something else
Title: something else
Chapter: 1/1
Rating: R for Puck's dirty mouth
Characters: Puck/Rachel,
Word Count: 2400
Prompt: "Rachel is asked to be part of a police ID line-up as she matches the description of a criminal- Puck finds it hilarious. (you decide the crime the offender has committed!)"
*****
Being a cop is straight-up awesome. And no, it's not the gun, or the adrenaline rush of chasing someone down, or even the legion of women who like to eye-fuck a man in uniform. (His girl wearing his NYPD t-shirt and nothing else is more than enough for him.)
No, the truth is he may not have admitted it back in high school, but he's always liked being a part of something, from sports, to the garage band he and Finn started in seventh grade, even Glee. And he likes his beat. New York, which seemed impossibly huge when he was seventeen and fresh out of Ohio for the first time in his life, is now a recognizable pattern of street corners and bodegas, and neighborhood kids who shout out his name while shooting hoops at the playground. And hell, he likes actually doing something worthwhile with his life, which still probably shocks the shit out of most of the population of Lima. (Fuck them, he's already got the best thing to ever come out of that shit-hole.)
That said, the paperwork kind of blows, and honestly, one or two of the guys he works with are complete tools.
Case in point, Manzelli who's just stopping by his desk to try to fuck with him. "Seriously Puckerman, that was an impressive collar."
Douche. "Thanks," he says sourly. "Aren't you supposed to be busy with the John Doe they found up at the reservoir?"
Manzelli shrugs. "Waiting on the crime-lab report. Got back from the coroner's office just in time to see you bring her in. Hope she didn't hurt you or anything. Hell, she had to be, what, all of 5'3", maybe 115?"
And yeah, it was totally a rookie mistake. That knife she pulled may have been only a couple inches long, but it could have done some damage. He's got absolutely zero tolerance for anyone getting rough with a woman, but using the appropriate amount of force to subdue a resisting suspect is a matter of safety for everyone concerned. Still, if the Captain limited himself to a raised brow, and a suggestion that he get his shit in order, Puck doesn't see what some dick who got 'transferred' from narcotics should have to say about it.
"I'll live. Thanks for the concern, Manzelli. That shit's touching."
Whatever. He's got better things to do, totally better things, because O'Connell is calling from the front desk, "Hey Puckerman, your girl is here again."
He spins around to watch her weave her way through the room, the bright smile aimed straight at him, her dark curls brushing her shoulders and wearing that little yellow sundress he fucking loves. (And not for the first time, he's thinking he needs to buy her some damn pants for when she makes these little visits.)
"Hi Noah! I brought lunch!" she calls out, waving at him and sure enough, tucked under her arm is an actual goddamn picnic basket. He can see a cloth napkin peeking out through one corner and since she texted him at eight when she woke up and it's now noon, he'd guess that she's been baking and chopping and mixing and basically tearing their tiny kitchen apart for just about that long.
Look, he loves her, like really loves her. And since he was lucky enough to get an honest-to-god chance with her when he rolled into town three years ago with nothing but the savings from his (legit) landscaping business and the notion that maybe it would be an incredibly good idea to look her up, he's definitely smart enough to prove that to her as often as he can. (Last night he proved it three times, once in the shower and then twice more in their bed.)
But for the last week, she has been driving him absolutely bat-shit crazy.
It's fucking South Pacific's fault.
Rachel comes home a couple months ago with that sad little face that he hates and tells him that the show is closing. It totally sucks because first of all, Nellie is her first starring role on Broadway and she totally rocks that shit. (It's not just him, just about every critic in town thinks so too, and the ones who don't are fucking assholes, so there you are.) Second, she's been doing it since they started living together, and by now they've got their schedule all worked out. He gets Mondays off as much as he can because that's her day off, and they always have brunch before her matinee on Sunday, and Tuesdays and Thursdays he meets her down at the theater after his shift is done (usually he's in time to catch her reprise of Some Enchanted Evening) and they take a taxi home together. The first one up always makes the coffee and the last one home double-checks the locks and it all just works for them.
Maybe it's just him, but in his experience change is usually just an excuse for things to get royally fucked up.
She decides that she's going to take some time off to 'recharge her creative batteries' because she's basically been going straight out from role to role ever since she got out of NYU and at first it's fantastic. They go to Jamaica for a week where he discovers exactly how Rachel wants to be fucked when she's drunk on mojitos and that she's willing to sunbathe topless as long as it's on the private balcony of their suite. She takes a cooking class and he swears that he would've gained a few pounds if she wasn't also taking a yoga master-class that really pushes the limits of her flexibility. (She likes to come home and practice with him. Or really, on him, which no, he isn't going to complain about.)
A month or so in, she starts getting a little restless, so she takes a few meetings and her agent starts calling five times a day, and when he asks, she says things are going well. She doesn't ever lie to him, not even about little shit, so he thinks that's probably true.
And then a week ago he doesn't even know what's going on, but things start going a little nuts. He gets back home and she's practically grilling him on his day: where he went, what he did, if he made an arrest that day, everything. She shows up at the precinct too, and it's cool because she always looks like a million bucks (and also because it plays into this totally dirty fantasy he has where they're in interview room three and she calls him 'Officer Puckerman' in a breathy voice and then crosses her legs and...yeah. Never mind.) but it's like every day now.
Also: this? This right now is strange. She's perched on the corner of his desk making small talk while he scarfs down the food she's brought (he doesn't know what the hell she puts in these canapes, but they're fucking good) only she keeps kind of drifting off in the middle of her sentences. Like now.
"So Kurt called about the ten year reunion again and...," she says, trailing off. She's staring across the room, tapping one finger thoughtfully against her cheek and he turns to follow her gaze, only to see O'Connell bringing two working girls back for processing. Fuck, maybe he should be jealous, but O'Connell is a year from retirement and has a nickname for the gut hanging over his belt.
"Baby?" he asks, putting a concerned hand on her knee, "You still there?"
She turns her head back towards him and smiles, patting his hand absently. "Of course! What was I saying again?"
He doesn't get a chance to respond because the Captain's door opens and the man himself is barking out, "Puckerman!" from the doorway.
"Captain Merrill!" Rachel trills out, waving.
He smiles back, or at least the corners of his mouth bend up slightly, (rumor has it that no-one, including his wife and kids, has ever seen a full-on grin) and he says in a slightly warmer tone, "Miss Berry. Nice to see you again."
No one, absolutely no one, can resist Rachel when she decides she wants to be friends. He should know.
"Puckerman," the Captain continues, "A witness from this morning's incident has come forward and we need to put together an identification line-up. We've pulled a few people who meet the physical characteristics: mid-twenties, petite, long dark hair..." he counts off and then snaps his fingers. "Miss Berry, you could help us out!"
No. No, no, no. He's got no interest in having Rachel stand in a room with the bitch, excuse him, the suspect, who tried to fucking stab him this morning. But Rachel, of course, has already squeaked out an excited, "Yes!"
Fuck.
Lieutenant Ramirez lends her a pair of jeans and a black hoodie from her locker, so at least she looks the part. Rachel's muttering something about costumes under her breath and once again, he's got no fucking idea, so he grabs her elbow and pulls her around the nearest corner.
"All right, Rach. What the hell is up with you?" he asks exasperatedly.
"I'm rehearsing a 'perp walk', Noah! Isn't is exciting?" she says, almost bouncing.
"This isn't a perp walk, babe, and that's not what I'm...."
"No? I must have misunderstood that episode of Law and Order. But still!"
Since when does she watch Law and Order? As far as he knows she only DVR's the Bravo network.
She puts her hand on his sleeve and asks seriously, "I know you can't be specific Noah, and I would never ask you to break any confidentiality guidelines, but could you give me the tiniest hint as to what my motivation is?"
He scrubs his hand through his hair. "Motivation? I love you baby, but I gotta admit that I've been wondering about that all week."
"I love you too, Noah!" She beams up at him and winds her arms around him, pulling him in for a heated kiss. When they break apart, they're both breathless, but trust her to get right back to the point. "I mean am I simply a woman reacting to my desperate circumstances, or did someone do me wrong? Is this a crime of passion or am I more the cool calculating type?"
"Hey Puck! Any time now."
Shit, he's being called in to the observation room. "Okay Rach, I gotta go. We'll talk about this later. For right now, stand on the end, turn when they say turn, step forward when they say step forward. It's like stage directions."
Stage directions? Rehearsing?
Oh, they are so going to talk.
The line-up goes like silk, thank fuck. The witness makes the ID and the only downside is that the suspect flips out on the way back to the holding cell, so he doesn't get a chance to say goodbye to Rachel. Manzelli stops by later to tell him that he walked her out. (Dickhead.) After that, there's a shit-load of paperwork, so he doesn't get a chance to so much as text her all afternoon.
On his way home, he stops at the flower stall at the edge of the park and buys her a dozen of her favorite pink roses. (Call him psychic.)
When he opens the door, she calls out to him from the bedroom. As soon as he pushes open the door she jumps on him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and they both spill onto the bed, rolling around just like they did when they were kids. She holds his face between her hands and kisses him, nipping at his bottom lip and he combs his fingers through her long hair and thinks that his sixteen-year-old self would never have believed that he'd get this lucky.
When she spots the roses on the bed next to them, she sits up, still straddling him, hands still on his chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt. "How did you know?" she demands. "I wanted to surprise you!"
The thing about Rachel is that she doesn't lie to him, but she loves to surprise him.
He groans and tightens his hands on her hips, arching to get closer to her and he throws her head back and rocks against him, the movement pushing that yellow sundress up, exposing a little more thigh. "You mean about the new revival of Chicago? Roxie Hart? Guess, I just know you, baby. Congratulations, by the way. You're gonna knock 'em dead."
"Thank you, Noah" she purrs happily, reaching down to the hem of her dress. "By the way, I stopped by La Petite Coquette on my way home and picked up a little something to help us celebrate." She peels the dress off slowly, revealing inch after inch of skin and a few scraps of strategically placed lace. "I hope at least this is a surprise."
Fuuuuck. He loves her surprises.
Chapter: 1/1
Rating: R for Puck's dirty mouth
Characters: Puck/Rachel,
Word Count: 2400
Prompt: "Rachel is asked to be part of a police ID line-up as she matches the description of a criminal- Puck finds it hilarious. (you decide the crime the offender has committed!)"
*****
Being a cop is straight-up awesome. And no, it's not the gun, or the adrenaline rush of chasing someone down, or even the legion of women who like to eye-fuck a man in uniform. (His girl wearing his NYPD t-shirt and nothing else is more than enough for him.)
No, the truth is he may not have admitted it back in high school, but he's always liked being a part of something, from sports, to the garage band he and Finn started in seventh grade, even Glee. And he likes his beat. New York, which seemed impossibly huge when he was seventeen and fresh out of Ohio for the first time in his life, is now a recognizable pattern of street corners and bodegas, and neighborhood kids who shout out his name while shooting hoops at the playground. And hell, he likes actually doing something worthwhile with his life, which still probably shocks the shit out of most of the population of Lima. (Fuck them, he's already got the best thing to ever come out of that shit-hole.)
That said, the paperwork kind of blows, and honestly, one or two of the guys he works with are complete tools.
Case in point, Manzelli who's just stopping by his desk to try to fuck with him. "Seriously Puckerman, that was an impressive collar."
Douche. "Thanks," he says sourly. "Aren't you supposed to be busy with the John Doe they found up at the reservoir?"
Manzelli shrugs. "Waiting on the crime-lab report. Got back from the coroner's office just in time to see you bring her in. Hope she didn't hurt you or anything. Hell, she had to be, what, all of 5'3", maybe 115?"
And yeah, it was totally a rookie mistake. That knife she pulled may have been only a couple inches long, but it could have done some damage. He's got absolutely zero tolerance for anyone getting rough with a woman, but using the appropriate amount of force to subdue a resisting suspect is a matter of safety for everyone concerned. Still, if the Captain limited himself to a raised brow, and a suggestion that he get his shit in order, Puck doesn't see what some dick who got 'transferred' from narcotics should have to say about it.
"I'll live. Thanks for the concern, Manzelli. That shit's touching."
Whatever. He's got better things to do, totally better things, because O'Connell is calling from the front desk, "Hey Puckerman, your girl is here again."
He spins around to watch her weave her way through the room, the bright smile aimed straight at him, her dark curls brushing her shoulders and wearing that little yellow sundress he fucking loves. (And not for the first time, he's thinking he needs to buy her some damn pants for when she makes these little visits.)
"Hi Noah! I brought lunch!" she calls out, waving at him and sure enough, tucked under her arm is an actual goddamn picnic basket. He can see a cloth napkin peeking out through one corner and since she texted him at eight when she woke up and it's now noon, he'd guess that she's been baking and chopping and mixing and basically tearing their tiny kitchen apart for just about that long.
Look, he loves her, like really loves her. And since he was lucky enough to get an honest-to-god chance with her when he rolled into town three years ago with nothing but the savings from his (legit) landscaping business and the notion that maybe it would be an incredibly good idea to look her up, he's definitely smart enough to prove that to her as often as he can. (Last night he proved it three times, once in the shower and then twice more in their bed.)
But for the last week, she has been driving him absolutely bat-shit crazy.
It's fucking South Pacific's fault.
Rachel comes home a couple months ago with that sad little face that he hates and tells him that the show is closing. It totally sucks because first of all, Nellie is her first starring role on Broadway and she totally rocks that shit. (It's not just him, just about every critic in town thinks so too, and the ones who don't are fucking assholes, so there you are.) Second, she's been doing it since they started living together, and by now they've got their schedule all worked out. He gets Mondays off as much as he can because that's her day off, and they always have brunch before her matinee on Sunday, and Tuesdays and Thursdays he meets her down at the theater after his shift is done (usually he's in time to catch her reprise of Some Enchanted Evening) and they take a taxi home together. The first one up always makes the coffee and the last one home double-checks the locks and it all just works for them.
Maybe it's just him, but in his experience change is usually just an excuse for things to get royally fucked up.
She decides that she's going to take some time off to 'recharge her creative batteries' because she's basically been going straight out from role to role ever since she got out of NYU and at first it's fantastic. They go to Jamaica for a week where he discovers exactly how Rachel wants to be fucked when she's drunk on mojitos and that she's willing to sunbathe topless as long as it's on the private balcony of their suite. She takes a cooking class and he swears that he would've gained a few pounds if she wasn't also taking a yoga master-class that really pushes the limits of her flexibility. (She likes to come home and practice with him. Or really, on him, which no, he isn't going to complain about.)
A month or so in, she starts getting a little restless, so she takes a few meetings and her agent starts calling five times a day, and when he asks, she says things are going well. She doesn't ever lie to him, not even about little shit, so he thinks that's probably true.
And then a week ago he doesn't even know what's going on, but things start going a little nuts. He gets back home and she's practically grilling him on his day: where he went, what he did, if he made an arrest that day, everything. She shows up at the precinct too, and it's cool because she always looks like a million bucks (and also because it plays into this totally dirty fantasy he has where they're in interview room three and she calls him 'Officer Puckerman' in a breathy voice and then crosses her legs and...yeah. Never mind.) but it's like every day now.
Also: this? This right now is strange. She's perched on the corner of his desk making small talk while he scarfs down the food she's brought (he doesn't know what the hell she puts in these canapes, but they're fucking good) only she keeps kind of drifting off in the middle of her sentences. Like now.
"So Kurt called about the ten year reunion again and...," she says, trailing off. She's staring across the room, tapping one finger thoughtfully against her cheek and he turns to follow her gaze, only to see O'Connell bringing two working girls back for processing. Fuck, maybe he should be jealous, but O'Connell is a year from retirement and has a nickname for the gut hanging over his belt.
"Baby?" he asks, putting a concerned hand on her knee, "You still there?"
She turns her head back towards him and smiles, patting his hand absently. "Of course! What was I saying again?"
He doesn't get a chance to respond because the Captain's door opens and the man himself is barking out, "Puckerman!" from the doorway.
"Captain Merrill!" Rachel trills out, waving.
He smiles back, or at least the corners of his mouth bend up slightly, (rumor has it that no-one, including his wife and kids, has ever seen a full-on grin) and he says in a slightly warmer tone, "Miss Berry. Nice to see you again."
No one, absolutely no one, can resist Rachel when she decides she wants to be friends. He should know.
"Puckerman," the Captain continues, "A witness from this morning's incident has come forward and we need to put together an identification line-up. We've pulled a few people who meet the physical characteristics: mid-twenties, petite, long dark hair..." he counts off and then snaps his fingers. "Miss Berry, you could help us out!"
No. No, no, no. He's got no interest in having Rachel stand in a room with the bitch, excuse him, the suspect, who tried to fucking stab him this morning. But Rachel, of course, has already squeaked out an excited, "Yes!"
Fuck.
Lieutenant Ramirez lends her a pair of jeans and a black hoodie from her locker, so at least she looks the part. Rachel's muttering something about costumes under her breath and once again, he's got no fucking idea, so he grabs her elbow and pulls her around the nearest corner.
"All right, Rach. What the hell is up with you?" he asks exasperatedly.
"I'm rehearsing a 'perp walk', Noah! Isn't is exciting?" she says, almost bouncing.
"This isn't a perp walk, babe, and that's not what I'm...."
"No? I must have misunderstood that episode of Law and Order. But still!"
Since when does she watch Law and Order? As far as he knows she only DVR's the Bravo network.
She puts her hand on his sleeve and asks seriously, "I know you can't be specific Noah, and I would never ask you to break any confidentiality guidelines, but could you give me the tiniest hint as to what my motivation is?"
He scrubs his hand through his hair. "Motivation? I love you baby, but I gotta admit that I've been wondering about that all week."
"I love you too, Noah!" She beams up at him and winds her arms around him, pulling him in for a heated kiss. When they break apart, they're both breathless, but trust her to get right back to the point. "I mean am I simply a woman reacting to my desperate circumstances, or did someone do me wrong? Is this a crime of passion or am I more the cool calculating type?"
"Hey Puck! Any time now."
Shit, he's being called in to the observation room. "Okay Rach, I gotta go. We'll talk about this later. For right now, stand on the end, turn when they say turn, step forward when they say step forward. It's like stage directions."
Stage directions? Rehearsing?
Oh, they are so going to talk.
The line-up goes like silk, thank fuck. The witness makes the ID and the only downside is that the suspect flips out on the way back to the holding cell, so he doesn't get a chance to say goodbye to Rachel. Manzelli stops by later to tell him that he walked her out. (Dickhead.) After that, there's a shit-load of paperwork, so he doesn't get a chance to so much as text her all afternoon.
On his way home, he stops at the flower stall at the edge of the park and buys her a dozen of her favorite pink roses. (Call him psychic.)
When he opens the door, she calls out to him from the bedroom. As soon as he pushes open the door she jumps on him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and they both spill onto the bed, rolling around just like they did when they were kids. She holds his face between her hands and kisses him, nipping at his bottom lip and he combs his fingers through her long hair and thinks that his sixteen-year-old self would never have believed that he'd get this lucky.
When she spots the roses on the bed next to them, she sits up, still straddling him, hands still on his chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt. "How did you know?" she demands. "I wanted to surprise you!"
The thing about Rachel is that she doesn't lie to him, but she loves to surprise him.
He groans and tightens his hands on her hips, arching to get closer to her and he throws her head back and rocks against him, the movement pushing that yellow sundress up, exposing a little more thigh. "You mean about the new revival of Chicago? Roxie Hart? Guess, I just know you, baby. Congratulations, by the way. You're gonna knock 'em dead."
"Thank you, Noah" she purrs happily, reaching down to the hem of her dress. "By the way, I stopped by La Petite Coquette on my way home and picked up a little something to help us celebrate." She peels the dress off slowly, revealing inch after inch of skin and a few scraps of strategically placed lace. "I hope at least this is a surprise."
Fuuuuck. He loves her surprises.