot of things, but he was no quitter. He was stubborn as a mule. He wouldn't have thrown himself in the river over some boy."
Puck squirmed on the couch. This really was getting too emotional for him. And yeah, maybe it would have been nice to have a dad that cared that much about him. Cared enough to stick around. But he hadn't, so this felt weird. It was like going to a house where someone had died yesterday, not so long ago that he hadn't even been born yet.
"Do you know what happened to those men?" Burt asked, expression darkening. Puck had to shake his head.
"I don't think Kurt knew them," he said. "He didn't tell me any names."
Burt growled, frustrated. "They don't deserve to get away with it."
Puck looked away. "They don't. But I can't prove any of this, you know. And that was years ago. None of this would work in court unless I was trying to claim insanity for some reason."
Burt grunted. "You're right," he said, his tone reluctant. "I just wish... I could never protect him, you know. I tried to tell him he should do his best to fit in, but he never wanted to."
Puck scratched the back of his head, still feeling a little embarrassed by the mess of emotion that Kurt had dumped him into.
"He was a stubborn bastard," Puck said finally. Sympathy was not his strong suit.
"Had to be, if he's stuck around that long." And then suddenly Burt was standing. He'd gotten up so quickly that Puck looked up at him, concerned -- was the man going to have a spasm? But no. He just seemed to suddenly have the energy of a younger man. He hardly hesitated as he crossed the room and threw open the closet door.
"What are you doing?"
"I want to see him," Burt said, voice muffled by the coats he was digging through.
"Hold on," Puck said, getting up too, alarmed. "Chill out. I don't think it works that way."
He hadn't realized that until he said it, but it made sense now. It was a feeling like something had gone. He knew, then, that when he came home, it would be to a truly empty place. Kurt was gone.
"Why not?"
The old man was shruggling to put on a windbreaker that hadn't fit him for probably ten years. He put his arm through the sleeve and paused to look at Puck. Puck looked away.
"He's gone. He went away. I told you what he wanted me to tell you, so now he's... gone off to gay heaven or whatever. Christian heaven. All I know is that he's not Jewish."
"How can you be sure?" Burt demanded. Puck shrugged.
"I just know. I'm sorry. Believe me, I'd rather he haunted you all the time. You'd have appreciated it more."
Burt sighed. He looked down at the coat he was half-wearing, and then slowly took it off again.
"If he's still there when you get home, you have to call me," he said firmly.
Puck nodded. "Believe me, I will. That way he knows I told you."
Burt hung his coat back up and turned back to Puck, shaking his head a little.
"This is the craziest idea I've ever heard, you know," he said. "I've never -- I went to church when the boy was young, I believe there's something else after we die, but... ghosts? But no one else alive knows what you told me about his birthday." He sighed. "I guess I have to believe you."
The conversation didn't last long after that. Puck had told Burt everything he knew. Finally, with an awkward, "Take care of yourself," he left. He paved over the silence of the drive with some good old-fashioned AC/DC, and when he unlocked the door to his house, the door was creaky and the place was empty. It smelled like the eggs he'd made for breakfast, the plate still unscrubbed in the sink. The early afternoon sun was fighting through the windows and across the floors.
Puck walked through the place again, like he hadn't done during the day since he'd moved in. Everything was where he'd left it, in the comforting half-mess of a bachelor's home. His bed was unmade. Last night's clothes were on the floor near the hamper. Two empty cans of beer and an empty soda can were on the counter.
Most importantly, there was no ghost, so Puck settled in for a nice afternoon watching "The Fast and the Furious" on USA, because it had enough car crashes to never get old. He was suffering through a creepy commercial about having a happy period (as if, that just made all of his girlfriends even more pissy) when the phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out -- Finn.
"Sup, dude?" he asked. He'd filled Finn in on the whole mess not long ago, but Finn still refused to vist unless the ghost was gone.
"I have a ghost!" Finn yelled into the phone, making Puck scrunch up his face and pull the earpiece away. Because, really. He hadn't screamed the whole time he had one.
"Say what?"
Finn explained and asked for Puck's ghostbuster talents. Puck neglected to mention that he'd never actually busted any ghosts, just talked one into leaving his house. Whatever. He'd go over there and find out it was a mouse, anyway. In fact, he could hear Rachel in the background saying something about disappearing cheese.
But it would be nice to get out of this empty old place for a while and screw around with friends. He bet himself a beer that he could make Finn jump and crack his head on a doorframe at least once.
And if it were somehow real, so what? He had proven a talent in that direction. Noah Puckerman, ghost tamer. He could get a TV show for that shit.
He left the house light-hearted, letting the door slam heavily behind him, secure in the knowledge that it would be just the same when he came back.
Maybe he'd call up Quinn one of these days, actually. Not just mail her the child-support checks, but actually ask to see his daughter. You really only got one chance, after all. It wasn't like most people did the ghost thing. Made sense to live while you were still breathing.
If there was one thing that Puck was good at, it was that.
Fandom: Glee
Length: 12,119 words
Prompt:
comment_fic: Glee, Puck(/Kurt), Puck buys a house that's haunted by Pairing: Puck and Kurt gen with background Finn/Rachel and minor Puck/Quinn
Warnings: Homophobic language/attitudes, gay-bashing, and some implied violence. PG-13.
Author's Notes: This is an AU as per the prompt. A note on Jewish exorcisms: They do exist, but you don't exorcise a house, you exorcise a person. So yes, the guy in this story is pretty much just messing around. No offense is intended. It just seemed like Puck to specifically try to get a Jewish one.
I also want to give a warm thank-you to the people who encouraged me as I wrote this, praised the little snippets I posted, and generally helped me find the motivation to finish. You guys know who you are. And you're awesome.
Summary/Excerpt: Puck has a new roommate who doesn't like Puck's taste in TV or music or clothes. Also, he's been dead for thirty years. Noah Puckerman did not believe in ghosts. He believed in beer, in cougars, and in inheritance money. Sure, Nana Puckerman said her house was haunted. She also said he'd get all of her money if he lived there for a year, and he was not going to give up that opportunity.
Part 1
*
They had something like a temporary truce after that -- definitely temporary. Puck watched sports and Calvin -- Kurt? It was his real name, but apparently not the one he preferred, so Puck decided to stick with Calvin -- didn't mess with the cable except during the commercials. He didn't have any weird dreams, or at least, Calvin didn't walk through them very much. Calvin left his wardrobe alone, and didn't create any unusual cold winds. Puck really thought he could get used to this. He went back to work since his vacation was up, and he just left the TV on when he went so Calvin could watch his lady talk shows or whatever. He took out the trash pretty regularly after Calvin knocked it over a couple times, and he occasionally threw in some classic rock when he messed around on his guitar. He didn't know any gay rock like Calvin had sang, but the Beatles were pretty awesome, and they apparently agreed on that one.
It was kind of like having a roommate whom you never saw, like it had been right before Finn got married. Finn would blow through absentmindedly to pay the bills and sleep in his bed once in a while, but he was with Rachel most of the time, slave to her wedding planning. It had the same feel to Puck, except that he didn't ever have to hear Rachel giggling down the hall, or wait for the bathroom. It was amazing what the human mind could adjust to.
He came home late one Friday night from the bars. He'd almost brought a girl with him, but in the end she'd decided to drunkenly hook up with her girlfriend, and since Puck appreciated the sight, he hadn't complained too much. He'd taken pictures on his phone instead. So he was pretty happy when he stumbled in, warm and half-drunk and whistling, and it smacked him like a punch in the gut when he saw someone standing in front of him in the hallway.
It wasn't a dark shadow like his grandma's executor had said, a time that felt like years ago. It was a full manifestation, Calvin glowing in the light from the hall. He was dim and the shadows didn't fall right around him -- they fell through him instead, like he'd barely managed to fade in. Puck jumped backward, surprised, tangling himself in the massive coatrack his grandma had left, twisting his ankle painfully and smacking a warm line of pain into his spine. Calvin's eyes widened; he turned and opened his mouth, but he didn't say anything at first.
He looked just like he had in Puck's dream, down to the ridiculous platform boots. His eyes were sharp and blue, his face oddly young under the makeup. He'd died when he was Puck's age, but he looked like he wasn't even old enough to get into bars.
It was a strange thing to think about when there was a ghost standing in front of him, but he'd read this stupid story in English class once when he couldn't get out of it, about a guy who realized he was going to be in a car accident and still dived to protect his coffee cup, like it was the most important thing in the world. The teacher had said it was about a reaction to trauma. People focused on dumb things, things that didn't really matter, so they didn't have to think about the bigger problems.
So that was probably why he watched the way that Calvin reached up and brushed his bangs back with a sort of morbid fascination.
"Tell my dad," he said. His voice wasn't as strong as it had been when he'd spoken into Puck's half-asleep ear. Puck had to lean forward to hear it, untangling himself from the stupid coatrack and straining his ears.
"He thinks I -- " Calvin paused, pursing his lips. There was so much hurt in his eyes: years of it. "Tell him I didn't."
"How's he going to believe me?"
Calvin's form wavered. For a moment, the color faded from him, dimming him into a shadow person. He seemed to fight himself back into existence, squeezing his fists.
"Ask him what I wanted for my third birthday," he said, just barely smiling. "No one knows that but me and him."
He went out like a candle, and the electric lights faded for a moment, like there was an impending brownout. Puck swore under his breath, but they came back brightly.
"What did you want?" he asked.
Calvin's voice was a whisper in his ear. Puck bent over, laughing until he thought he was going to puke, and that's when the lights went out again.
"I'll do it, fine," he said. There was no answer from the dark, but the electric worked in the morning.
*
Someone was knocking on the door, and by the time Burt Hummel managed to make it to the front hallway, there had been three more knocks. It was probably another vacuum cleaner salesman or religious nut, he figured. He didn't have a lot of visitors since his second wife had died two years before. He peered through the peephole and took in the stranger standing on his doorstep. It was a man, or maybe a tall kid, with a punk haircut but a nice shirt on. He considered the kid. He was pretty sure that neither the Mormons nor the Hoover people would appreciate a haircut like that, but he really didn't know, then, what the kid wanted. Curiosity won; he answered the door, but kept a wary eye on the boy. He wasn't as young as he used to be. If the punk wanted to rob him, he'd probably have no trouble. But who wore a white buttonfront shirt to rob an old man?
"What do you want?" he asked.
The kid met his eyes and gave him this weird look of recognition. Now Burt was fumbling in his memory for the possibility of them being related. Or maybe he was someone on Carole's side? He'd gone to the family reunions, of course, but the people were a blur of names and occupations. He hadn't seen any of them in a long time except for her grandson, Finn, who came by once in a while to check in on him. Good kid, Finn.
Burt was jerked from his thoughts by the kid, who coughed and said, "I'm doing this history thing for, uh, school. History of my house. Library said that you built it -- the one on Maple. You know what I'm talking about?"
Burt blinked in surprise. He gestured gruffly for the kid to come in, turning around and shuffling back into the living room, trying to collect his thoughts. Of course he remembered that house. He'd built it for Elizabeth and Kurt. There were hundreds of happy memories there -- and then there were the bad ones, the ones that had finally provoked him into moving. That was the house his first wife had died in, and the house his son had never come back to. That was the house that had seen twenty great Christmases and hundreds of scraped knees and burnt dinners. He'd been so proud of it at the time.
He hadn't thought about the house in years. The people had been more important than their backdrop: a house was just a place to live, after all. The living was the big deal.
The kid settled himself uneasily on Burt's couch. Burt watched him as he sank into his favorite armchair. The boy was more bothered by this project that he really had any right to be. Burt hadn't chased him off, had he? He was willing to talk a little. The kid could try for his A, if that was actually what he was after. His nerves suggested it might be otherwise.
"Built the house in the early 50s," Burt said after a long moment. "Sold it in 75. You could get that information from the records, though. So what exactly do you need from me?"
*
Puck still wasn't sure how he was going to do this. He'd been thrown off by the way that Calvin had his dad's eyes, and then there were other considerations. Was there any nice way to come out with, "I've been speaking to your dead son"? This guy was pretty old, but he still looked like he had an arm on him. And if he kicked Puck out before he delivered his message, who knew how long Calvin would stick around and irritate him?
"Your son was a rock star, wasn't he?" he asked finally. Not much of a segue, but it was a start. The old man blinked in surprise.
"You did your research, huh?" He laughed, which turned into a cough. "I guess everyone can find stuff out now that the computers are so big. Yeah, that's him. Calvin Cheerio, born Kurt Hummel. Dunno why the name I gave him wasn't good enough, but when I heard what his bandmates were called, I was kinda thankful it wasn't something weirder."
"He grew up in that house, right?" Puck pressed a little. Burt nodded. He spoke slowly, as if lost in thought.
"I built the house when I found out Kurt's mom was pregnant. Had a little money put away from my time in the service, and my dad hired me at his car shop. Elizabeth died when Kurt was 8, but he lived there until he graduated high school and went off to seek his fortune. I tried to get him to do college, but he was such a headstrong kid." Burt laughed again, but this time it was short and had little humor in it. He looked, for a moment, terribly sad. Puck bit his lip so that he didn't just blurt it out.
When Burt spoke again, it was like he was trying to distance himself from the subject a little bit, shifting the focus of the conversation.
"Maybe it's rude of me, but you don't seem like the type who would have liked my son's music. Not enough like the rest of rock and roll."
He peered at Puck again with his old but sharp blue eyes. Puck wondered how old he was if he'd built the house in the early 50s. If he'd been better at math, he would have figured it out. Old guy looked like he could croak any minute. Puck sure hoped he wouldn't. That was another reason to break this gently.
"Nah, I'm more into cool music. Modern stuff," he admitted. "I found the information online."
He looked at his hands, and then shut his eyes for a brief moment. In his head, he saw that frightened look in Calvin's eyes.
"Do you have a heart problem or anything?" he found himself asking, glancing back at the old man. Burt seemed disturbed by the question.
"What does it matter?" He tensed in his chair, gripping the arms.
"I have something really weird to tell you about Cal -- about Kurt. I got kicked out of Scouts when I was eight so I can't really help if you have a heart attack or whatever."
Burt leaned back in the chair. He scowled a little.
"I know my son was gay," he said. "He told me. He was still my son and I don't care what you have to say about that."
"Knew it!" Puck said before could stop himself. But then he lifted his hands placatingly, stopping Burt from getting up. "But no, this is something else. You're probably not going to believe me. But he won't leave me alone until I tell you, and," he rolled his eyes, "he's not the easiest guy to live with."
"He who?" Burt asked. "Who are you talking about?"
Puck took a deep breath. "For his third birthday, all Kurt wanted was a pair of sensible heels."
(It wasn't as hard as he'd expected to not break into laughter again. The air was too tense for that.)
Burt blanched. Several emotions crossed his face, but he settled finally on suspicious concern. He crossed his arms across his chest.
"What's this all about?" he asked, and this time, Puck told him the whole story.
*
"You say my son's been rattling around in that house for years? Why would he do that?"
Burt had his fists clenched on his knees. He still wore that look of suspicion, but he hadn't had a heart attack, and he hadn't stopped Puck except to ask questions. He made Puck describe the dream attack down to the very last detail he could think of, until his head hurt.
"He wants people to know the truth, I guess," Puck said. He wondered if he could ask for some coffee. Would that be overstaying his welcome? He hadn't promised to make the old man believe his story, but since he was here, he figured he'd better try. If he didn't at least try, Kurt would get pissy. And yeah, this was a big deal and all, but he still wanted to watch "Jersey Shore" tonight.
Burt shook his head. "Kid never cared about what other people thought. Not too much." There was a note of pride in it.
"You didn't..." Puck hesitated, and then continued. "You didn't kick him out or anything, did you? Maybe he wants to make up to you?"
"Of course not," Burt answered immediately.
Puck shrugged. "Well, you're his dad. Maybe he just didn't want you to think he gave up."
Burt twisted his fingers in his lap.
"I didn't believe it," he said softly. "My son was a lot of things, but he was no quitter. He was stubborn as a mule. He wouldn't have thrown himself in the river over some boy."
Puck squirmed on the couch. This really was getting too emotional for him. And yeah, maybe it would have been nice to have a dad that cared that much about him. Cared enough to stick around. But he hadn't, so this felt weird. It was like going to a house where someone had died yesterday, not so long ago that he hadn't even been born yet.
"Do you know what happened to those men?" Burt asked, expression darkening. Puck had to shake his head.
"I don't think Kurt knew them," he said. "He didn't tell me any names."
Burt growled, frustrated. "They don't deserve to get away with it."
Puck looked away. "They don't. But I can't prove any of this, you know. And that was years ago. None of this would work in court unless I was trying to claim insanity for some reason."
Burt grunted. "You're right," he said, his tone reluctant. "I just wish... I could never protect him, you know. I tried to tell him he should do his best to fit in, but he never wanted to."
Puck scratched the back of his head, still feeling a little embarrassed by the mess of emotion that Kurt had dumped him into.
"He was a stubborn bastard," Puck said finally. Sympathy was not his strong suit.
"Had to be, if he's stuck around that long." And then suddenly Burt was standing. He'd gotten up so quickly that Puck looked up at him, concerned -- was the man going to have a spasm? But no. He just seemed to suddenly have the energy of a younger man. He hardly hesitated as he crossed the room and threw open the closet door.
"What are you doing?"
"I want to see him," Burt said, voice muffled by the coats he was digging through.
"Hold on," Puck said, getting up too, alarmed. "Chill out. I don't think it works that way."
He hadn't realized that until he said it, but it made sense now. It was a feeling like something had gone. He knew, then, that when he came home, it would be to a truly empty place. Kurt was gone.
"Why not?"
The old man was shruggling to put on a windbreaker that hadn't fit him for probably ten years. He put his arm through the sleeve and paused to look at Puck. Puck looked away.
"He's gone. He went away. I told you what he wanted me to tell you, so now he's... gone off to gay heaven or whatever. Christian heaven. All I know is that he's not Jewish."
"How can you be sure?" Burt demanded. Puck shrugged.
"I just know. I'm sorry. Believe me, I'd rather he haunted you all the time. You'd have appreciated it more."
Burt sighed. He looked down at the coat he was half-wearing, and then slowly took it off again.
"If he's still there when you get home, you have to call me," he said firmly.
Puck nodded. "Believe me, I will. That way he knows I told you."
Burt hung his coat back up and turned back to Puck, shaking his head a little.
"This is the craziest idea I've ever heard, you know," he said. "I've never -- I went to church when the boy was young, I believe there's something else after we die, but... ghosts? But no one else alive knows what you told me about his birthday." He sighed. "I guess I have to believe you."
The conversation didn't last long after that. Puck had told Burt everything he knew. Finally, with an awkward, "Take care of yourself," he left. He paved over the silence of the drive with some good old-fashioned AC/DC, and when he unlocked the door to his house, the door was creaky and the place was empty. It smelled like the eggs he'd made for breakfast, the plate still unscrubbed in the sink. The early afternoon sun was fighting through the windows and across the floors.
Puck walked through the place again, like he hadn't done during the day since he'd moved in. Everything was where he'd left it, in the comforting half-mess of a bachelor's home. His bed was unmade. Last night's clothes were on the floor near the hamper. Two empty cans of beer and an empty soda can were on the counter.
Most importantly, there was no ghost, so Puck settled in for a nice afternoon watching "The Fast and the Furious" on USA, because it had enough car crashes to never get old. He was suffering through a creepy commercial about having a happy period (as if, that just made all of his girlfriends even more pissy) when the phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out -- Finn.
"Sup, dude?" he asked. He'd filled Finn in on the whole mess not long ago, but Finn still refused to vist unless the ghost was gone.
"I have a ghost!" Finn yelled into the phone, making Puck scrunch up his face and pull the earpiece away. Because, really. He hadn't screamed the whole time he had one.
"Say what?"
Finn explained and asked for Puck's ghostbuster talents. Puck neglected to mention that he'd never actually busted any ghosts, just talked one into leaving his house. Whatever. He'd go over there and find out it was a mouse, anyway. In fact, he could hear Rachel in the background saying something about disappearing cheese.
But it would be nice to get out of this empty old place for a while and screw around with friends. He bet himself a beer that he could make Finn jump and crack his head on a doorframe at least once.
And if it were somehow real, so what? He had proven a talent in that direction. Noah Puckerman, ghost tamer. He could get a TV show for that shit.
He left the house light-hearted, letting the door slam heavily behind him, secure in the knowledge that it would be just the same when he came back.
Maybe he'd call up Quinn one of these days, actually. Not just mail her the child-support checks, but actually ask to see his daughter. You really only got one chance, after all. It wasn't like most people did the ghost thing. Made sense to live while you were still breathing.
If there was one thing that Puck was good at, it was that.
no subject
no subject
no subject
I mean, so beautiful, and so quirky and stuff, but I honestly hate character death so much - anything with a sincere lack of hope, which character death kind of guarantees. You did wonderfully to make this something I really enjoyed. A lot of it, anyway. But I'm also crying, so I'm a little... you know. Unsure.
Point is. Beautiful.
Really horrible, but beautiful.
no subject
no subject
I got a little teary eyed but I'm glad that Kurt could move on :')
no subject
It's for the best, really. Kurt needs to go to gay heaven. |D
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
But I am so happy to see you in Glee.
no subject
I write a lot of Glee fic nowadays, actually! So feel free to peruse the tag.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Puck should totally have his own TV show as a ghost tamer. lol . It would be better than "Ghost whisperer" , definitely.
Great fic!
no subject
I'd totally watch it if Puck had his own show lol. It'd be hilarious.
Thank you!
no subject
no subject
no subject
"What did you want?" he asked.
Calvin's voice was a whisper in his ear. Puck bent over, laughing until he thought he was going to puke, and that's when the lights went out again."
!!!!! WIN. I--YOU WIN.
The people had been more important than their backdrop: a house was just a place to live, after all. The living was the big deal.
That was strangely deep, and I love it all the more because of that. Poor Burt.
"Do you have a heart problem or anything?" / "I have something really weird to tell you about Cal -- about Kurt. I got kicked out of Scouts when I was eight so I can't really help if you have a heart attack or whatever."
More nods to canon! Loving you so much right now.
Awesome job! Totally stashing this in my Bookmarks to reread sometime. ♥
no subject
Kurt is always Kurt. |D Sensible heels and all.
Yeah, I felt bad for Burt in this quite a bit. That's why I ended up mentioning Carole. He needed someone, poor man.
Glad that their dialogue amused. XD
Well, that's quite a compliment! Thank you for the awesome and thorough reviews. ♥
no subject
So beautiful and so sad. <3
no subject
no subject
no subject
I figure Puck probably will get a dog. And maybe visit Beth more. So. He won't be too lonely.
no subject
It made me laugh, it made me sad. Just all around great!
no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2011-01-22 05:47 am (UTC)(link)no subject