A/N: I have absolutely no idea what this is. I want to call it crack, because it would never happen in a million years, but it's a serious story, so it's not really crack, and...IDEK. It just would not let me go until I wrote it, so please let me know what you think.

Puck's world tilts off its axis on a Tuesday.

After sophomore year he'd gotten his shit together, academics wise, so Rachel hadn't been the only one who'd headed to the Big Apple after high school. A year at NYU, however, was enough to show him that college wasn't his thing. It wasn't a waste, though, because it gave him enough credits to join the NYC police academy once he was old enough, and that was totally his thing.

He's been a cop ever since, for almost six and a half years now, and he loves it, being good at something instead of being the screw-up, the Lima Loser. And he's not the only one who thinks so—after Sawyer, his partner from the start, decided it was time to retire and spend time with his family, the captain had told him he'd be paired with a rookie, to show them the ropes. He would have hated that much responsibility as a punk-ass teenager, but he's ready now.

Not being the newbie anymore will be nice too.

So now he's waiting with Captain Monroe in his office until the rookie arrives. The older man shuffles the papers on his desk. "Your new partner's a woman, same age as you, actually."

Puck raises an eyebrow. A woman? That'll be different. No worries, though—he's a stud, not a dickhead. They don't have to worry about any sexual harassment charges.

"She's not what you would expect in a recruit," Monroe continues, "but all of her instructors say she's one of the best in her class." His eyes widen at whatever he's just read. "Looks like she's from Lima, Ohio, like you. Maybe you know her."

Puck laughs, because yeah, that's one hell of a coincidence, but his boss is born and raised in the boroughs, and thinks that anything outside the city is, like, Mayberry or some shit. "Sir, Lima did have more than one school district. What's her name? Maybe that'll ring a bell."

The other man opens his mouth, but before he can speak there is a "Hello, I'm looking for Captain Monroe" from outside the office, and he freezes in his chair because fuck, that voice is familiar, but it's not possible.

He slowly turns toward the door, and no, his ears weren't deceiving him.

There, in a crisp new uniform, hair pulled back in a low ponytail, is Rachel Berry.

And yeah, he's pictured Berry in a police uniform before, but it was more of the stripper variety. So the first words out of his mouth are, "What the fuck?"

Rachel stares at him with a look of incredulous disbelief that's probably mirrored on his own face. "You have got to be shitting me."

Monroe looks between the two. "So I guess you do know her?" he asks, but Puck doesn't really hear it, because he's kind of distracted right now.

Rachel swears?

Rachel's a cop?

When did he step into the fucking Twilight Zone?

"This isn't possible."

"And yet, I'm here," Rachel says tiredly.

They've moved from the captain's office to the locker room, and Puck's still in shock.

"You were going to Julliard!"

"And I graduated. With honors."

"You were going to take Broadway by storm."

The wince is only there for a second before it's gone. "Do you think I can't do this?"

He stops short. "What?"

"Is that why you're so incredulous? You don't think I'll be a competent police officer? Because if that's so, let me assure you, I received top scores in all of my classes, I've logged untold hours at the firing range, and while I was already in superb physical shape I've engaged in a rigorous training regimen as well as taking classes ranging from Taekwondo to Krav Maga in order to compensate for my small stature."

She stops to take a breath and he blinks because time certainly hasn't changed her motormouth. And then he blinks again because fuck, that's hot, the image of Rachel throwing down, but dammit, he's at work. Don't be a dick, Puckerman.

"Of course not," he replies. "I know you, Rach. If you've put your mind to something you won't stop until you're the best ever. I just…I just don't understand."

"Well, you don't have to understand," she says sharply. "You just have to work with me. Unless you don't think you'll be able to do that, in which case I'll gladly put in for a transfer."

"What? No, Rachel, I'll be fine."

"Good. And it's Berry, Puck—I doubt you call anyone else by their first name, so please don't make exceptions for me."

Seriously—who is this girl?

"Is there anything else?" she continues. "Because if not, we really should get going. I believe we were supposed to be on the street half an hour ago."

At the end of her first day he takes Rachel (he'll call her whatever he wants in his head) out for a drink, because it's what Sawyer did for him, and he's not about to break tradition. They go to his favorite bar that's only a few blocks away from the precinct. The owner's a retired cop himself, so they're always welcome. Dude even lets him sing and play guitar on the nights he's not working and the house band is off.

He greets the guy, Bennett, with the usual handshake/backslap and insults before dragging Rachel over to a corner booth. She's changed into jeans and a t-shirt, making her seem a little more familiar, although he still kind of expects those tiny skirts and knee socks. Then she orders a Blue Moon and throws him again, because this girl never liked beer. Never, no matter how hard he and Santana and Matt tried. She grimaces on the first sip, though, and it's like a light bulb turns on over his head.

"You're not playing a part, Berry. You don't have to drink beer just because you're a cop. Order whatever the fuck you want, I don't care."

The color rising on her cheeks is visible even in the dim light of the bar, but she just shakes her head and lies, "This is fine."

They shoot the shit for a while, chatting about old times. They've kept in touch with the Gleeks, some more than others, so they start comparing stories. He's relating one from Santana about the trials and tribulations of living with Brittany and she's tearing up with laughter. "Bekah would love that story," she says, and then freezes. He's about to ask her what's up when she abruptly changes the topic and starts talking about an old lady in her building who's claimed her as a substitute grandchild and tries to feed her every other day.

It's awkward for a second, but soon the conversation is flowing smoothly again. That is, until the band starts setting up for the night.

When he first sees Rachel tense he thinks it's because she's worried about what she's going to hear, and he understands. He's heard some truly awful bar bands, and with her perfect pitch and shit it has to be even worse. "Don't worry," he tells her. "They're actually pretty good. Bennett knows his shit. He's pretty cool—he even lets me play sometimes, when I want." Another light bulb goes off; it's like he's a fucking genius tonight. "You should join me sometime. We'd bring the house down."

Or maybe not, because now Rachel's completely rigid as she stands and grabs her bag. "I should get going."

"C'mon, Berry," he whines, confused. What'd he do?

But she's not backing down, so he sighs and moves to stand.

"What are you doing?"

He pauses. "Um, standing up."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, that was slightly obvious. I was more interested in why."

"Well, I figured I'd walk you home. Or, you know, to a cab, if you're too far away."

Her hands go to her hips. Fuck, he remembers this.

"Puck, I'm a cop now. I carry a gun"—and yeah, the fact that the vegan who cried over dead baby chicks is now packing heat is going to mess with his head a for a long time—"and even before then, I'd lived in the city for years. I'm a big girl now. You don't need to protect me."

He stands fully and shoves his hands into his pockets. "And what if I just wanted to keep talking?"

Her defensive stance softens.

They end up sharing a cab.

Rachel's an amazing cop.

He's surprised, but not. It's like he said on her first day—when Rachel Berry sets her sights on something, not even an act of God is going to changer her mind, and she's going to give 110% until she gets it. So really, it shouldn't be a surprise at all.

She may have had to take two steps for every one of his when they walked the halls of WMHS, but she can hold her own when they're running after a suspect (all that time on the elliptical is finally worth it, he guesses). Her martial arts and self defense training is evident when she puts an unruly drunk into an arm bar or uses gravity and momentum to flip a perp over her hip. He'd boggled the first time that last one had happened, because one second a guy's charging her and he's yelling and reaching for his gun, and the next she has the douche sprawled over the hood of their squad car. He'd only snapped out of it when she'd yelled at him to "Help me cuff him, dammit," because all the training in the world can't change the fact that she weighs about five pounds soaking wet and couldn't hold someone down if she laid on them.

Even her acting abilities come in handy. Depending on the situation she can be commanding and in charge, or kind and placating, or a good listener, or a maternal figure. It's diffused more than one tense situation.

He's usually just a badass. Hey, if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right?

(Except when they're dealing with children, in which case he turns into such a softy that Rachel's smirking for days.)

(Unless it's a blonde girl around Beth's age. Then she doesn't say a word.)

He's been waiting for (dreading) this day.

It happened three months in for him, and Sawyer had taken him to the gym and just waited while he beat a punching bag until his knuckles bled. That's not going to work for Rachel.

Or, hell, maybe it would. It's not like he knows this girl—woman—anymore.

It's only been seven weeks. He wishes she'd had longer. He wishes she'd never have to face it at all.

Dead bodies are horrible. Dead kids will haunt your dreams, make you wake up in a cold sweat. It's disgusting, what people will do to each other. But as a cop you're still removed from it, somehow.

It's different when the blood's on your hands.

She opens the door in her NYPD sweats and a tank top, eyes tired. "Hey."

"Hey." He comes in when she wanders back to the living room, shutting the door behind him. "They're going to rule it a clean shooting, you know. It's just procedure."

Eyes roll in his direction. "I know, Puck. You already told me. Captain Monroe told me. Everyone told me."

He opens his mouth to speak—

"And I don't need a pep talk. Or to talk about it at all."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says breezily, throwing himself down on her couch, ignoring her pointed glare as he sprawls out (god damn, this couch really is amazing). "I was just going to tell you to get dressed, 'cause we're going out."

She sighs. "I really don't feel like going anywhere tonight."

"Too bad. You don't need to talk, but you also don't need to sit around and dwell. So—out."

She bites her lip, then nods.

She's dressed in fifteen minutes, and his arm is heavy and warm across her shoulders as they walk down to the street and hail a cab. He rattles off the address of Bennett's bar.

They don't stay for the band, but she orders wine instead of beer, and he feels like he's accomplished something.

Noah Puckerman is not a patient person. It's just not in his DNA. So he tries to wait, to let Rachel explain how her life made a 180 degree turn, but after almost four months he can't take it any longer. He types her name into Google and starts searching.

He finds plenty. Rachel's splashed over the Julliard website, and there are tons of articles about how she's a rising star, snagging roles in off-off-Broadway, and then off-Broadway, shows. The problem is that they're all over a year old. Anything newer is police related, and he knows all that. Dammit.

Frustrated, he gives in and logs on to Facebook for the first time in years. In high school Rachel had nagged and nagged until he'd friended her, and now he can use that to his advantage.

It looks like lately Rachel hasn't been too big a fan of Facebook either, with only a few postings and replies to comments—and any questions about Broadway have been ignored. But he clicks back, further and further, until he's a year back, and suddenly there's a lot more activity.

His stomach sinks as he scans the screen. It's a flurry of condolences, "I'm sorry" and "I can't believe this happened" and "Are you okay?" filling the page. One line catches his eye: "RIP Bekah."

"Bekah would love that story."

Fuck.

The only 'Bekah' on Rachel's friends list is a Bekah Marsters. Google tells him that she was a Julliard graduate, Broadway actress…

And that she was murdered thirteen months ago.

Puck leans back in his chair and scrubs a hand over his face. He'd known that whatever he found wasn't going to be good, but he hadn't expected this. And there has to be more to the story. A murdered friend is horrible, but that doesn't make you completely change your life, does it? Because the more he thinks about it, he realizes that it's not just going from Broadway to the police. In all the time they've spent together, he hasn't heard her sing once, not even to hum along with the radio.

He could find out. He could try to find a more detailed article, or call up Finn or one of the other Gleeks and see what they know. Hell, he could probably find the police report at work if he looked for it. But as curious as he is, that's a step he's just not willing to take. Anything more than what he's done would be invading her privacy, and his gut twists at the thought. He'll just have to wait for Rachel to tell him the rest.

He's not a patient person, but for her he will be.

Life's been crazy these past few months, and Bennett's had a band that never seems to take a night off, or at least one that works with his schedule. But finally there's an opening, and he's going to get a chance to bust out his guitar again and work the crowd.

He mentions it to Rachel, casually, and invites her to come and watch. He doesn't really expect her to show up, so he's not too disappointed when she doesn't. But he figures the best thing to do is keep asking, so he does.

When he finally sees her in the crowd one night, with a smile that's cautious but real, he's on top of the world.

Being a cop in New York City is a dangerous thing, and Puck's been in his fair share of bad situations—standoffs and shootouts and hostage situations and high speed chases, take your pick. But no matter how fucked things looked, he's always come out okay. In all their time working together he and Sawyer hadn't been shot or stabbed or anything—nothing more than a few cuts and bruises, nothing major. Sawyer had called him his lucky charm, and Puck hadn't questioned it.

His luck runs out when a disturbing the peace call turns into a domestic violence call, with a gun, fuck, and there's yelling and calming words that aren't working and a screaming girlfriend and kids in the background and no backup, where the fuck is their backup—

—the crack of a gun fills the air, and it's chaos.

Backup finally arrives (fuckers, why didn't they fucking get there sooner?) and takes care of things, securing the shooter and getting the victims out of the apartment, but he's not paying attention to any of that.

He's sitting with his back against the wall, Rachel leaning against his side and his hand over hers on her left bicep.

"Oh," she breathes, lines of pain carved around her tightly closed eyes. "This hurts a lot more than I expected it to."

"God, Berry." It's a minor bullet wound, he tries to tell himself. Practically a graze. Didn't shatter any bones or hit anything major. Rachel will probably be out of the hospital that night, after they patch her up.

But all of the reassurances in the world don't change the fact that the wound's high on her left arm, and it's obvious where the fucker was aiming, Rachel only turning just in time, and her blood's still dripping hot and red over their tangled fingers, and fuck.

She winces when he tightens his grip, and he turns his head to the door. "Where's the god damn ambulance, assholes?"

She squeezes his thigh to bring his attention back to her. "It'll be here as soon as it can," she says, eyes open now and looking at him. "It's not their fault. Not yours, either," she continues, cutting him off before he can say a thing.

"Whatever. Shut up and save your energy. You could, like, go into shock or something."

"I'm not—not going into shock," she says shortly, and it's not right when Rachel's not being long-winded. "S'not that bad. Just—" she sucks in a breath and grips his thigh harder. "Just hurts."

"Fuck. Rachel—"

"Berry, Puck, not Rachel—"

"Jesus Christ, woman. You're really going to try to lecture me about that now?" He grabs her hand off his leg and squeezes back. "You know you're more than just my partner, right?"

She doesn't say anything, just closes her eyes again and rests her head against his shoulder.

He's right—Rachel's out of the hospital that evening. After patching her up they make her stay all day for observation, or something, but she manages to convince them not to make her stay overnight. She spends most of her time talking to her dads (she didn't want to call them, but he'd threatened to call his mom and get their number), telling them what happened and that she's fine, no, really, Daddy, you and Dad don't need to drop everything and catch the next flight to New York, please don't do that.

He's there when she's discharged, tiny and rumpled in the sweats he'd snagged from her locker. "I'm taking you home."

"Puck, I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I know. Still doing it."

She sighs in relief when they get to her apartment, sitting (sprawling—he likes to think she gets that from him) down on her couch. Her arm jostles with the movement, and she winces.

"That's your own fault, you know—you could have taken the good drugs."

She shakes her head. "And be completely out of it? No thank you. I'll trade a little discomfort for a clear head. The painkillers they gave me will be fine."

"Okay." He looks around the room. "So what do you need me to do?"

"You don't need to do anything. I'm not an invalid."

"The fuck? You got shot."

"Yes, but it was a minor—"

"Raise your arm above your head."

She glares at him, but doesn't move. Point made.

"Thought so. So, again—what can I do? Do you need to take a shower? 'Cause I can totally help with that."

She scoffs at his leer. "You wish. I was able to get cleaned up at the hospital, and even if I hadn't I could easily take a bath without your assistance."

She pauses, and he raises an eyebrow, waiting.

"I'd really like to wash my hair," she admits, "because it feels sweaty and dirty and disgusting, but I'm not sure I can do that with one hand."

"Okay."

She laughs.

"What? I may not have much, but I do know how to wash hair." His voice softens, remembering slushies and apologies and regret. "Besides, you've done it for me, right? I owe you one."

She can't argue with that.

It takes them a while to figure out how they're going to do this, but the fact that her bathtub has a detachable handheld showerhead makes things easier. Gently, gently, he scrubs the grime from her hair, rubs in conditioner, and checks the water temperature each time before rinsing. He never thought washing hair could be so…so…

They don't talk, but Rachel hums a little when the pads of his fingers massage her scalp, and to him it sounds like a song.

Blotting the excess water from her hair, Rachel picks up a comb and makes her way to her bedroom, Puck following. Sitting down on her bed, she drapes the towel over her shoulders and starts combing out her hair. But she barely makes two passes before he takes it from her, and she makes a noise of protest.

"Hey," he says, affronted. "I have a little sister, you know. I do know how to comb hair."

"Okay," she laughs, and he sits down behind her and tosses the towel to the floor.

Her tank top does nothing to hide the stark white bandage on her arm, and he can't stop staring at it. The rhythmic slide of the comb is hypnotizing, and his focus narrows until the only things left in the world are their deep, even breaths, the silk of her hair between his fingers, the warmth of her body… and that damn bandage.

"I could have lost you today," he says, voice rough.

She lays a hand on his knee. "But you didn't." She doesn't say that she's not his to lose.

(Maybe that's because they both know it would be a lie.)

"I could have," he repeats, staring at the soft skin of her shoulder. It's like a magnet, drawing him closer, tempting, and he's not that strong of a man.

He sweeps her hair to the side and presses a hot kiss on the ball of her shoulder, right above the strips of protective cotton.

"Noah," she breathes, and fuck, he hadn't known how much he'd missed her saying his name until that moment. It urges him on, and he kisses her again, and again, moving towards her neck, and he doesn't want to stop. He can't stop. Please, don't make him stop.

She turns her head over her shoulder and kisses him back.

Her arm's still sore, but that's an easy fix. She looks beautiful above him, damp hair catching the moonlight as she circles her hips.

He never officially moves in. He just goes home with her to help out, and then never leaves.

Rachel's chained to a desk until a doctor says that she's healed, so he's stuck with a temporary partner until then.

It sucks ass. He's relieved when she joins him back on patrol.

A few days later Captain Monroe's calling him into his office, and he's confused until he sees Rachel already there, back straight and shoulders tight with nerves.

His stomach drops. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, how did the captain find out? Yeah, he's only been back to his place to grab his mail and fresh clothes, but they've been so careful. How can he know?

(He's kidding himself. Everyone knows.)

Monroe's measured gaze moves between the two of them. "Are you going to be able to stay professional on the clock?" he finally asks.

"Yes, sir," Rachel says forcefully. Puck can only nod.

He stares at them a moment longer. "Good. I don't want to have to discuss this with you again," he continues, and dismisses them.

"Thank you, sir," she says gratefully, and turns to leave, but Puck's rooted to the spot, stunned. That's it? Aren't they breaking a ton of rules, or at least bending them?

(What, you think he's read the rule book? He's changed, but not that much.)

Monroe laughs at him. "Get out of here, Puck, before I change my mind."

He drags Rachel out of the office with him.

It kind of hits him one night, when he glances over at the dresser as he's getting ready for bed. Gun, handcuffs, and badge catch the light, two of each laid out for the next day. The striking tableau takes his breath away. How did this ever happen?

(Maybe it's what happens when the best relationship of your life is a week in high school when you're both in love with someone else.)

"Noah," Rachel mumbles from under the covers, "come to bed."

(The best, that is, until now.)

He does.

He doesn't know how, but the others finally find out that Rachel was in Glee with him and sang professionally. (He's surprised it took this long, really, even though he kept his mouth shut.) They're all at the bar, watching him perform, and everyone's on her ass about getting up and joining him and he wants to tell them all to shut the fuck up, because they don't know how hard it was to get her there in the first place.

But when he catches her eye there's something in her expression that he hasn't seen before, like she misses it. Like she's finally letting herself miss it.

It takes him a second to realize that she's standing and heading his way, the cheers and applause from their coworkers following her to the stage. She grabs a microphone, and he feels like his grin is about to split his face open. He switches songs abruptly, and she throws her head back and laughs as she recognizes it. Like either of them could ever forget.

"Don't stop believing…"

They play forever, switching between classic rock and pop and Glee songs and even a few musical numbers that she managed to drill into him in high school. The applause is deafening, Rachel is glowing, and he's on top of the world.

As soon as they get back to the apartment she falls against him and breaks down.

She finally stops crying hours later, curled up in bed and wrapped in his arms. It's quiet for a few minutes as she rests her head on his chest. Then—

"So how long have you known?"

Yeah, the fact that he didn't ask what the hell was going on while she sobbed is probably a big sign that he isn't clueless about this. At least she doesn't seem pissed. "A few months. Google and Facebook gave me the basics." He smoothes a hand over her back. "She was your friend?"

"She was my best friend." She gives a watery laugh. "She was my freshman roommate. We should have been mortal enemies—same vocal range, same childhood preparation, everything. We were going to be going after all the same roles, but it didn't seem to matter. We hit it off instantly." Her lips curl up in a sad smile. "Bekah said we'd conquer Broadway two roles at a time."

He pulls her closer.

"After college we got an apartment together and started auditioning for roles. It was just bit parts at first—she'd get one, and then I would, and back and forth. She got the first speaking role; I got the first off-Broadway lead. She'd just gotten a minor role in a Broadway play, and I was so happy for her…" She trails off for a second before resuming.

"You get attention and fans even when you're not in the big shows, did you know that? We were ecstatic when we started getting fan mail. It was amazing, knowing that people loved what we were doing. There was one guy that kept writing me. His letters seemed…intense, but I didn't worry about it. It was only when he mentioned what our apartment looked like and my route to work that I started getting scared."

Puck's stomach drops. Fuck.

"I told Bekah that she should move out, to stay safe, but she wouldn't even entertain the idea. She said she wasn't going to let me go through it on my own." She pauses to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"When they caught him after he killed her, he said he was getting rid of my competition for me."

"Rachel," he breathes, struggling to find anything else to say, because Jesus fuck.

"After that, I couldn't…I just couldn't. A few months later I joined the academy. I couldn't help Bekah. But I'm not helpless anymore."

He says the words even though he knows they won't change anything. (They never have for him.) "It wasn't your fault, Rachel."

She shrugs against him. "I know. Doesn't make me feel any better, though. Doesn't change anything."

He holds her until the first rays of morning sunshine slant through the window.

He doesn't think she's going to even step foot in the bar ever again, so he's stunned when she performs with him two nights later. She doesn't cry after, this time. She just lies beside him in bed and stares out at nothing.

"Do you miss it?" he asks, thumb tracing circles on her hip in the dark. "'Cause if you do, you should go back. Don't feel guilty about going after your dreams."

"This is my dream," she quips, and he snorts. "Bullshit. I'm serious, Rachel."

She's silent for a moment. "I do miss it now, sometimes," she admits slowly. "But now, if I left the force…I think I'd miss that too." She props herself up and looks down at him. "In all the plans I had for the future, I never imagined this."

He scoffs. "Yeah, you're telling me. But whatever you decide to do, you're gonna be stuck with me, 'cause I'm not going anywhere." He smirks. "I'd miss that couch too much."

She smacks him in the chest, but she's laughing, so it's all good. "I can live with that," she says, smiling warm and soft and happy, and he loves that smile. He's missed it.

He hasn't seen it since high school.

And then he stops thinking about it because she's kissing him, slicking her tongue against his, before pulling away and curling up beside him. "We need to go to bed. Shift starts in seven hours."

They fall asleep to the sounds of the city, a siren wailing in the distance.