Chapter Text
Puck walked into the apartment and dropped his diploma on the counter, shrugging out of the gown and tossing the cap at his sister before starting to chop vegetables for dinner while the squirt did her homework. Hannah quickly donned the hat, blowing on the tassel whenever she got stuck and/or tired of dividing fractions.
Mom walked in, right as the chicken was coming out of the oven. She spotted the gown draped around Hannah's shoulders and looked up at Puck in shock. "You graduated? That was today? Is there a reason you didn't see fit to invite me?"
Puck paused, looked up, raised an eyebrow. "You never came to a single event at my high school, Ma. Not one football game, parent-teacher conference, glee competition, not even when we won Nationals. Why would I think you'd come to graduation? The date's been on the calendar for a month, even when I didn't think I was graduating. You just...never cared to ask." He looked back down at the salad shooter and sent another carrot through, the noise giving Hannah cover to grab her homework folder and retreat to her room before Ma snapped.
"You! You think you can talk to me, your Mother, like that? You are so- so horrible! Thank goodness you're leaving now, before you poison your sister with that attitude. Don't tell your own mother when you graduate high school. Hmmph." She crossed her arms.
"Can't leave right away, Ma. Not now. Don't have the money." Puck shrugged, tossing a cup of raisins into the bowl.
"I thought you had some saved? From your-" She wrinkled her nose, "little...business."
Puck grabbed the tray of ice from the freezer and slammed it shut. "I gave all of it to Dad, when he came around looking for money last month. I wanted him out of our fucking lives."
Ma sat down with a sigh. "Why would you do that, Noah? He's not even- I mean- You should have kept it."
"He's not even what? "
She looked up at him, laughed bleakly. "He's not even your father, dumbass. Why do you think he hated you so much? Left as soon as you were too big to hit? Your stupid face got more like his every day, and the bastard hated that, hated the reminder."
Puck had to brace himself on the kitchen counter. "More like whose? "
Ma looked up at him through hooded eyes. "More like Tony's." She sighed, heavy, pushed her chair back as she stood. Walked over to the kitchen. Took out the knife drawer, set it on the counter, reached into the hole.
Pulled out an envelope, handed it to Puck.
Walked out of the room without a second glance, leaving Noah Puckerman standing shock-still in the kitchen, staring at the STARK INDUSTRIES envelope in his hands.
***
He shook the trance off, setting the envelope on top of the coffee maker in favor of getting the food on the table, setting it for two. Babydaddy drama could wait. He called in Hannah and smiled as she blessed the food (he may be a bad Jew, but Hannah didn't really have anything else to rely on, and she actually liked praying, so Puck wasn't about to discourage that.)
Later, after the dishes were washed and Hannah's homework was finished, checked, and safely in her backpack and she was tucked in, Puck gathered up his things and retreated to his room. He dropped his backpack on his desk (he'd burn the homework later, but maybepossibly save that Geography test), hung up his robes(borrowed from Artie's second cousin, who graduated three years ago), and sat down on his bed. The envelope in his hands weighed more than any amount of ink and paper could account for. He'd beat himself up for so long over being just like his father, only to find out, Danny Puckerman wasn't his dad, after all. He didn't have any genetic predisposition to loserhood. Unless, of course, his bio-dad was a loser, too.
He looked back down. STARK INDUSTRIES. Yeah, probably not. Even if it was the fucking janitor for Stark, Tony Stark didn't hire idiots, or losers, ever. Probably wanted people who could think on their feet in case of flying alien worms, and not be in the way. They'd all seen those pictures from New York.
He ran a finger under the flap, pulling out a folded piece of stationery.
Like, crisp, heavy, official stuff.
To My Unfortunate Offspring,
It read.
Puck squinted at the fine print, reluctantly went to his desk, grabbed his reading glasses (shut up) and picked the letter back up.
To My Unfortunate Offspring,
If you're reading this, I feel sorry for you, because your parents must truly suck to want me for a replacement. Seriously, I am not dad material. And your mom obviously knew that, because she didn't want me in your life. That's cool, I get it, teen dad not exactly attractive, especially to a married woman. And to be perfectly honest, my lifestyle doesn't exactly leave time for changing diapers, or kissing boo-boos.
If you found out as a kid, about me, and want a father figure, someone to color with you and dry your tears and stuff, don't look at me. Go find your nearest phone book, look up Adoption, comma, gay and talk to one of those thousands of couples that can't have kids the bio-way. I'm sure they'd love to have a kid as brilliant as you.
And you are brilliant, because no kid of mine would be stupid. It's not all nurture, though decent schools probably help a lot.
The point is, I'm not gonna be your daddy. You don't want me to be your daddy. I don't have a paternal bone in my body. But no kid of mine is going to starve, or turn to prostitution or drugs or something because they're desperate and/or homeless, or live in an abusive house. So if you're in trouble, like real trouble, not mom-won't-buy-me-the-latest-videogame or grounded-again trouble, come see me. We'll work something out. Even if you're already an adult. Not having to deal with a kid works for me.
If, on the other hand, you found out 'cause you're a nosy little brat but otherwise happy, congratulations, you take after me. Put that mischievous side to good use and learn everything you can in school, invent something brilliant, and be my biggest competition in business. Give your folks exactly the right amount of trouble, and good luck in life.
Best wishes,
Tony Stark
Tony Stark
STARK INDUSTRIES
(724) 555-3846
Holy crap.
Not a janitor, then.