"That was perfect parallel parking if I do say so myself," Puck brags as he pulls up crookedly to the curb by the old Grimm house in a neon blue Hudson. He pulls the key from the ignition and tilts the rearview mirror towards his face. Excellent. There's a spot of stubble that will soon grow into a devastatingly attractive 5 o'clock shadow.
Jake claps him on the shoulder. "Great job, bud. Now hurry up and stop staring at yourself, I'm starving. I promise you haven't grown any hair to admire in the hour we've been driving," he says as he slams the passenger seat door. "Should have known he'd do that when I taught him to drive," he mutters. Not that he can't blame himself, he's done his fair share of admiring himself more times than he'd like to admit.
The door opens before he can even reach it, and Daphne comes flying towards him in a blur of braids and denim. "Uncle Jake!"
"Hey, Peanut," he says, returning her enthusiastic hug. "Change your hair?"
She has—she's opted for a single, messy fishtail braid in lieu of her two side braids. "Yeah," she says. "Where've you guys been?"
Jake makes a zipped lips motion and grins. "We're not telling anything unless it's over a big ol' pizza," he teases.
"What's all the—Uncle Jake!" Sabrina hugs him too, and it's a wonderful, familiar feeling, one she's missed too much in the months he's been absent.
"Hey, let's not forget the real star of the show," Puck says, winking and clicking his tongue. He's slouching lazily on the hood of the Hudson, one hand making a finger gun at Sabrina and the other smoothing his curly blonde hair. He looks damn good and he knows it; his flannel brings out the green of his eyes and his jeans are tight in all the right places.
"Hey, hotshot," Sabrina laughs, fist bumping him. She doesn't look half bad either, Puck notes. "What brings you back? I'm sure it wasn't just nostalgia for this place."
Puck grins lopsidedly at her, displaying slightly crooked but dazzlingly white teeth. "Maybe I missed you."
She rolls her eyes. "Come on, I'm hungry."
He slides off the Hudson's hood, slightly miffed. "I am so underappreciated sometimes," he mumbles as he messes his curls and straightens the cuffs of his flannel.
"Patience, pal," Jake says, clapping one hand on Puck's shoulder. "Women don't like to be rushed into relationships. Women don't like to be rushed, period."
"I'm not rushing!" he protests.
"Just come in and eat your pizza, Puck."
-o-
"You found a what in where?" Sabrina asks incredulously, a tomato threatening to fall off her slice of margherita pizza.
"Yeah, we found the crystal ball stuck in a chicken egg," Puck laughs through a mouthful of food. "And then—"
"—you dropped the egg and set yourself on fire," Jake says. "Truly befitting behavior for the King of Faerie."
"How do you set yourself on fire with an egg?" Daphne asks.
"That's what we wanted to know too," Jake says. "The yolk is supposed to be a crystal ball, but if the egg breaks on land, then it'll catch fire. It just so happens that I gave the egg to Puck, he sneezed, and dropped the stupid thing on his foot."
Daphne bursts into giggles, laughing so hard, half her pizza toppings fall out of her mouth.
"Well don't blame me," Puck says defensively. "How many flammable eggs have you ever seen in your life?" Jake concedes.
"Oh libeling," Granny chuckles, "it's good to have you both back."
"It's good to be back, Old Lady," Puck says, stealing a glance at Sabrina. His legs tangle with hers under the table, and it's hard for Sabrina to suppress the grin blooming on her lips and the blush on her cheekbones.
"Would you stop," she hisses under her breath, stifling a laugh.
"Never." He winks at her devilishly.
Jake conveniently chokes on his pizza and excuses himself for a drink while Daphne snickers into her napkin and Granny beams. But damn, it's just so obvious to them; whether he's shouting it from the rooftops or just looking at her, he loves her. So, so much.
-o-
That night, not a single breath of wind sighs through the window. Daphne, of course, sleeps right through the stuffiness, but Sabrina has to get up. She jumps the creaky stair (right at the bottom) and pads quietly into the kitchen for a glass of water. She hears the clink of metal and the door leading outside closes, so she follows it.
"Puck?"
He turns around and raises an eyebrow. "Hey." He gestures to the car. "Wanna go for a ride?"
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere. You coming or not?"
She gives it brief thought, considering the fact that she's wearing old shorts and an even older t-shirt with fraying hems, and battered flip flops. "Sure." She climbs into the passenger seat of the car and looks apprehensively at Puck. "Why do you even have a car anyways? You've got wings."
"Jake got it for my birthday," he says absently, turning the key in the ignition. The car softly rumbles to life. "I didn't want to say no, and it's actually kind of fun when I don't want to fly." The tires peel away from the asphalt and the car trundles down the road.
Streetlamps melt into each other, trees and billboards blur into flashes of color before Sabrina's eyes. "Do you do this a lot?"
"Just drive around? Yeah," he answers. "Clears my mind." He parks by the side of the road and pulls the key out, then hops onto the roof of the car. Sabrina follows suit, stepping on the hood and then climbing onto the roof to sit next to Puck. Fireflies float in the trees above, and scraps of cloud obscure the half moon.
He fidgets. "It's hot."
"Yeah." She crosses her legs, uncrosses them.
"You wanna get ice cream? Nobody's gonna be happy if I drag you back home with a case of heatstroke," Puck teases.
"It's 11:47 at night."
"So?"
"So, where are you going to find an ice cream shop open this late? Come to think of it, where are we, exactly?"
"Somewhere by Poughkeepsie, I think."
"You think?"
"Well, there's only one way to find out." He grins and his wings emerge from his back. "Be right back."
Before she can utter so much as a sound of protest, he's off and left her stranded with the car—and he's got the keys. "How did I end up here?" she mutters, swinging her legs. "Why'd I want to go for a drive with some stupid boy in the middle of the night?"
"A stupid boy who brings you ice cream," Puck sings, sitting down next to her and offering her a vanilla cone.
She raises an eyebrow, about to ask where he found ice cream in the middle of nowhere at 11:50, and the cold treat smashes into her nose. "Hey!" Puck laughs so hard he almost falls off the roof of the car, and Sabrina retaliates by pushing his face into his own ice cream.
"Okay, okay," he laughs, wiping chocolate off the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. Not really," he adds in an undertone.
They sit on the top of the car, swinging their legs and licking ice cream. "So," Sabrina finally says, "why'd you come back so early? Uncle Jake said you wouldn't be back until maybe late October."
He shrugs. "Jake wanted to come home early to see you guys, I guess."
"Oh." And then, "I missed you."
"Who wouldn't?" He smirks, his mouth making that stupid lopsided grin again. She rolls her eyes and turns away from him, slightly embarrassed. Stupid!
"Hey," he says, after a few minutes, "I missed you too."
She laughs, and her head dips a little. The half-lit moon illuminates her hair and a spray of pale freckles that Puck's never noticed before. "Yeah." Her head leans against Puck's shoulder, both their ice creams all but forgotten. "'m glad you're back," she murmurs into his shoulder.
"I know." Her chin tucks snugly into the gentle curve of his collarbone, and her head fits just so his nose is buried in her heavy, fragrant hair.
Presently, she lifts her head from his shoulder. Her hair is disheveled and a patch of pink burns on her cheek where the fabric of his shirt has pressed into it. "Puck?"
"Yeah?"
Her hands grab the sides of his face and she kisses him—a real, long kiss that leaves a cocktail of adrenaline and oxytocin flooding his veins. And he's kissing her back (admittedly not very gently), letting every wordless promise he's ever wanted to make sear her lips. They exchange a million thoughts, a million memories now preserved within that one dreamy midsummer night.
She pulls away from him with the tiniest of gasps. "Puck—I—"
"Shh." He puts a finger to her swollen pink lips. "I know. Me too." And in the next moments, he can't think; everything is one warm haze of pink and gold and silky hair and smooth skin, each element indiscernible from the other.
In her drowsy, slightly breathless voice, Sabrina manages to murmur, "Puck?"
"Mmm."
"Uncle Jake and Granny aren't going to be happy when they find out we're gone."
He grins. "Well," he says, pressing another long, slow kiss to the base of her jaw, "that's too bad, isn't it?"
[finis]
so, this story accomplishes about five things at once. it's my early birthday gift to OakeX (your birthday letter is below), a writing exercise, my proof to OakeX that i am NOT in fact a prude, my entry for #sgvdayweek, and a 'congratulations on surviving part one of your track meet' reward for my truffle fry, aka IsiGrace. oh yes, and a response to the rude anon who posted a pointless review saying 'why don't YOU write one?' on the #sgvdayweek notice. so yes honey, i DID write one. why don't you take your own advice and write one too instead of cowering behind a guest review trying to imply that i do not have the ability to write an entry?
anyway.
this story is dedicated with many, many special thanks to OakeX, who's stuck with me since the very beginning of my adventures in writing. thank you for faithfully reviewing every single chapter of my work, for betareading some truly horrifying crap, for validating me, and most importantly, for being one of the most wonderful people i've ever had the fortune to meet (or become acquainted with, considering we live 16 hours apart from each other). thank you for telling me to ignore all the rude anonymous reviews i've ever received, for providing a source of crude humor, and frankly, for educating me on the endlessly peculiar habits of the male race. this one's for you. i hope you enjoy it. have a great sixteenth, man.
(go wish the dude a happy birthday if you haven't already, he's great [when he isn't off murdering poor souls] deserves endless praise for his writing)
reviews are read more eagerly than darth jar jar theories