I trudged along the hallways of William Charming Academy, the building that served as the elementary, middle, and high school for every student in Ferryport Landing. It didn't have very many students – or teachers, for that matter. The war was barely over, and Granny Relda wasn't having a good time convincing Prince Charming to let humans back into town. He was still more or less a jerk, even though we'd helped to defeat the Scarlet Hand. ...or, rather, did all the work and let him bathe in the glory. Either way was fine.

Of course, as all reluctant heroines learned after their lives returned to normal, I actually missed all of the fairytale stuff. Solving mysteries? A part of my life. A daily routine. Almost as commonplace as Daphne and Puck competing to see who could shovel in as many sausage-pistachio pancakes into their mouths in under a minute. I might not have necessarily liked it. But I'd accepted it. I'd grown used to it. And I definitely didn't like things changing – I'd lost track of how many times that had happened.

Honestly, it was rather sad, I thought, as I sat down on the stone steps leading to the school. Pathetic. Little more than three years ago I refused to be dragged around by Daphne and Granny or help in their detective work. I was just a bratty child. But still, the opportunity I'd been grasping at for years was tossed right at me, and what did I do? I refused to take it. I kicked it away.

"Withdrawal," Uncle Jake called it, as if mystery-solving anything like magic-using. I was not an addict, thank you very much, as I had informed him. Though sometimes I wondered.

I fiddled with a strand of my hair, noting the cloudy sky. I took a moment to stare at the huge monument of Charming standing in the corner of the intersection ahead, erected right after victory had been announced.

Those first days after the war had been a bit of a daze. Celebrating day and night, discussing plans of reconstruction shortly after the festive mood had died out. Then things started getting odd. Citizens began leaving – really, they looked like refugees fleeing from a war-torn country. (Technically, it was a town. Completely different.) The barrier wasn't there to stop them, so of course they would. Some chose to stay. Not many, though; fewer than half of the Everafters did.

And when the population of the Everafters began to dwindle, so did the crime rates. Obviously, though, but it seemed like everyone who would ever cause trouble left, leaving behind only the peaceful citizens, like the princesses.

So that led to that, and that led to that, and that led to this. A nagging corner of my mind told me that I was trying my hardest to avoid the normal. My parents were released from their spell, and were currently living with us in a new extension of the house. Mom and Dad (who had been knocked out before he could drag the whole family back to New York so that the situation could be explained rationally while he was tied to a chair) cooked, much to Granny's disappointment. Normal food – pancakes with maple syrup, red apples and purple grapes, steak of beef and soup of chicken noodles. I found myself leafing through Granny's journals, hoping to spot a recipe of her alligator-meat-stew or something. No stores were robbed, no personal items were stolen. I caught myself once before I could sneak into the local doughnut store to cause minor havoc. Just so there would be something to do.

I was incredibly pathetic.

At least, I must have looked incredibly pathetic, sitting in front of a school, staring at a statue of a pfft-not-handsome-at-all man, because even the disembodied voice of Puck was telling me, "You know, Grimm, you look incredibly pathetic. You're staring at a statue of Charming."

It took a moment for me to realize that his voice wasn't a figment of my imagination. My head whipped around to face the boy.

"I mean," Blondie continued, "you could be staring at me instead." He shook his head mockingly.

Bickering seemed like a wonderful option. A wonderful option to relieve my stress, a wonderful option to tell the world that, hey, Sabrina Grimm is not so normal after all, if she's still fighting with the gasbag Puck, right? (Or would it be completely normal, since nobody seemed to be able to stand him?)

So I did ("My taste in men isn't that bad."). It wasn't hard, really, arguing. Letting off steam and all. After all, he was the bane of my existence (too high? Fifty percent of the bane of my existence? It sounded about right).

"I'm insulted. Most would consider it an honor to polish my shoes," he replied. A droplet of water landed on his nose. He blinked.

I picked up my backpack and stood up, turning away from him. "The sky's laughing so hard at that, it's crying."

"Lame," he sang. I assumed his wings popped out because three seconds later, he was blocking my way, several inches from the ground. He did a turn mid-air. Show-off.

I pushed my way past him. The expression on his face was priceless: shocked, astounded, bewildered, and other variants of surprised. The thesaurus could be handy sometimes. It was drizzling now, though. I worried how it would be by the time I got home.

From behind me I heard Puck gather himself and yell, "Hey! Don't just walk away like that!"

What did I do?

Yeah.

But as soon as I took my twenty-somethingth step, as though an unseen deity had decided to play trickster, the light drizzle turned into a full-blown storm. Crap. In seconds I was soaked. Soaked, mainly because like an idiot I just stood there for a second. Or two, or three.

Then I was in midair, arms carrying me by the stomach in a strange Heimlich-maneuver way. I smelled gasbag – oh god – and immediately began thrashing around. The beautiful scent of burritos and salsa was not nearly as beautiful when mixed with a teenage boy, and as a matter of fact was near torture in close proximity.

"Mmf – "we dropped four feet. I screamed. "Don't struggle so much. You weigh a ton." Deciding that the effects of long-term exposure to Puck's body odor or any cruel prank he might pull would be greatly outshadowed by actually dying – or, at the very least, a broken ankle – I stopped moving. We slowly eased down under the shelter of the school roof.

"Now wait here," Puck said.

"Wait! Don't just leave me here!"

He laughed. "Don't tell me you're getting dependent, Grimm."

That deserved an eyeroll. "No. But you're expecting me to stay, here, while it rains a storm, at school, when I have no way of getting home without catching the worst cold known to mankind. You're expecting me to listen to you."

"C'mon. Just wait." Before I could protest some more, he was gone in the downpour, ostentatious wings and all.

I sighed and stared gloomily at the storm before starting on my Geometry homework.

Turmoil in my mind. How long is this going to take? What is the Law of Syllogism? Given: Angle A is congruent to angle B, and angle B is congruent to angle C...

When is he coming back? Replace angle B with angle C by substitution... Why is math such a bother? Is he coming back?

Oh god, that poor tree looks like it's going to be ripped out...

Puck was actually being pretty nice back then –

er, no. Give an example of the Law of Detachment.

I was on question 42 when a loud honk disturbed me. I stepped outside, taking care to avoid raindrops, and found Puck at the wheel of an oddly familiar car.

He exited the vehicle and swooped up to the front of the school. He was drenched, his shaggy hair sopping wet. "Sorry I'm late, Operation Grand Theft Auto didn't work out as well as I thought it would."

"What's Operation Grand... oh, God. You stole Uncle Jake's car."

He nodded. "I'd call it 'borrowing for the day'. But yeah. I flew over and swiped the keys."

"Puck. You stole. Uncle Jake's. Brand. New. Car." It took all my willpower to keep my voice steady.

A nonchalant shrug. "Yeah, so?"

"Obviously you don't understand the magnitude of this situation. This car is Uncle Jake's baby. Oh man. We are so dead. And what do you mean, it didn't work out as well as you thought it would?" I paused, briefly contemplating hijacking the car, dragging Puck in with me, and running away to Florida. Or pushing the car off a ditch. Yeah, I could do that. Convince Uncle Jake that the car was all a dream.

Then I spotted The Scratch.

It was long; I'd say about the size of a large baguette. It was ugly, like a gaping wound created by someone who didn't appreciate concepts like "respecting other people's property". It was a big, attention-grabbing deformation upon the glossy surface of the car. And it had definitely not been there when I left for school this morning.

"Yeah," said Puck, as I gaped at The Scratch — wait, let me amend that statement. It should read The Scratch Responsible For My Untimely Demise. "That's what I meant by 'didn't work out'."

I guessed that my glare burning with the fire of a thousand scorned lovers was sufficiently scaring him, because he gave a sheepish grin and backed away several steps before saying, "Well. At least you have a ride home."

I opened my mouth, ready to go into shrieking mother mode. Then I saw the torrent of water practically pouring from the sky. Then I thought of how late it must have been already. Then I looked at Puck, waterlogged and shivering. My shoulders slumped in defeat almost subconsciously. I let out a sigh. "Okay. Fine. We'll deal with the consequences when the time comes."

Puck gave me a satisfied grin. His wings popped out in a spectacular display of color that quickly turned into a blur as he flew towards me and picked me up, gently this time. In a low whisper that tickled my ear, he said, "Don't flail like a fish this time. You're really heavy."

I didn't really have anything to say to that for a wide range of reasons. One, I was afraid he'd drop me if I said anything too scathing, and this kid's skin was pretty thin. Two, his arms were wrapped around me and dumb hormones were acting out. Because Puck was apparently a great specimen of the male variety or something. Three, that whisper was actually extremely — okay, no more reasons.

Basically Puck flew me to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. I hadn't gotten too wet, thanks to the magical shielding powers of my jacket and Puck's general fastness when confronted by things he disliked (in this case, getting clean via Mother Nature). On the flip side, Puck was absolutely drenched, and I cringed as he took his — Uncle Jake's — seat, covering it in water and what I suspected were flecks of grime.

Well. I supposed it could have been worse. At least Puck hadn't blown up the car. And at least I didn't have to walk home. But… there was a speck of doubt at the back of my mind. I cleared my throat.

"What?"

"Uh. Just one more question."

"What?"

"Do you even know how to drive?"

Puck snorted. "Of course I do. How do you think I got here? By willing the car into motion? I'm four thousand years old, Grimm. Don't you think I would have picked up the skill at some point?"

That was pretty believable, but I still wasn't ready to entrust my delicate life to Puck's grubby hands. "Well, if you're Mr. Hotshot, what's up with that scratch?" I held up a finger as Puck began a retort. "Oh, no, wait. Don't tell me. You got that from observing the traffic laws too hard."

He sighed. "Okay, look, can we just go? I'll… I'll show you my rad skills!"

"The nineties called; they want their slang back."

Puck grit his teeth, stabbing the key into the ignition. "More like the nineties wants their stupid joke back." The car roared to life. I stared at Puck expectantly.

He fumbled with the gears for a good while, but as he pulled out of the parking lot, I actually thought he had been telling the truth.

I could be such an idiot sometimes, though. As soon as he swerved onto the street it all went downhill. The speedometer showed that we were clocking in at the crazy dangerous speed of… five miles an hour. "Man, I was hoping we could get home before tomorrow," I said.

"It's… really hard to drive… when the windshield is being flooded… I'm… only concerned about your safety…"

"You? Concerned? My safety?"

With a scowl, he slammed on the gas, eyes still boring holes at the blurry street before him. I'd never seen the needle jump up that fast. "Fine… if you insist… I'll demonstrate… my insane driving skills…"

He swerved past stop signs and traffic lights, making jerky turns and curves. I clutched the sides of my seat. This was worse than Granny. "I'm pretty sure this is just insane driving!" I shouted desperately. If this had been before the end of the war, he would have totaled the car long ago. Although I was pretty sure he could still do it, there being lovely things like trees and buildings and abandoned hot dog stands and whatnot. I had to do something fast.

"Puck, stop!" I yelled. He was either ignoring me or had been deafened by the force of his own driving. "Stop!" He wasn't listening. He seemed to be in a catatonic state of terror.

"Aaaaaah! What do I do?" screamed Puck. Up ahead, I could see a dark, blurry object getting closer.

"You're going to kill both of us!" I said, deciding to take the matter into my own hands. Literally.

I leaned over and grabbed the steering wheel. In a normal situation this would make me the dumbest person on Earth, but unfortunately what little remained of Puck's common sense and rational thought had been drained away with the rain or something, and I was certain that my crappy sideways driving would be infinitely better than Puck's.

And. Lo and behold. I made a sharp turn, saving us (and the precious, precious car) from the tree that we would have crashed into had I left it to Puck. The car slowed down as Puck slammed on the brakes. Finally. He had broken free from his petrified state.

I had been so focused on this "survival" thing that only when the car had halted to a stop — next to a mailbox, another obstacle gasbag could have demolished the car with — did I notice the extremely awkward position we were in. Part of my torso was leaning over Puck's lap, hands resting over the steering wheel and very close to touching his. I froze on the spot.

"Um."

"Um."

Puck cleared his throat. My face was also uncomfortably close to his. Prime kissing position, you know? Not that I was. Thinking of that.

I could count his eyelashes from this distance.

I could probably count all his zits, too, but maybe not because he had so many. Ha-ha. That was funny. Zing!

I could have probably just leaned in just this much and. Yeah.

I blinked. In an effort to save the situation, I forced a smile and said, "Hey." Nervous chuckle. "I saved your life. You're welcome." I started to lean away, to return to the safe, beautiful passenger seat, away from all these teenage girl thoughts —

but Puck moved his hand, ever so slightly, until it was resting on top of mine. He gave a little squeeze. I stared at him. Bit my lip. He had, like, seventy six eyelashes on his lower eyelid. His eyes were really blue. In the absolute silence of the car, I could hear him, breathing slowly.

"This is dumb. You're dumb," said Puck, a murmur, eyes focused on me.

"You're right. This is stupid," I replied, but I stayed put.

"Finally. Something we agree on."

And then I kissed him, because hey. Pent up sexual frustration.

He froze. I panicked (oh my god what am I doing he doesn't even like me god I'm going crazy what if he thinks I'm creepy oh man his ego is going to blow up so much after this I can't wait to hear all the obnoxious things he'll say now wait isn't this scenario supposed to be the other way around oh no why am I doing this I don't even like…), but then he responded back. Enthusiastically. Which was great.

His lips were chapped. He tasted like (whoop-dee-doo) salsa and burritos mixed with teenage boy. Which wasn't too bad. His hands were calloused, but gentle as he entwined his fingers in my hair, and he pulled me close; he felt soft and sweet like someone who flew through a storm to get me a car so I could go home without catching a cold. Warm. And with the rain drumming on the roof of the car like a quiet song, it was pretty romantic. A teenage girl's dream. Not bad at all, even if his clothes were wet and he was an immature four-thousand-year-old.

I pulled away first, when the discomfort of performing all sorts of acrobatics just to make out with some fairy boy overcame the fun and novelty of making out with some fairy boy. "Hey," Puck protested, but I just smoothed out my jacket and sat down. Aah. The wonders of back support.

And. Well. Whoa.

"So. Um. What now?" asked Puck.

I wanted to ask the same thing, and maybe debate it for a short while, and maybe suggest moving to the backseat where there was more space, but it was getting really, really late. So I just shrugged. "We can start by switching seats."

Confusion appeared on his face, followed by disbelief. "Oh, come on, Grimm! I'm a freaking great driver!"

"Who's the one who heroically rescued the car and saved your life?"

There was a pause. I coughed very pointedly. There was a longer pause. Puck shrunk into his seat. With a scowl on his face, he mumbled, "You did."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you. Can we get it louder this time?"

"You did."

"Louder."

"You did! You did! Fine! I'll switch seats!"

I grinned. "Are you going to shield me from the rain with your magical pink wings again, fairy boy?"

"I don't care if you drown outside," he grumbled.

I was too giddy over the recent turn of events to mind that comment too much, and the rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, anyway. But as I turned to open the door, Puck poked me in the arm with something hard. It was an umbrella.

"Wait. If you had an umbrella…"

Puck grumbled some more under his breath. My grin kept getting wider.

I opened the car window and practically skipped all the way to the driver's seat, passing the umbrella to Puck like a baton of passenger-seat-dom. Puck was still pouting as I buckled my seatbelt and got ready for a nice session of safe driving.

"You're going to pay for the car repairs, you know," I said pleasantly as we got onto Main Street.

"What? No. It's not like I would have needed to steal the car if you hadn't been staring at Charming's stone-sculpted butt for who-knows-how-long!"

"I'm going to tell everyone you know that the great and mighty Puck is a shitty driver. Oh, imagine! The laughter as people hear of you, screaming 'aaaaaaaah' because you forgot about the invention of the brakes — "

"Sabrina."

" — and when you're not trying to cause an explosion, you're driving so slow that I could outrun you — "

"Sabrina."

" — your slang vocabulary is so limited, God, where did you pick up 'rad' — "

"Sabrina."

" — oh. You said my name."

I could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Just shut up and drive." And maybe normal wouldn't be quite as bad as I had thought it would be. Not when there were makeouts and maybe driving lessons to be had.

a/n: finally revised! enjoy shut up and drive version 2.0, aka the fic with six hundred and thirty seven words of sabrina angsting over food and exposition. god, it's like a giant weight has been lifted from my shoulders. i didn't expect to enjoy rewriting this as much as i did, though! sg fandom's really the first one i've ever been in so i got a huge nostalgia rush from doing this. also, you have no idea how many car terms i had to google to write that tiny paragraph of Puck Being Dumb With A Car. i'm so automobile-illiterate it's ridiculous. /sighs.