The night with Quinn had gone the way he'd expected it to go. They hadn't really even paused to eat; they'd spent the time reacquainting themselves, exploring each other, inside each other. Puck didn't even bother comparing Quinn to Sam the way he'd always do with his groupies [Quinn sucks cock way better than this chick does.] because they're two different people and he loves them both [Shut up.] in different ways. Sam's his bro, and Sam's always gonna be his bro, and he's always gonna have Sam's back and Sam's always gonna have his. And Quinn - he doesn't even know. They'd gotten their shit together awhile after Beth was born and they'd given her up; he still hated himself for that, but he grew the fuck up afterward and Quinn was really his last tie to Beth. The relationship had started mostly for that reason, that and his naive hope that maybe they could get Beth back, but what was done was done. And they were together. And it worked for as long as they were in Lima, and he just fucked around when he was out of Lima and on tour with Sam. Quinn had been there for him when they'd gotten their big break, and he'd felt like an asshole the first couple of times he'd left her back in Lima while they'd performed or recorded, and after a fucking ton of alcohol and some drunk groupies, it stopped feeling so bad. He stopped feeling guilty. It just happened. She knew - she always knew - but they never discussed it.
It was weird now, admitting to her that there would be no more groupies, and witnessing her almost palpable joy. He'd made it pretty fucking clear, as clear as he could make it, that no groupies did not mean that there would be a wedding and kids at any point in the near future. No groupies just meant no groupies.
He hadn't slept much; she'd slept on and off, and he'd tried to focus on her, but he'd found himself thinking of Sam while she slumbered beside him. [Hoping that he was okay, wondering what he was doing, feeling so fucking guilty that he'd left for the night with Sam alone in the house, in the bed.]
The door opens to a silent house. It's neither trashed nor excessively clean, and he softly deposits his bag by the door and stashes his keys on the counter [his back hurting from last night; he seriously fucked her six ways from Sunday] before immediately heading for the bathroom. He doesn't check on Sam, doesn't call out his name, just locks the house door and stands naked under a scalding spray and scrubs at his skin with Sam's body wash. Only when he's clean does he step from the shower, towel himself dry, and walk naked to his bedroom. "Hey," he murmurs, standing in the doorway, watching Sam curled in his bed. "Can I?"
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It was weird now, admitting to her that there would be no more groupies, and witnessing her almost palpable joy. He'd made it pretty fucking clear, as clear as he could make it, that no groupies did not mean that there would be a wedding and kids at any point in the near future. No groupies just meant no groupies.
He hadn't slept much; she'd slept on and off, and he'd tried to focus on her, but he'd found himself thinking of Sam while she slumbered beside him. [Hoping that he was okay, wondering what he was doing, feeling so fucking guilty that he'd left for the night with Sam alone in the house, in the bed.]
The door opens to a silent house. It's neither trashed nor excessively clean, and he softly deposits his bag by the door and stashes his keys on the counter [his back hurting from last night; he seriously fucked her six ways from Sunday] before immediately heading for the bathroom. He doesn't check on Sam, doesn't call out his name, just locks the house door and stands naked under a scalding spray and scrubs at his skin with Sam's body wash. Only when he's clean does he step from the shower, towel himself dry, and walk naked to his bedroom. "Hey," he murmurs, standing in the doorway, watching Sam curled in his bed. "Can I?"
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