This One's a Fighter

Puck hadn't been in a fight since the soap got knocked out of his hand, that first night in juvie. Because in juvie, the dudes are hard and they don't care. They don't care whether you drop the soap, or if some clumsy douche with too much muscle (that obviously came from years of steroids) whips out his towel trying to be funny as he leaves the showers and knocks the damn bar right out your hand.

Puck cursed as soon as it happened, fumbling for the bar, but it was too slippery and flew right across the floor. He told himself that it was whatever, because that whole "don't drop the soap" thing had to be a clichéd myth, right? So, he'd strolled right past the group of big guys eyeing him like a slab of meat right outside the dog's cage - they were the only other people there - and over to where his bar of Irish Spring slid to a stop by the wall. Except...he could feel their stares the whole time, and it made him hesitate to consider exactly how he wanted to bend down and pick the thing up, because even though he didn't want to believe those stories, he wasn't about to present himself like a bitch in heat. In the end, though, it didn't matter. Because the next thing he knew, he had his face pressed up against the tiled wall of the shower room by a dude a little taller than him, with a shaved head and tattoos, calling him a loser.

He'd fought harder than he ever had in his life. Of course he had, because that shit just wasn't kosher. He head-butted the guy, spun around, and okay so he pulled a chick move by kneeing the guy in his naked groin, but you do what you have to when it comes to survival, and that includes running for your life.

Too bad he didn't get far before Tattoo's lackies got a hold of him, the two of them trying to hold him down and breathing hard about how much his ass and legs looked like a girl's (and okay, so maybe it was his fault for obsessing over full-body waxes since that summer. Whole different story.) He'd struggled, of course he did, because he wasn't about to be a victim. Tattoo was just getting up from the ground to come over, and Puck had yelled. He cursed and writhed and bared his teeth, kicking whatever he could. He broke free just as Tattoo reached for his nipple-ring, and it tore right out. He'd screamed, and the stupid bastard guards outside finally came into the shower asking what the problem was (like, seriously, the fuck?) before adding to the chaos by tackling everybody, including Puck who was not whimpering in pain.

Puck made it out that night, and he was quick to learn how to avoid being alone with anybody who looked like a wannabe body builder. He kept his head down and did what the guards told him, just to hurry up and get the hell out of there. He hadn't had to fight again. And when he got out, he didn't fight anymore either, couldn't risk it on his probation, and the reputation he'd earned while put away fought for him anyway. The rest of his junior year went by under his protection of intimidation and other people's fear. Senior year came and at first it was fine, but then he heard from the one friend he'd actually made in juvie that Tattoo had finally gotten out. There was no way the guy could've tracked Puck to loser Lima, but he didn't want to risk it, so he kept the knife from West Side Story in case he ever had to use its appearance to scare someone off. Nobody messed with him, so the knife stayed in his pocket, and Puck still didn't have to fight.

Until today. Because of Rick "the fucking Stick" Nelson.

Puck was out of practice. Sure he still went to the gym regularly, but that was more to take his mind off of everything than anything else. He still had instinct and basic skills, which is how he fended off Rick for as long as he did. But…he was out of practice. And being out of practice meant that he didn't see it coming when Red Mullet spun him around, making him drop his bag somewhere, and smashed him against the side of the dumpster. Bang! It hurt. Like hell. His face had already hurt from Rick just walked up to him in the parking lot and punched him in the face. It was after school – Puck had stayed in hopes of talking Mrs. Doosenbury into letting him retake his test but she'd left already, and he'd been about to walk home when Rick ambushed him by the dumpsters. Nobody else was around, and the student parking lot was almost completely empty since apparently, nobody but Puck wanted to stay in that school longer than necessary.

Rick started wailing on him, going on about the dress he'd worn for Glee club (which, okay, not his brightest idea but his heart had been in the right place, damn it). And Puck fought back, because it was self defense, and there was no way in hell he was about to be put in the same situation as back in juvie. But like he said, he didn't see the spin coming, and the next thing he knew his nose was probably broken and he'd cracked his head when falling back on the asphalt. He was dizzy and his vision started blacking out around the edges. His mouth hurt, and his jaw hurt, and his eyes were sore. Rick had probably been in more fights than him lately just trying to defend his ridiculous Mullet as a still-legitimate hairstyle, Puck mused as he tried to focus on the bastard's face floating above him. He wanted to talk, but his tongue felt too thick in his throat and he could only moan there, limply on the ground beside the dumpster.

"Loser." Rick taunted, with an added kick to Puck's sore ribs. "I see the reign of Noah Puckerman is over. Too bad everybody else will have to hear it tomorrow, but I just couldn't wait to get my hands on you after I saw you in that fag as fuck get-up." Puck felt and ugh, smelled, Rick lean down closer. "You fucking loser."

And Puck saw red. He wasn't a loser, goddamn it. He wasn't! Too many people had called him that his whole life, his dad, Quinn, and pretty much every other person that started to matter. He wasn't a loser. He worked hard, and he cared, and may not have had Berry's ambition but he had the potential and the will. Who could blame him if he started getting lazy, like Mrs. Doosenbury called him, if he was so worn down from everybody beating up on him? He'd lost his daughter, almost twice if Quinn hadn't convinced Shelby to see reason, and he had no support from his family at home or even the friends that claimed to be family. He wasn't a Lima Loser. He wasn't.

He remembered the knife. He shot a hand up off the ground to grab a surprised Rick's hair, holding his head in place, while his other hand went into his pocket. He'd show Ricky just what a "loser" could do with a fake knife, just like he would've showed Tattoo if the guy ever showed up. Puck was not a victim.

Except…his head hurt. And pretty much the rest of his body from being pummeled into the ground, and he couldn't think clearly and his movements weren't as fast as he wanted. Fortunately, Rick quickly stood up out of instinct when he saw the flash of the knife, and he cursed loudly because Puck's grip was strong and persistent and it yanked a good bunch of his hair out before he broke free. Puck scrambled to get to his feet while finally getting the knife out and holding it up in front of him. He breathed hard, and felt something warm trickling down the back of his neck and from his nose.

"I'm not a loser." Puck growled, with all the contempt of a caged animal. But really it was all he could do to not sway on his feet.

Thankfully, the knife did what Puck had originally intended for it to do: scare his opponent. "Yeah, whatever…" Rick sneered at him, but he was backing away, eyes on the flashing so-called metal in Puck's hands. "You know what? I think I will finish this tomorrow. That way everybody can see just how far you've fallen."

Or at least, that's kind of how it went. There were probably a lot more details that Puck missed, but like he said, his head hurt.

He blinked away the black spots in his vision and focused just enough to watch Rick back away and stroll over to his truck as cool as you please, get inside, and pull away, leaving the parking lot empty and Puck wondering what the hell just happened. Puck sighed and dropped the knife clenched so tightly in his fist, stumbling backwards until his back hit the dumpster. He couldn't even think about how gross it might've been as he slid downwards until he was sitting on the asphalt. He sighed and leaned his head back, then hissed when it came it contact with the hard surface. He reached a hand up to gingerly feel the back of his Mohawk, and his hand came away covered in dark red. Huh. Puck hadn't been in a fight since that first night in juvie, so it had been a while since he'd bled so much.

Puck stared at his hand for a couple long minutes until a wave of nausea launched him to his feet and over the side of the dumpster, upchucking whatever he'd eaten for lunch that he couldn't remember. Fantastic, he thought dizzily as he tore off his bloody shirt to wipe his mouth, throwing it in the dumpster before he sank back down to the ground. His broken nose itched with the vile fumes of bile and high school waste. Rick the fucking Stick gave him a concussion. Puck sighed, because he had to walk home and he was freaking exhausted and there was nobody around to offer him a ride (and he wondered where all the other teachers were and how nobody could have noticed him getting beaten to a pulp because a whole side of the school faced the dumpsters.) He really hadn't been sleeping well since before the exam. The exam that he'd failed…

Oh yeah, he almost forgot. He'd failed. And Mrs. Doosenbury wasn't there when he wanted to make up the test, which meant he wasn't graduating. He had to stay in Lima, like a loser. He wasn't a loser, damn it, he swore he wasn't! But…as his eyelids drooped dangerously low, it was getting harder to think past the fact that he was currently leaning up against the dumpster, like a sad sack of garbage. Just like his father used to call him. Just like a loser.

…Damn he was tired. He knew with concussions you weren't supposed to sleep but, most people didn't have to walk a few miles to go home to a mom they weren't sure loved them right after having their ass and failure handed to them on a freaking platter. He was sure it was in the constitution or something that he had the right to take a quick nap before heading home so he could do something with his wounds. He must've looked terrible, sitting there against the dumpster without a shirt, bruises and blood littering his skin, right outside the hell that people called high school. He wondered where his bag and the knife went. He wondered if, when the janitor or somebody finally came by, he'd get expelled even though the knife was fake. He wondered if maybe this would be the last time he'd be found lying with the trash after getting beaten up – maybe that was his future. His future as the Lima Loser. He wondered if his father would be proud, wherever he'd disappeared to after that day a couple weeks ago, to know that his son ended up just as he'd always predicted.

…It kind of hurt to think anymore. Just five more minutes, Puck told himself, and then he'd get up and walk home. Maybe his mom would care this once. He wondered what people would say tomorrow.

Four minutes later and Puck was asleep, on the ground, head bleeding by his fake knife from West Side Story.

A/N: Can't believe I'm just posting this now. I wrote this earlier in the year, I think, for a 31 Days Challenge at the LJ P/K community. I'd actually gotten farther than this in my head before sitting down to type it out, but if you haven't been able to tell by now, I'm a lot better at starting stories than finishing them. I really want to see where this one goes, but I have so many other projects going on at the same time, so this one is waiting in line like the rest. Ugh. I need a laptop and a lot more free time.

I do not own Glee or "The Fighter" by Gym Class Heroes, after which this is titled. Let me know if you think I should continue this. Kurt, Finn and the others haven't even made an appearance yet, and they were scheduled to start off chapter two.