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pucketknife-blog · 6 years

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FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF~ self para [PG]

↪ TAGGING: Noah Puckerman ( @pucketknife ); mentions of Tzion and Calev Puckerman and Chevalier D. Syerus, Alderman of the SGA; ↪ LOCATION/TIME: NYADA Campus, Apeliotes #101; May 7th & 8th; Monday morning through Tuesday morning; ↪ SYNOPSIS: After the verdict, Puck has to figure out what comes next; ↪ WARNINGS: language and slight signs of depression, if any, but nothing major;

Monday morning starts just like any other day, before dawn with a quick run through the empty Campus, nothing but a few faces in sight (either drunk people still unaware the weekend is over or other runners, some people he recognizes from his slaying courses and people he sees on a regular basis, who wave or nod at him as he passes them by). Still, Puck doesn’t usually pay attention to anything but his music and the path ahead of him, the burn of his muscles and the rhythm of his breathing.

That's why he’s surprised when the music stops with the incoming call. He stops and answers as he walks to a water fountain and takes a sip, and it’s even more surprising to hear no one but Tzion Puckerman on the other end of the line. His uncle never calls, and his voice is stern even through his headphones, clearly unhappy to be having this conversation.

"What is it?" Puck asks, his breathing fast due to the jogging as he begins stretching, "Why're you callin'? Did someone die?" It’s not a joke. He couldn’t think of any other reason why Tzion would bother picking up the phone. For a moment, he thinks of his cousins, wonders if he should be worried, but his uncle is fast to blow him off, tells him everyone's okay and that there’s something else he’s calling about.

"Then what is it? It's not like you're one of those people who just calls someone when they miss-"

"The Assembly's gonna call you in a moment," Tzion cuts him off, clearly not amused with Puck's little one-liners, "You're suspended without pay."

Puck freezes, and if the phone had been in his hand, he would’ve probably dropped it.

"The fuck? What the-"

"There was a trial,” he says, “something about a fire. You forgot to mention it, I assume. They said you killed some Lusus. I'd say good job, but, y'know. I'm not happy about the news."

He's most definitely not happy. Clearly. But neither is Puck.

"I didn't do shit," he replies through gritted teeth, adrenaline flowing through his veins, anger filling up his chest.

"Well, it's clear you didn't," Tzion barks back. "You didn't cover up your fucking tracks, Amram. And now it's our Clan that has to pay for your mistakes."

"That's not-"

Puck can't finish his sentence before Tzion is talking over him again.

"You were supposed to be better than this," he voices, low and dangerous. It reminds Puck of his own father. It makes him flinch involuntarily. "You were supposed to be the next big thing."

"Tzion..." He's frozen, unable to know what he's supposed to say, what he's supposed to do.

"Don't," the head of the Puckerman Clan states, and Puck can almost see the disappointment and anger painted on his face. "Don't dishonor our Clan any further with your excuses. Don't call us, Amram."

The call ends and the music comes back, but Puck feels like he's been beaten up with a bat, left bloody and broken in a ditch.

His life is over, and for what.

This cannot be happening.

He goes straight back to his dorm and checks the news, punching the keyboard keys loudly until the headline appears in the NYADAily.

"The end of an era..." It sure was.

Puck swallows hard as his eyes fly through the article, the monster inside him growing as he reads more.

Fuchs’ claimed that he had also been brainwashed by Lusus Naturae, a trickster who took advantage of his position to use his home as a “base for [their] illegal happenings.” Fuchs says he was also tricked into seeing his home as a “picture-perfect dollhouse. [He] was unaware of the decor or how it had been changed.”

Bullshit.

Defence lawyer Jennifer Walters, L.L.M, has acknowledged that Fuchs kidnapped various Lusus Naturae victims ranging from selkies to lamias, but successfully countered the prosecution’s claim that the defendant used enchantment magic and killed several victims in premeditated assault.

Bullshit.

Evans and Puckerman had been charged with involuntary and voluntary manslaughter

Bull

Evans, under the prosecution, is getting off with a $20,000 fine for model behavior. The jurors believed it to be a honest mistake.

Puckerman, however, has been demoted to an unknown rank in the Slayers’ Guild, has been stripped of his weapons and badge, and is on unpaid leave until further notice as internal investigations are underway.

Shit.

His knuckles go white as he holds onto the edge of his desk.

One trial member, who does not wish to be named, says it was “deserved… That brute was no different than a thug.”

His computer claps loudly as he closes it shut and he throws the chair across the room, feeling the tears prickling at his eyes, a painful yell toring his throat.

He should've never tried to help.

"You have to understand, Cal," Puck hurries his words, tries to find a way to explain himself to his cousin that calls as an official Secretary of the Guild to let put the final nail to his career's coffin. He tries to stop the unavoidable ending even when he knows neither of them have a voice in the situation, but he can't make himself stop.

"I don't know what happened. You have to tell your dad, it's not my fault."

In other circumstances, he'd rather be caught dead than begging, but right then and there, he can't do anything but. "Please, Cal. I did nothing wrong. Nothing. I was set up by those fucking lawyers, I was protecting someone else! I was protecting myself! You have to know I'm not lying, you have to know, he's the one who should be paying, not me!”

"I'm sorry, A," he says, and even if his voice is warmer than his uncle's, more human and almost pitiful, almost caring, it doesn't make it any better. "There's nothing to do. One of the Aldermen is heading your way right now. Just hand him your badge and weapons. Don't make it harder than it needs to be."

Puck can't even reply, and he bites down on his lip hard.

"I'm really sorry," Calev repeats with honesty.

He feels the salty taste of tears on his lips.

"Yeah," he nods to himself, voice cracking only slightly. "Me too."

It's past midday when Alderman Syerus knocks at his door. Puck has finally managed to compose himself, but as he sees him there, his soul falls to his feet. The man asks for his things, and Puck is almost ready to plead his case, tell him exactly what happened in Fuch's house, tell the whole story again and again until he understood he was making the wrong call, he was punishing the wrong man for something he was forced to do.

He’s abotu to open his mouth when he remembers Tzion's words.

Don't disgrace us any further;

He remembers Calev's apologetic voice.

Don't make this harder than it needs to be;

So, he doesn't. He gives the Alderman his badge and his favorite gun, the first one his father ever gave him, the first one he's ever held, the first one he's ever killed with, and lets him know where his truck is, how he can get the rest.

Just like that, his whole life comes to a halt.

Puck stands on the threshold long after Syerus leaves, eyes fixed on the elevator in which he disappeared as he tries to figure out his next step.

When he closes the door behind him, he still doesn't know what to do. He’s at a blank.

So he sleeps.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, the clock ticking loudly in contrast to the silence of the empty room. He's glad Finn's not here, that the school had chosen such a perfect moment to do their exchange program and that he won't have to talk about the result of the trial and his future for at least a week or two. His stomach is empty, growling, but he eyes the little fridge from his bed and groans, turning towards the wall as he curls into himself.

Maybe later.

He stares at the ceiling, eyes fixed in the white roof on top of him. His alarm had gone off a while ago, but unlike any other day, he's still in bed. The sun is up, shining bright, warm light through the open window, and Puck's gaze is blank as he replays the day of the Brownstone fire in his head.

He wonders what had been said about him in the trial; how he ended up without a future while Fuchs didn't get his magic revoked; how Sam had gotten away with a $20,000 fine while he had been punished for doing nothing but his job.

He had done everything he thought right, keeping a low profile after giving his statement, keeping cool and keeping to himself. He avoided all kinds of conflict and applied himself to school, studying hard and even getting good grades (at the very least, good for him). He had even rejected the few jobs the Guild had offered him only to keep a good appearance. Everything for a jury of people he didn't know, in a case he didn't care about, for a cause he didn't believe in.

If he had known how'd that go, he wouldn't have wasted his time in the first place. If he had let the Lusus burn in the fire, he wouldn’t be standing where he was right then.

A breeze seeps into the window, caressing his skin as he lets his eyes fall shut for a second, and he can’t help but wonder what comes next.

Puck doesn't remember a life before being a Slayer.

He knows there was one. A place where he came from, somewhere he called a home, a kid he used to be, something that meant everything to him, a person he was supposed to be.

But it’s all gone; he doesn't have it anymore. It was left behind when he met his father, and whoever he was then had died long ago.

He couldn’t look back. He simply couldn’t.

Yet the question invaded his mind, and the words seemed to glow up on top of him.

If I'm not a Slayer, then what am I?

It made him feel lost, like a faint memory of a previous life in which a kid called out for his mother in the middle of a supermarket as tears washed down his face. It made him feel useless and out of place, wonder what was he still doing there if there was a chance he would never become the person he had planned to be.

However, that was not all there was to it. Something brewed in his stomach, bubbling like a boiling cauldron, fighting to come out like an alien. It was something he had never felt before, or at least not with the same intensity, a question that was always there, but he never dared to ask.

If I can't be who I am, then, who am I going to be?

He can't remember the last time someone had asked him that and he had replied with anything but "the best Slayer ever known." Yet his response couldn't be that one anymore, at least not until he served his time. It only left an open door to a new answer, something he had never really asked his own self:

Who do I want to be?

He sighs and checks his phone to see it was just half past ten. He had never been in bed for so long. He had never slept for so many hours straight. He had never had so much time to just chill and do nothing. He had never had time to figure out what he really wanted.

A small smile formed on his lips as the realization dawned onto him.

Even after the trial, even after being suspended, even after being targeted as a brute and a thug, Puck was given something new, something he had never had before.

Puck had a choice.

The only downside to it was, Puck didn't have any idea what he was supposed to do with it.

#paras #para: self #para: five stages of grief

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pucketknife-blog · 6 years

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WE’LL CALL YOU~ self para [G]

↪ TAGGING: Noah Puckerman ( @pucketknife ); mentions of... pretty much everyone that manages a shop at JIH AND ELVIS THE DWARF MONGOOSE BLESS; ↪ LOCATION/TIME: NYADA Campus’ JIH Marketplace; May 11th & 12th; Friday afternoon and Saturday morning and afternoon; ↪ SYNOPSIS: It do take nerve! Puck tries his best at being “normal”. It starts with getting a job. Don’t call us, we’ll call you; ↪ WARNINGS: language if any, but nothing major. this is like 14 mini paras in one aka the longest para of all time rip my writing lol;

He’s got a pile of resumes in his hand and nothing but time ahead of him. He’s made sure to schedule every interview at least an hour apart from each other and split them into Friday and Saturday, even fit them to his classes so he doesn’t miss any more. Still, Puck’s hands are sweaty as he walks past Notos Towers as he heads to the JIH Market.

He doesn’t know what to expect. His eyes fall to his curriculum vitae, nothing on it but his personal data and one item that says “Trained Slayer” on it, the date of his thirteenth birthday, a dash, and the date of the sentencing. He downloaded a form from the internet trying to look professional, but it feels like he was reaching. He can’t even put himself as an A-ranked Slayer anymore.

He feels stupid.

However, it’s not like he has a choice. Puck likes eating. He likes being able to pay for his own expenses. He likes being self-sufficient. He doesn’t particularly like clothes, but he likes not getting arrested for walking around naked. Besides, at that particular moment in time, Puck doesn’t have anywhere to fall back onto. He’s on his own, and, even if the times were trying, a Puckerman never gives up.

( Even when other Puckermans are still debating if he could be considered as a Puckerman or not, that is. )

Ergo, him standing there, in a marketplace filled with laughing students, playing nice and being normal and getting a part-time job --or a few, if he manages to succeed.

The mere thought of what his father would say if he was still alive makes him sick to his stomach, and not for the first time in his life, he’s really glad his old man didn’t live long enough to see him where he is now.

He steps into the office of NYADA postal services, just a few people around coming and going, and he approaches the main desk to ask for the manager.

“It’s Amram Puckerman,” he tells the girl. “I believe they are waiting for me? I have an interview scheduled for today.”

She types something in her computer, then gives him a solid nod. “Yes, of course. You are welcome to wait for mr. McNaab right there,” he adds pointing at the chairs under a shelf of flying piggy bank deliverers. “Please, take a sit. He will be with you as soon as he’s free.”

He nods back and sits down, unsure of what comes next. What’s he supposed to do once inside? He’s never been in a job interview before. Are they going to ask him to fit him for a messenger bag? Is he supposed to know anything in particular? Is he overqualified? Or worse, is he underqualified?

“Amram Puckerman,” A whiny voice calls after him a moment later, and he stands up so fast the chair behind him menaces with falling back.

“Yeah, yes, here! I mean... That would be me.” He raises a hand awkwardly, and the old man peaks at him from over his rectangular glasses. They kind of look like envelopes, Puck thinks, but grandpa looks like he’s got little time to deal with bullshit, so he makes no comments and follows him into his office.

He keeps the introductions short, speaking only when he feels a question is directed towards him and hands his crappy resume. Mr. McNaab has to make a double take in between the resume and him a couple of times, but he doesn’t ask. He thinks that’s going to be something he needs to get used to. Maybe he’s read his name on the news. He wonders if that will affect his chances of making it in.

“So, tell me, Amram --may I call you Amram?” he asks politely putting the sheet of paper down and interlacing his fingers as he locks his bright honey-gold eyes on him. “Do you believe that the punctual delivery of mail can contribute to student happiness and health?”

Puck raises a brow.

“Excuse me?”

Mr. McNaab grimaces, but he repeats the question, this time slower. However, it doesn’t really help Puck to hear it again.

“I guess?” he answers. Mr. McNaab is not amused. “I mean, sure. Some students... need the support of their families, right. Like, their gifts? So it’s... like, super important... to get their shi- their stuff. On time. Sure.”

The old man’s expression doesn’t change as he speaks, and Puck can feel a drop of sweat slide down his temple.

“It’s important to keep people communicated,” he tries in a desperate attempt to fix it. “I’m sure it’s not easy to do it, but I’m willing to learn everything necessary to be good at it. I’m a morning person and I wake up before the sun is up, so if you give me a shot, you could have someone delivering mail even before the sun is out. I am also a really fast runner, so I can guarantee my deliveries will always be on time.”

Mr. McNaab nods slowly and his eyes go from Puck, to his resume, then to Puck once more. “Well, that’s most definitely something we like to see. At least you are willing to commit yourself to this job.”

“I am,” Puck adds quickly, almost talking on top of him. “I’m very good at following orders, and I don’t get tired easily --I’m in great physical shape.”

The old man dips his chin again.

“Good. Very, very good.”

He doesn’t say anything else as he stares at Puck intensely, and he squirms in his seat.

“So... Do I-” he starts, but Mr. McNaab raises a hand.

“Thank you so much for your time, Amram.”

Puck frowns, but presses his lips together and doesn’t say a word.

“We’ll call you.”

WITCHKEA looks just like a Common store he’s seen almost all over the country, full rooms in display for someone to point at and buy in it’s entirety. Puck doesn’t really understand what drives people to spend so much money in furniture when he’s managed to survive his whole life with a tent and a sleeping bag, but he’s still applying for a job there. Maybe he doesn’t get it, but he could probably lift one of those armchairs over his head without almost no effort at all --he thinks it’s a reason enough to get hired.

“Have you ever made a purchase at WITCHKEA, Amram?”

Mr. Edison Syven looks like 1800′s oil painting brought to life. His white blonde hair is slicked back into a high pony tail adorned with a white bow, at tune with his white vest and slacks. He walks among the furniture as a model would walk on a runway, fingers grazing at the items as if he was caressing them. Puck shakes his head as he follows him through the store.

“Here at WITCHKEA, we believe comfort is everything. Do you believe in comfort as a root for happiness?”

“Sure,” he shrugs involuntarily, and he’s happy Mr. Syven is more focused in wiping a spot on a mirror and smiling at his reflection than him.

“Tell me, mr. Puckerman, why do you think a properly furnished dorm room is essential to student success at NYADA?”

“Comfort?” he asks, and when the other man looks back at him with a raised brow he knows he should’ve answered that some other way. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “It’s important for students to feel at home so... they don’t get... stressed.”

Oil Paint Gent doesn’t seem to love his answer.

“Thank you, mr. Puckerman.”

“I’m really strong,” he adds in a desperate attempt to save himself, but something tells him he’s too late.

“We’ll let you know,” Mr. Syven smiles, yet the gesture never reaches his eyes. “Thank you for applying.”

He steps into Wholefoods Market and sees nothing but a line of cashiers, gazes blank as they pack groceries like robots. He swallows hard.

This was his future now, wasn’t it?

“Hello! Welcome to Wholefoods Market!” a thin redhead with a surprisingly low voice calls out excitedly, and his huge grin kinda makes Puck want to punch him in the face. “My name is Petey! How can I hep you today?”

He opens his mouth to ask for the manager, tell him he has an interview, let him know he’s desperate for a job, but nothing comes out. All he can see is Petey’s smile and the manic way in which he’s staring at him intensely, almost as if it was a hopeless cry for help. He turns his head to the cashiers, none of them smiling.

This was never gonna be his future.

“You know what, Petey?” Puck taps his shoulder a couple of times, offering a fake smile. “I’m good.”

He turns on his heels and walks out, leaving Petey and his crazy smiling as he waves him goodbye. First dead than dead inside.

“Amram Puckerman, here for an interview?” He leans into the counter as the cute girl on the front desk types into her tablet, sending her a seductive smile. American Witchpparel was never a place where Puck thought he would work, but seeing the girls that worked there really made him want to change his mind. “Here for your number, too, if you’re up to it,” he flirts shamelessly, smiling as the brunette looks up to meet his eyes.

“Mizra will see you now, Puck,” she smiles back, and he raises a brow at the use of his nickname. “What? I watched the NAO,” she shrugs and he can swear she’s batting her eyelashes at him before pointing to the office.

“Of course you did,” he winks as he straightens up. “I’ll see you later?”

“Maybe,” she singsongs, and he feels a boost of confidence. If he fucked it up, maybe she would speak up for him. Even if she didn’t, maybe he’d come back anyway.

“Hello, you must be Amram,” Mizra greets him as she opens the door for him and points at a chair. “You’re interested in becoming a part-time Sales Associate, if I’m correct?”

“Yes ma’am,” he nods handing her his resume before sitting down. “I... don’t have any previous experience, but I’m a quick learner.” And my smile can sell pretty much anything, specially to rich white girls, he wants to add, but he doesn’t. Just in case. So he smiles. He gives her his best, most seductive self and hopes that’s good enough.

“It’s exactly what we need! At least you’re honest about it!” she covers her mouth as she lets out a little snicker. Puck takes that as a win.

“So, Amram,” she starts sitting at the edge of her desk as she looks back at Puck. “What do you think about the phrase ‘dress to impress’? What does it mean to you?

Puck’s smile falters. “What’s it mean to me?” Nothing. Absolutely. Nothing. “Well... I’m more of a ‘dress for the occasion’ kinda guy myself...” he shrugs. “I see clothes as...” Annoying, most of the time. “A practical thing.” What.

“What?” Mizra asks.

“What.” Puck shrugs.

A long pause.

“I’m... not sure I follow...” she tries again, gently.

“I don’t really care how I look, I’m mostly into durable clothes. Like, the ones that won’t set on fire, or wont tore easily when I’m in the field?”

More silence.

“I’m not sure you will be a good fit for this job, mr. Puckerman.”

Puck gulps. “I can do this,” he says, then takes off his belt in a quick sweep, turning it into a whip.

Mizra jumps off the desk and yelps.

“OHMYAETHER, GET OUT!!!”

He doesn’t even try to ask for a second chance as he apologizes and puts his belt back on, hurrying out of the office. The door slams behind him and he sighs deeply.

Well, there goes working among the pretty girls.

“Cheer up,” the girl at the front desk tells him as he walks towards the door, and makes her way up to him, taking his hand in hers and pressing an American Witchppparel card with her number on it as she stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “You’ll do better next time. Call me,” she whispers in his ear before walking away, flipping her hair and swinging her hips as she walks back to her workstation.

He lets out a snort and grins to himself as he walks away, saving the number to his phone’s contacts. At least it was not a total waste of his time.

The smell of Cookery & Cauldron makes his stomach groan and bark, but Puck doesn’t let that stop him from trying to act professional as he introduces himself to Patrick and Ersatz Spitz. They seem nice enough, and the shop is inviting. It’s not his dream, but at least it’s not Wholefoods Market.

“What does being a good customer advocate mean to you, Amram?”

Puck has no idea what ‘customer advocate’ means, but he thinks it might have something to do with being a waiter. Patrick and Ersatz’ piercing blue eyes fall on him, and Puck thinks about having them looking over his shoulder every day at work, which doesn’t help him relax.

“I think customer service is super important,” he blurts out. “If you make people feel good enough, they’re gonna come back all the time. Even if the food is not good enough,” he shrugs.

Their smiles falter. Both Patrick and Ersatz Spitz wince a little bit.

“I’m not saying yours is bad!” he adds hurriedly. “I’ve honestly never eaten here before, but the smells right now are pretty phenomenal.” There is a pause of silence, only interrupted by Puck’s stomach protesting again. “Sorry. But, eh... yeah. It’s like, if you treat people well, you make them feel comfortable and at home, it just makes them feel good. They feel like they’re among friends, so they tend to come back for more, right?”

He looked back at the couple, who were now nodding at him silently.

“And I can juggle,” he reaches. “And I do a mean Barak Obama impression, too.”

Just give me chance, Puck begged in his head. All I need is one chance.

By the exchange of looks between the Spitz, he wasn’t sure if he was going to get it.

He steps into The Spa at NYADA taking a deep breath as he is welcomed by the scents and aromas of the place, its warmth seeping into his skin and making him feel relaxed for the first time in the afternoon. Even if he doesn’t know the first thing about Spas, he thinks this wouldn’t be the worst place to be working on the downtime. At the very least, he can predict he’ll be chill, something that he can’t say very often.

“Missus Graeme will see you now, Mr. Puckerman,” the boy on the front desk tells him, his cheeks blushing green as he smiles up at him. “Please, follow me.”

The changeling guides him through a long hallway, doors to each side with different signs that list the special treatments, until they get to the other side and he opens the last door to reveal Millicent Graeme’s office.

“You must be Amram,” she greets him with a smile as he takes both his hands in hers and kind of bows. Puck does the same, just in case. “Please, take a seat, love.”

He does as he’s told, smiling back at her without being able to help himself. Wow, this Spa place was powerful.

“Hi,” he grins. “Thanks for having me.”

Her eyes seem to sparkle as they crinkle in upside down half moons, “Of course, everyone is welcome here at The Spa at NYADA, dear boy.” She takes the resume the changelling hands her and reads it over, brow quirking and smile faltering only slightly.

“Oh,” she sighs, and Puck can swear she looks disappointed. “Well. That’s unexpected.” Still, she puts the curriculum down and looks back at Puck.

“Tell me, Mr. Puckerman, do you have experience or knowledge in physiology and therapy?”

He shakes his head. “I... have some experience in healing others on the field...” he tries. “I can also carry a lot of weight on my shoulders.”

Ms. Graeme lets out a soft, airy giggle.

“That is very interesting, dear. Now, can you tell me something about the scents, and essential oils that help you relax after a long day?”

“E-essential oils?” The only oils Puck knows about are cooking oil and the one that goes in the car. He stays silent for a moment. If he weren’t under the influence of whatever it is they put in the air in this place, he’d be nervous again. “I like the smell of cinnamon and mint,” he offers as a last resource.

“You are a such a sweet boy, aren’t you, mr. Puckerman?”

He raises a brow. He doesn’t know how to reply to that.

“Thank you for your time, love,” she smiles again.

“Okay...”

“I’ll let you know.”

He doesn’t know why he’s trying anymore, but as she smiles, he does the same, too. His smile stays on until he steps out of the shop, when it falls, just as his shoulders and the realization that that was probably a terrible interview. He hates reality.

He schedules his interview at Madame Jason's for Friday morning before his classes, and as the bells chime as he walks into the shop, he is greeted by Ermis Johannes themself.

“Good morning, Puck! The same as always?” they ask with a smile as they reach for their amazing Babka.

“Ye- wait, no, actually,” he stops himself. “I am here for an interview? I kinda need a job and I thought, what could be better than working in my favorite shop in the JIH, right?”

Ermis laughs as they walk around the counter and guides him to one of the empty tables near the window. Once they settle down, they reach out and take the sheet of paper Puck is holding out, brow arched as they read.

“It looks like you don’t have much experience with baked good, don’t it?” they snicker as they slide the page back at him.

Puck shrugs and gives them an apologetic smile. “I’m a quick learner? I can also make some mean-ass waffles,” he offers. “C’mon, I gotta be one of your best customers,” Puck smirks. “Maybe you’ll end up paying me in nothing but baked goods, huh? Seems like quite the offer to me...”

Ermis shakes their head, amused. “You are quite the character, aren’t you, Puckerman?” They roll their eyes at him. “I’ll give you a chance, just for that. How about you tell me about your favorite homemade family recipe, what does it mean to you?

Puck is taken aback by the question. In the back of his mind, an alarm rings. He can almost smell the fain aroma of freshly baked Challah, the taste of the Babka heavy on his tongue, double chocolate chocolate because he’s earned it. The faces are blurred. He can almost hear the voices speaking in gibberish, out of tune, calling his name, his first name.

He shakes his head. Too real.

“Does rice count as a homemade family recipe?” he only half-jokes.

Ermis laughs. “I’ll let you know, Puck. Now, c’mon, let me get you your Babka --aren’t you late for class?”

After class, he doesn’t even bother leaving his backpack in his dorm. Instead, he heads directly to Magical Best Buy and asks for the manager. Soon enough, Ayal Varfolomey walks up to him and shakes his hand. “You’re a little late, but it’s fine. We are in the down season, but we do not tolerate tardiness when school is on. If you want to work here, is important you know that.”

Puck nods, letting them know it was a one time thing of his course running late, and it won’t happen it again, but he’s not sure if Varfolomey is even listening.

“You don’t have any experience with altered electronics, I see...” Ayal points out as they rearrange their cufflinks.

“I don’t, but I’m a quick learner.” He seems to be saying that a lot in these interviews.

“I doubt it,” the employer dismisses him before looking into his eyes. “At least you’re a New Age. So, Amram, what’s your favorite kind of altered electronic?”

Puck doesn’t know how to react to someone like Varfolomey. In other circumstances, he would’ve probably walked away, but he had already walked out from another shop the day before, and his options were limited. He couldn’t take the risk anymore.

“Well, after being hacked when I came to NYADA, I started using magic antiviruses in my computer, so I’d say that’s among my favorites...” he points out, but by the way Varfolomey is raising their eyebrow told him he isn’t selling it. “I also bought a tiny necklace that works as a one tera disk.”

Ayal smiles, cold and clearly unimpressed.

“We’ll let you know, mr. Puckerman. Thanks for stopping by Magical Best Buy; may I interest you in our new collection of Gonzalo the Dragon USB flash drives?”

“Please, sing for us the classic Commons melody ‘The Candy Man Can’ from the iconic movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, while you glide around the shop on this rolling ladder!”

“Excuse me?” Puck blinks incredulously as he looks at Valent Antigonus, surrounded by his smiling employees.

“‘The Candy Man Can’! It’s my favorite song. Everyone here has done it!” he squeals excitedly as he points at the people around him, who nod eagerly. “Do you suffer from stage fright, mr. Puckerman?”

“Not really, I just...” he replies as he scratches his head. Antigonus stares at him, eagerment visible in his eyes. He shrugs his shoulders. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

Puck settles himself, grabbing the rolling ladder that sits to the side as Antigonus claps and cheers. “Go for it, mr. Puckerman! We believe in you!”

Oh, how wrong they all were in believing in him. Because Puck is not as well versed in Common music as he thinks he is, and he starts blurting out Christina Aguilera’s version of ‘Candy Man’ at the top of his lungs instead.

🎶 ‘I met him out for dinner on a Friday night He really got me working up an appetite He had tattoos up and down his arm There's nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm He's a one stop shop, makes the panties drop He's a sweet talkin' sugar coated candy man A sweet talkin' sugar coated candy man’ 🎶

He’s kind of getting into it, too, shaking his head to the imaginary music as he glides around the shop to the best of his abilities. He has to admit, it’s kind of fun.

It’s not what Valent Antigonus expects, but he respects the effort. He doesn’t tell him he’s got the wrong song up until after he finishes the first chorus.

Puck would feel stupid if gliding in that ladder wasn’t as enjoyable as it was. He kinda wants to have another shot. He kinda wants the job.

Familiarsmart is bigger than he thought it would be, and as he waits for the manager, Puck can’t help but look around. There’s a huge variety of unnecessary things for animals and familiars, a really cool cowboy hat he thinks would look great on Elvis included, and he’s about to grab it so he can see how much it is when someone taps at his shoulder.

“Puckerman, yes? I’m Saleem Katmandu! Why don’t you come with me? Let’s talk.” Her smile is warm, as it is the hand she places on his arm as she guides him to her office in the back of the shop.

The room is small but cozy, the soothing smell of incense heavy in the air. Puck takes a sit in a puff opposite the one she takes and tries not to look stupid as he sinks deeper and deeper into it, but he probably fails.

“So, you’re interested in working with us?”

He nods. “Seems like a really cool place to work, not gonna lie,” he shrugs a shoulder. “You guys have all kind of good stuff out there. I’m pretty sure Elvis would go bonkers if he saw it...” he smiles back at her.

“Is Elvis your familiar?” she asks excitedly interlacing her fingers and tilting her head. “I would love to meet him, if that’s okay with you.”

Puck wants to say no, that Elvis a hurricane and he will destroy everything on his wake, but her eyes glisten with hope, and Puck feels that denying her this would be like taking candy from a child. So, he smiles.

“Of course, I don’t see why not.” He reaches for his Grimoire inside his pocket, trying not to fall in the process and only half-succeeding. As the book lays on his palm, it starts growing in size until is about as big as his hand, and he opens it to summon him. A blink of an eye later, Elvis jumps out of the pages and lands on the desk to their side.

“FREEDOM!!” Elvis yells at the top of his lungs into Puck’s brain, but all that comes out of his mouth is a ridiculous squeak that makes Saleem giggle.

“Well, aren’t you a delight,” she smiles at Elvis as Puck silently begs him to not fuck up. “Elvis, do you want a snack?”

“Do I want it!” Elvis is quick to jump on top of Puck’s head and land on the manager’s extended hand, taking the treat into his little hands and chomping on it loudly.

‘Be nice, be nice, be nice,’ Puck repeats in his head. ‘Do not screw this up, Elvis, or I swear, you’re not coming out in a whole month.’

Elvis, however, doesn’t have time to listen to Puck whine. He’s all over that tasty treat ms. Nice Eyes hands him and is humming as he savors it. “This is SO good, you need to get me more of these, WOW. Hey, can I be her familiar instead?”

Puck rolls his eyes, “I think he really likes you.”

Saleem’s eyes don’t leave Elvis as she speaks, a kind smile plastered on her features. “I like him too... You’re a little sweetheart, Elvis, aren’t you?” She tickles his stomach with her finger, and Elvis pretty much melts in her hands.

“Ooh, yeah, right there,” he purrs, and Puck is a second away from snatching him away. His little foot taps against Saleem’s palm rhythmically as he leans into her touch.

Still, she doesn’t seem to mind it. She doesn’t even look back at Puck as she follows up with the interview. “Tell me, Amram, how did you meet? Why do you think your relationship with Elvis is important?”

Puck thinks about the question as he watches Elvis lay down on her hand, rubbing himself against her as he keeps making really weird sex noises in his head. Damn, he was a kinky fucker.

“We met way back when,” Puck starts, and then gives her a short version of the story. “He found me in a time of my life in which I felt very alone, and he... kind of became my best and only friend. He can be a bit sassy and annoying at times, because he’s super demanding and he won’t let me cut his nails and he keeps jumping on me and scratching me, but... at the end of the day, he’s always there, y’know? He knows what to say to make me snap out of a funk or encourage me when I need a buddy. He helped me get more in tune with my magic and myself, he helped me understand my powers and, even if he’s got quite the mouth, he’s always been very supportive... in his own way.”

He smiles, and Elvis looks back at him as he lays on Saleem’s hand comfortably and hugs her finger with his tiny hands. “Dude, that was so beautiful,” he mocks him. “C’mere, I wanna kiss your bald-ass head, I wanna smooch your ugly face.”

“Shut up,” Puck snorts rolling his eyes at him, but he’s still smiling.

“You two are adorable,” Saleem chimes in, and in that moment, Puck is sure she heard every singe word Elvis said to him. He doesn’t ask.

When he walks into his next interview in the Coughing Coffee, he’s feeling somewhat confident. He thinks his interview at Familiarsmart wasn’t as bad as every other he’s had this far, and even if he doesn’t want to go on record on it, he believes he might have that one in the bag. He would never tell him, but it probably was thanks to Elvis, who has once again had crept into his Grimoire --he has considered keeping him around, but upon second thought, he was pretty sure he didn’t have the manners to be freed in a public space like the one he was walking into right then, specially not during a job interview. Specially not with so many tasty treats displayed around.

With or without him, Puck is not feeling as crappy as the day before. For the first time since his sentencing, he thinks maybe he could make this work. Just being a student. Having a couple part-jobs to support himself. Get his degrees, at least major in Engineering and Jewish studies --he believes he can get somewhat of a normal job with those. He could design shit. He could fix shit. He could teach. He could blend in.

It’s not ideal, but he has an option. Quinn wasn’t wrong. He does have something to look forward to.

He introduces himself to the manager and follows him to a table far away in a corner of the shop. Mr. Yanick Haanraads sits up straight as he watches Puck closely, just as if he was trying to find what was wrong with him. Puck straightens up himself, smoothing a hand over his chest to fix his shirt, looking down to make sure there were no stains before he looked back at the other man.

“Well,” mr. Haanraads starts, his voice low and soothing, “Why do you want to work on the Coughing Coffee?”

Puck sighs, and he stops himself from shrugging just in time. “I think you guys have the best coffee in NYADA,” he chooses to say with a solid dip of his chin, and he’s not lying. He also think it’s the most expensive in school, but that’s beside the point. “I think, if given the chance, I could... learn to be an amazing barista.”

“Learn?” the man repeats, and he picks up Puck’s curriculum vitae and reads it, brows raising in surprise. “Oh. You don’t seem to have any previous professional experience brewing coffee or other hot beverages. I understand now.” He puts the sheet down and gives him a tight smile. The silence that sets between them makes Puck fidget in his seat.

“I make coffee in my dorm a lot,” he chimes in, and the manager nods.

“Of course you do,” he comes back, clearly unimpressed. “Tell me, mr. Puckerman, what type of coffee bean you consider to be the best and what’s, in your opinion, the ideal way to prepare it and consume it?”

Puck is startled by the question, brows raising in surprise. “Type of coffee bean?”

Yanick Haanraads arches a brow.

“Black?” Puck tries.

“Thank you for coming in, mr. Puckerman,” the man says politely, and Puck’s chest deflates. The interview is over.

“Thanks for your time, mr. Haanraads. I’ll show myself out.”

Dick's Sporting Goods seems like an easy bet, and Puck walks into the shop with much more confidence than he’s had in almost every other job interview he’s got this far. He’s not so much into sports, but he’s always been an athletic guy, he’s sure he could fit in Dick’s Sporting Goods with ease and almost no effort. That’s if he manages to get through the interview without screwing it up.

“Amram Puckerman,” he repeats for what it seems the hundredth time in the past few days as he shakes mr. Pertu Leoni’s hand.

“Ah, yes. Yes, we were expecting you, Amram,” the short man nods as he squeezes his hand. The Italian accent is heavy on his tongue, and his grip is much stronger than he thought it would be. However, even if the man didn’t smile up at him, he appears to be willing to give him a chance.

After a quick round of introductions and Puck letting him know a little about himself -what he studies, what sports he likes, what was he looking forward in a job- the manager looks back at him with intensity in his gaze. “So, tell me, are you a guy who likes to display your school spirit?”

Puck chews on his bottom lip and shakes his head. “Honestly, not really. I’m more of a solo player, most of the times.” He knows it’s not what the man wants to hear, but he hopes at the very least he values honesty. “But I have no problem in being a team sport when necessary. In fact, I was one of the Thundercats, the NAO semifinalists. I think you could say I was kinda getting into the school spirit?”

“Aha, aha, and, do you think sporting events are events are important to student unity?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. Because, really, who cares about student unity. It’s not like this school will be the rest of his life. This is supposed to be nothing but a stepping stone in his path to success and eternal glory. Yet, he wants to do good. Working in Dick’s sporting goods sure sound better than WITCHKEA.

“I think so, yeah,” he replies, very little conviction in his voice, but he really wants to try. So, he appeals to the only thing he knows how to do well: he gets brutally honest. “The thing about sporting teams and sporting events is that with the whole team spirit, they give you a sense of belonging, and a sense of having something to fight for. Most of these kids, they’re not really used to fighting. Growing up in the field as a Slayer, I think it’s kind of different. We learn to trust ourselves, but also rely on others to achieve our goals. We are a team, because we have no other choice. Relying on each other, how well you can work among other people, can make the difference between living and dying. We train others to make ourselves stronger. Passing the torch is as much of an honor as it is to yield it, you know what I mean?” he sees himself drifting from the point and clears his throat. “What I mean is, sporting events are like the field I work on, but in a controlled environment. You get to learn about your own strength, and by being part of a team, you make each other stronger. You learn to share and to work together as a unit, which is really something many kids who come here never been through before. I think... it’s a healthy and ‘fun’ way to grow. And that’s... well, it’s nice. To belong somewhere.” He gives the manager a smile, sadder than he wishes it was.

“That is one way to put it,” the man nods solemnly. “Thank you, mr. Puckerman.”

He has no clue what that means for him, if his response was enough or if he had just buried his chances, but he knows for sure the interview is over.

“Thanks for your time, mr. Pertu Leoni. I’ll wait for your call.”

He notices the smell of dust and old paper heavy in the air as soon as he walks through the door of Grim & War, and he sniffles as he makes his way to the counter and rings the little bell. As he waits, his eyes drift to the floor to ceiling shelves stocked to its maximum capacity and wonders what kind of things are just sitting there. Puck has never been a big fan of books, but he can understand the appeal. Books aren’t practical, and he’s never been one to read more than what’s absolutely necessary for him (aside from Fight Cub). He respect books, of course he does. He just... rather watch the movie.

“Are you Amram Puckerman?” Mr. Moore smiles at him, lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s nice to meet you, my name is Lazarus Moore. I’m the manager of this store.”

As he tells him a little bit about the history of Grim & War, Lazarus leads him through a mini-tour guide of the shop, pointing at shelves and telling him which section is which and why, how to guide the readers from the best sellers that he wouldn’t buy, to the treasures in the back, those that make his eyes sparkle and sigh in content.

“What kind of experience do you have with magical texts and literature, mr. Puckerman?” Lazarus asks when the tour comes to an end and they stand on the front desk again, and Puck gulps as he works out a way of saying he’s not an avid reader in a way that doesn’t get him dismissed as a candidate for the job immediately.

“I guess you could say, I don’t have much experience with them,” he finally confesses with sincerity. “I’ve never been an super into reading, but I’m slowly but surely learning the appeal of a good book.”

Well, maybe not full sincerity. He’s running out of options, after all.

“My family likes more the kind of hands-on approach of learning, but since I started here, I’ve found myself relying on books and magical texts a lot. If you’d ask me the same question a couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to reply at all, but today... I wanna say, I’m a work in progress. I enjoy reading about things I find interesting as a hobby, specially things that revolve around engineering and constructing things. I’m trying to... train myself, if you will. Make it a habit, reading a little bit everyday.”

“It’s always a good way to start,” Lazarus nods and gives him a little smile. “Are there any books in particular you gravitate towards?”

Puck chuckles and shrugs a shoulder “I’m a bit basic when it comes to literature, so I was hoping maybe working here would somehow... educate me? You see, the only books I read are the Torah, text books on Slaying and weaponry and Chuck Palahniuk. Mostly Fight Club. Several times. Someone I care about gave me some books on engineering that have become my favorites, too.” He can see the manager is amused, and even if he knows he has little to no chance there, he takes that as a good sign. “But, I’m open to suggestions... Is there something you can recommend for me?”

Finally, Lazarus teeth shine through from in between his lips, flashing him his pearly whites as he nods in excitement. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He’s been in Jiggly's more than once before, sometimes with Finn and sometimes alone. He finds it to be a great place to unwind after a long week, so as soon as he walks in, he waves at the staff as he sits on the bar.

“The usual?” A blonde boy at the bar asks as he sets shot glasses in front of him, hand already reaching for the houses’ best Tequila, but Puck puts his own over the glasses and shakes his head.

“Can’t. I’m here for an interview, actually. Do you know where Bert is?”

“Office on your nine,” he points at it with his chin as he wipes the dust off the exhibited bottles. “You think you can keep up with me behind the bar?” he teases him with a smirk. Puck shakes his head as he stands up.

“Oh, Rudy,” he chuckles as he walks away, “You know no one compares to you, babe!”

He laughs as the blonde shakes his head, knocking on the door and waiting for the manager to let him in.

“Mr. Puckerman, no?” Bert asks once he’s sitting in front of him. His bushy brows take over half of his face, expression menacing as he glues his eyes to Puck’s. “Do you have any previous experience in bartending and mixology?”

He sighs softly as he tries to say ‘no’ in the nicest way possible. “It depends on what you call experience,” he chooses to say looking back at Bert. “I’ve done my fair share of bartending for the Guild, but no one’s ever payed me for it.”

Bert doesn’t laugh. Instead, the corner of his lip twitches up and he nods his head. “Funny. You’re funny. I like you. Tell me, what’s your favorite drink? Please describe the best way to make it for me.”

“Favorite drink?” Puck has always been into beer and tequila before fruity cocktails, but he’s lucky his father used to be such a big fan of a good Old Fashioned. “Is there anything better than an Old Fashioned? Just some good bourbon poured on a Angostura bitters saturated sugar cube, a slice of orange and a cherry... In my opinion, it’s even better if it’s a Maraschino Cherry, but my father preferred to use fresh ones. Whiskey works fine, too, but bourbon is ‘for real men’. Or at least, that’s what my dad used to say.”

“Your dad seems like a smart man,” Bert nods solemnly, and for the first time in his life, Puck silently thanks his father for literally beating that recipe into his brain.

He leaves the interview at Black & Deck Her for last, knowing it was going to be the easiest one. After two days of talking to people and begging them for jobs he doesn’t want, Puck finally gets to the one shop he really wouldn’t mind working at. As he watches the display of weapons sitting in the window, he finally feels at home. He’s got this one in the bag.

“It’s nice to meet you, ms. Deck Her,” he says with his most charming smile as he shakes her hand. “I’m Amram Puckerman, here for a job interview?”

“Ah, yeah,” she eyes him carefully. “The Slayer, ain’t ya? Yeah, Davis said something about ya stopping by...”

Puck tries not to take the way she’s looking at him personally, and hopes she’s not one of those people who think ‘Slayers are murderers’, but he’s pretty sure hating on the people who buy from you would be a stupid choice, so he chooses to believe that’s just the way she looks at people in general.

“Well, I’m very interested in the open position you have. Not only I have a good deal of experience with weapons, but I’m also majoring in engineering --I kind of want to expand on my weapon manipulation abilities and be able to create new weapons that are more effective and practical for the field.”

“Weapon manipulation?” she asks, a spark of interest glistening in the corner of her eye. “Do tell...”

Puck smiles and points at an empty cup on the table, “May I?” She nods, and the Slayer wraps his hand around it, an orange flash covering it for a second as it shifts into an RE-45 autopistol. He shows it to the manager, then closes his hand around it and the flash covers it again. He opens his hand to revel a classic Bowie knife, and when he places it on the table and moves his hand away, the knife turns back into the cup.

“That’s a first,” Hilda Deck Her quirks a brow at him. “New Age?”

“Yes, ma’am. Developed that myself,” he states proudly, and even if her face is inscrutable, he knows there’s no way she’s not impressed if she’s as much into weaponry as she is.

“So,” she blurts out a second later as she plops her elbow on the counter, chin resting on the palm of her hand. “What kind of weapons do you practice with? Why do you like them?”

“I’m trained in multiple fighting styles, so I have basic knowledge of how to use most traditional weapons -firearms, swords, the eventual bow and arrow, though personally I’ve always preferred a crossbow, knives and other things- but I usually lean into guns I can yield in one hand. I tend to combine a lot of body combat with weapons and magic, and the good thing about guns is that you can always use them with one hand and punch with the other,” he shrugs with a little smirk. “I think they’re practical, easy to use and effective. Plus, who can resist the smell of gunpowder?” he adds with a teasing wink. He doesn’t get much of a response, and he shrugs a shoulder as he continues. “If I don’t have a gun, my second choice would be a handy combat knife, mostly because of the same reason. They give me the freedom to fight freely and a good back-up plan in case things don’t work my way.”

Ms. Deck Her nods again, writing something down on his resume before she looks back at him. “Seems like you know your way around weapons, huh?”

Puck smiles at her. “I could always learn more. If you’d let me, that is.”

He really wishes she would.

/// Do you want to help Puck get a job? 👉🏿 Call me, maybe? The Survey. ///

#nyadajobs #paras #para: self #para: we'll call you

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