That first epic night of just you and me at the hotel began with both of them drunk; Puck had been the random drunk and Sam had been the angry drunk, which reminded him weirdly of Santana the night of Rachel's slightly-less-epic party. Now, Sam is the happy-giddy-random-love-professing drunk, and Puckerman... really just wants to drop Sam off at home and crash at Puckermom's for the night. [Is it worth pissing off Quinn and likely Sam? He's still trying to decide.] High five me! Uh, hell to the no. As soon as he climbs into the truck, Sam is on him, pressed to his side with lips dragging over his bicep. "No. Fuck, no, dude," he growls, exasperated. He pulls his hand away from the steering wheel - gotta put the keys in the ignition and turn the truck and the headlights on, bro - and Sam is just way too fucking happy as he throws the truck into reverse and steps on the gas.
"We can't fucking do that," he says shortly, because any part of Puck that might have laughed and hugged Sam is no longer present; he's just irritated that what could have been a fun night turned into something that might require a beer and/or some painkillers to knock the headache he's pretty sure he'll have when this is all said and done. "We have to work to fucking feed ourselves and we can't just hide and shit. I can't do this shit now, okay? I'm bringing you home. You can sleep this off or whatever. Just don't puke in my bed." His concentration is on the road, and the fact that Sam is currently buckled into the passenger seat and has the fine motor skills of a sugar-laden preschooler is one of the few things relaxing him at the moment. Ain't no way Sam's getting out of that seat belt without assistance. Nope. Because you love me? Right? "Yeah, I fuckin' love you, but we can't do that," he repeats, his voice gentler.
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Date: 2011-08-16 03:15 am (UTC)"We can't fucking do that," he says shortly, because any part of Puck that might have laughed and hugged Sam is no longer present; he's just irritated that what could have been a fun night turned into something that might require a beer and/or some painkillers to knock the headache he's pretty sure he'll have when this is all said and done. "We have to work to fucking feed ourselves and we can't just hide and shit. I can't do this shit now, okay? I'm bringing you home. You can sleep this off or whatever. Just don't puke in my bed." His concentration is on the road, and the fact that Sam is currently buckled into the passenger seat and has the fine motor skills of a sugar-laden preschooler is one of the few things relaxing him at the moment. Ain't no way Sam's getting out of that seat belt without assistance. Nope. Because you love me? Right? "Yeah, I fuckin' love you, but we can't do that," he repeats, his voice gentler.