So basically, this is a oneshot I wrote after reading 'so take my tears as tokens' by fluggerbutter, and it was so good that I felt like I had to try and write something which was at least half as good to try and bolster my self esteem. I hope you like this, thanks for reading.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sisters Grimm.
She can feel it in her, constantly.
The constant roil of desire, of want, of complete and utter longing for something which she knows she cannot have.
She cannot have it because if she touches it, she'll never let go. Her fingers will hold on, turn to rock around them, and she'll be like a statue, forever frozen with that thing in her hands.
But her heart, it burns so much, like a ball of fire is sitting in her chest right now, like its pulsing waves of heat through her this very minute. She tears her eyes away, and then a split second later refocuses them, and then she pulls away, and then back again.
A vicious cycle, a dog that finally bites its tail but refuses to let go despite how much it hurts.
At last she shudders, closes the door behind her as she leaves, the room with the golden fairy wand inside.
...
Every time his fingers twitch towards his belt, she stiffens.
It is a stiffening of pleasure and fear, the ethereal transcendence of the spirit combined with the rigor mortis of the body. Because she knows that she will see it, again, see it in action, and despite herself a tortured grin appears on her face.
He pulls out his flute, plays it and the pixies come, and its all she can do to prevent herself from snatching the thing out of his hands. Because she wants it, so so bad. Its an instrument of pure magic, a magical object that can control magical creatures, and her toes twitch agitatedly.
She fights it, in every waking moment, torn between her desire for his trust, or his weapon. During the day she hides it under a bluster of indifference, at night she tosses in her sleep as sweat breaks out over her forehead.
It snarls within her, just below the skin, this monster, this beast, this wolf of envy which thrashes on the ground of her soul. It claws at her defenses, tears at it with chipped talons, and with every pulled-back-paw some part of her rips away, and she screams.
Finally, she can't take it. In the dead of the night the owl whistles and she opens her eyes, clear blue and muddled.
...
All it took was one stunning curse and a quick rifling of his clothes.
She bounds back to her room, almost skipping in glee, and the cutting rush of guilt is quickly suppressed. She sits on her bed, blond hair hanging down in matted locks, holding it, just holding it.
The surge of magic radiates within her, thrumming from her rejoicing heart, which aches so much.
It is intoxicating.
She can feel her world turn upside down, then right side up, then inside out, then back again. She can feel the earth in motion, its steady revolution, its constant spinning, as she holds it she can feel the world around her.
When she can bear the suspense no longer, she lifts the flute to her lips and plays. Pixies come.
Instantly, they attack (she smells of demon!, they think), but the ecstasy that she feels numbs their sting. She plays more notes, haphazard, random, and smiles at the clear high notes they produce.
Her eyes are open, but they do not see. If they did, she would have realised that with every note she played, the bites which she could barely feel were subsiding in number. If she had looked, she would have realised that the small glittering lights were growing smaller, dimmer even, and a sound like radio static was filling the air. Almost like tiny screams.
But she didn't, and so for just one brief moment she is provided a reprieve, an instant of clarity, and in it her soul she celebrates.
Then daybreak comes, the sun rises from the horizon, and the curse breaks.
He flies into her room, furious with lightning eyes, breaking down the door and tearing it out of her fingers. He looks around, and when he sees the small small lights (and the two shadows that lie unmoving on the floor), gives a small cry of horror. The fire in his eyes surges, white-hot inferno, and if his glare was heat it would have melted steel. Bending down, he gently scoops the pixies into his hands and leaves. in Not one word is spoken, no threatening gestures or heated questions are made. His silence, and his fearsome glare, says all that needs to be said.
As soon as he leaves, then the euphoria begins to wear out. Her senses trickle back, like an eddying stream, burbling quietly over smooth, slick rocks. And then the walls break, the dam crashes, and the torrent crashes into her, and she is thrown bodily to the side.
She can feel it now, the pain of the real world, the fatigue and the burning muscles and the guilt. The guilt, it hurts, hurts so much, tosses her like a rag doll across the room, like some pathetic, weak rag doll. Like paper she is torn to pieces, she feels herself tearing up, she can feel it branching out into every crevice of her body, every nerve and cell and hair.
What she feels now is the opposite side of the coin, the dark marred inverse to the feeling of magic she experienced only moments before, something twisted and demonic inside her. Finally she can think no more, her mind cannot take the strain, and she hunches down, crying, as she finally falls asleep.
...
The others forgive her, eventually. Daphne, ever so compassionate, Jake, sympathetic and understanding of her condition, all of them accept her and what she's done.
But that doesn't matter, not really, because he doesn't.
Because the fairy boy no longer talks to her, no longer acknowledges her existence, he is still seething inside, and she is still crying. She is appalled at her weakness, at her inability to move on, she bares her teeth at her reflection, but then she she relives what happened, and the tears come again.
...
At last, the pixies heal. He raises the flute to his mouth, and a high sweet melody enchants his slumbering friends. The cuts on their miniscule bodies heal; the organs, which are so small, gain strength; the lights flicker, and then, illuminate. He smiles.
Then he turns to the pair behind him. Their lights are weak, barely visible even in the deep midnight darkness, but present, thanks to his caring ministrations. They flicker, and begin to grow weaker. He looks sadly at the two, mouths Sorry, and begins to play.
Crack! The notes are sharp, jagged, like knives of sound, that fluctuate between high and low pitches in horrifying contrast. Bones reset into place, fractures grow over and heal, jolts of electricity breathe life into the hearts of the dying, and the terrible sound that comes from his instrument is undercut by their screams. Their screams, only just audible over the sound of the song, prick tears into his eyes. They sound like crickets.
At last, he lowers the flute, and the chirp of crickets meld with the still air. Silence reigns. He smiles, as their spasms end, as the beads of sweat on their foreheads cool, and they fall into quiet sleep.
They'll be okay, he thinks.
...
He stares at himself in the mirror, at what he's become, at what monstrosity has come crawling out of its hole.
His anger, it has warped him, changed him into something he's not, or wasn't. Now his eyes, they burn only with hatred, barely concealed hatred; his hands, white-knuckled, they clench and unclench then clench again; his legs, their muscles remain strained, tensed, hard and sharp like glass.
He spies a picture of her hanging by the frame and he pulls back his fist, but when he makes contact the mirror doesn't even shudder; the flimsy Blu-Tac keeps its hold.
He falls to the ground, because he knows the anger has faded away long ago. What he's feeling now, it is not anger, it is not hate.
It is hurt, and regret, and deep deep longing.
He loved her, no, loves her, so much, he can feel it so badly inside him. He wants her, he wants to hold her in his arms, kiss her cheeks and lips and neck and tell her that he loves her over and over again. He aches for her, pines for her, pines for her laugh and her scent and her touch.
But he cannot touch her. He cannot because she hurt him. She bruised him, broke him, took his trust in her and cast aside into murky waters, held it under til it drowned. He thought better of her, he knew better of her, he thought that she would be there for him, no matter what happened.
Every waking second he is consumed by love and hurt, every sleeping minute he is in the grip of fretful dreams.
He wishes he could despise her, that would make everything easier. But when he flips the coin and wishes for heads, it comes up tails.
...
...
Every moment she looks at him is a moment which she stole, every spurt of pleasure she derives when they brush hands accidentally in the hallway is a spurt which she stole.
It is impossible for her now to not steal from him.
Whenever his eyes pass over her, whenever his shoulders tense at her voice, whenever he cleans her plate after dinner, it is some fraction of his immortal life which she stole from him.
He never talks to her, everything he does he does by himself, and when he needs her help he shrugs and makes do with others. He ignores everything she says, every apologetic word and tearful sob, every desperate plea and halfhearted ice breaker, ignores them all with ruthless disregard.
Every time it breaks her, every time it feels like she's never felt this kind of pain before. Because in her pain she has lost the gift of memory, the ability to become used to something. Because in her pain she now only feels, and every feeling is one that tears her apart.
The transition of time is no longer smooth for her, it is jagged and broken. Every second now is a splinter of glass, arcing across her face, cutting her cheeks and lips and neck, and she bleeds freely from her wounds. But still, he ignores the blood, ignores her cries of pain.
He loves her too much, she loves him so much, it is in this love that she tries, it is in this love he ignores.
...
One act of redemption.
That's all it would take.
One act which proves to him that she loves him, that she's over her addiction, that she would do whatever it takes if he would just speak to her. If she could just hear his voice directed to her for one last time, a command, a threat, an insult, anything that would prove to her that he at least acknowledges her existence. She just wants it to be like how it was before, when he spoke to her in tones of teasing, even love on rare occasions, soothing words of comfort (very few of them though) or light-hearted jibes which made her smile, or groan, or simply roll her eyes.
Because she always believed there was something magical about his voice. The voice is the mouthpiece of the soul, and his soul is so laced with magic, magic and love and burning burning passion that whenever he opens his mouth to speak it's as if he's releasing a small part of himself into the world. She would savour every word he spoke to her, if she had the chance, breathe in every syllable, every letter and word and phrase, until she had something of his inside her.
His voice, it reassures her, told her that he was coming, or that she was coming for him, and every time he speaks now it sends shivers, of love or fear, down her spine.
As it happens.
"Just get the hell out of here, Grimm," he groans "go find someone to help."
Three hundred metres, that's all that separates them, three hundred metres of dragon cave rock. But it's three hundred metres of heaped gold, enchanted gold, and magic swords and armour. The magic is thick in the air, so thick even he's uncomfortable, so thick she could cut it with a knife and eat it, and oh how badly she wants to. She's going crazy in there, she sees everything so clearly that they become confused and distracting, and every second she's in there a kaleidoscope of colours crash into her, and bile rises in her throat.
"I'm not leaving you here, Puck."
"I'll be," he coughs harshly, and moans again "fine. Go find someone."
But they both know that he's on his last legs, that if she leaves now it'll be too late; when she comes back he'll be... dead.
"Just... don't move. I'm coming to get you." she says hesitantly.
"Are you crazy? I can feel the magic in here! If you come any closer... you'll die." He speaks the last part in hushed tones, though whether it is from fatigue or concern is unknown. Maybe both.
"Well, if I don't, you will instead. Just stay still." She steps into the cave.
"Grimm!" he shouts desperately. "Don't you dare! Grimm! Sabrina!"
She ignores him, taking tentative steps in, and as soon as she's inside the boundaries she almost throws up. At the entrance she could barely stand but here, here it's something completely other.
Waves of nausea crash over her, she resists the urge to keel over and just lie there, and she moves forward, albeit slowly. Every step she takes is like a step through hell, but the fire is replaced by sinful longing, and the devil with torturous magic.
It pervades her every pore, replaces her internal organs with ones that don't function properly. She can barely breathe in there, the air clogs in her lungs and throat, her fingers and toes and legs and arms tremble, as if her body can't decide where to be at once. It's bittersweet poison this cave, poison which is spreading through her veins right now, and the only thing keeping her up is the young man lying in front of her,
only two hundred metres now,
hissing every time he moves.
She accidentally snags on a hanging pendant and the poison surges tenfold, she holds her head in her hands as fireworks explode beneath her eyelids.
She can feel the heat of the stars now, the slow orbit of planets, the cold desolate emptiness of space, she has stepped out of her earthly realm into the cosmos. Comets, meteorites, asteroids, and moons are all within her field of vision now, and they are so alien to her, so foreign and different, that she is struck with constricting terror, like a snake curling ever tighter around her chest.
Then he makes another sound and she opens her eyes. The fireworks die, the planets fade, and she moves forward,
only one hundred metres now.
It is dizzying, the magic is potent, she can feel herself burning from the inside out.
There is a quiet rumble, and she snaps her head up to see a precarious pile of gold fall in front of her, a small heap of coins blocking her way. They clatter and fall, deafeningly loud on cave walls, and the shimmer as they fall is too bright for the mere reflection of light alone. They are magical items, enchanted metal, and the prospect of moving through them sends a horrific buzz through her.
She swallows though, and ploughs forward.
She screams.
Instantly she is assaulted with a thousand senses, thousands and thousands of them, a thousands sights and smells and sounds and tastes. As she moves through, eyes squeezed shut, her heart rate jumps up so high the organ may almost beat out of her chest, the air she breathes comes in thick and fast, her pupils roll madly beneath her eyelids.
The taste of bread, a setting sun, the smell of sweat, a moan of ecstasy, the tremors of an earthquake,
they increase in intensity as she moves further through,
scorching desert lands, the pitiful whine of a dog, the iron taste of blood, her nails holding onto a hard back, the drunken smell of alcohol,
she almost can't take it, she screams again and again,
the cold metal of a gun, the smell of rot, a naked man, the taste of human flesh, the shatter of glass.
Her skull pulses, with plain, with pleasure, with every indescribable feeling that any organism can experience. Colours she's never seen before slash in front of her pupils, sounds no human have ever heard echo around her eardrums.
But then, the clink of gold ceases, her sneakered feet move through air, not metal now.
Finally, though, she is through, finally, though, she is there, and she runs forward, carefully stepping over the dead dragon's tail, picking up a wand by the fallen fairy.
"I'm here, I'm here," she whispers fervently, "don't worry."
He turns to look at her. "How?" he gasps weakly.
"Stop talking and let me work." She raises the wand and passes it over him carefully, green sparks shooting out. Wherever they land, bruises fade, wounds heal, and bones knit together. He sits up now, staring at the girl swaying slightly beside him.
"Thank you-" He starts.
She cuts him off. "Thank me later. Get us out of he-" She collapses into his arms, her senses finally overload, in a dead faint.
"Shit." he curses, and stands up, wincing, as he flies himself and the girl out of that dark, dark cave.
...
Puck arranges her carefully on the couch, propping a cushion beneath her head, watching her tenderly as she sleeps. Every so often she would convulse and he would flinch, placing a cool hand on her forehead, why was it so hot?, but he knows there's nothing he can do and he can only watch helplessly as Veronica and Granny attend to her.
Meanwhile he sits there, arms and legs spread wide as Jake rifles through his pockets for some kind of healing balm and Daphne waves a wand over him, fixing any internal injuries Sabrina may have missed in her frantic healing. By the time he's finished she still hasn't woken, and he fights the rising sense of panic in his stomach as her form spasms suddenly.
Is it just him, or are her cheeks redder than they were a few minutes ago? Is it just him, or do the two women bending over her seem more flustered than they were when he brought her in?
Cool sweat collects on his forehead, turning hot as blood rushes to his face, the blood of adrenaline, the blood of fear. His fingers begin to twitch, his feet tap on the ground, with shaking eyes and clattering teeth he continue to watch her, assessing. Assessing the ragged condition of her clothes, the ice pack which is melting far too quickly on her head, the quiet moans she utters as she spasms yet again.
"Dammit," he curses. "Oh freaking dammit she's dying."
"She's not dying." Veronica says quickly, but there is a slight tremor in her voice.
"She is, she is. I know she is. Oh dammit it's my fault. Oh God this is all my fault." He rocks gently, holding his head in his hands.
Veronica bites her lip. "I said she's not dying."
"Yes she is, of course she is, and there's nothing I can do, oh hell oh hell oh hell..."
"She's not going to die, Puck." But you can see the shadow of fear on Veronica's face, as Puck's increasing hysteria gets to her. "I won't let her."
He doesn't reply.
"My mum's right you know," a new voice says "on both counts."
He turns, his head darting out from its previous position, to see her lying on her side facing him. "I'm not dead, Puck."
"You're alive!" Puck shouts, his heart stopping for an instant as excitement courses through him, and he throws himself to her side, crouching beside her on the couch. "I thought you died." He pulls her into a hug, which proves awkward in his sitting-down position beside her.
He can still feel her skin blisteringly hot (to him, at least) though, and he's reminded of how hurt she is, and the tears return to his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, and presses his face to her shirt "I'm so so sorry..."
He's so caught up in his apologies that he doesn't notice Granny herd everyone out of the room. The door closes behind them, and there is a moment's silence.
"You're an idiot." Sabrina say suddenly. "An absolute freaking idiot."
He stops apologising. "Why?"
"Because you fought a freaking dragon, that's why. And then I had to go in and save your sorry ass."
"What?" There is a sharper edge to his voice now.
"You heard what I said."
He jumps up, annoyed now. "I didn't tell you to! I told you to go away!"
"We both know I couldn't do that!" Her face is flushed now, redness pooling in her face.
"I've gotten myself into something like that hundreds of times!"
"You were an idiot then, too!"
"Well why is this time anything special?"
"Why shouldn't it be?"
"What are you actually trying to say, Sabrina?" His voice is still raised, but his eyes soften slightly. He thinks she's faking.
"I'm sorry!" Sabrina shouts, as her facade breaks, as her kind-of-fake anger cracks.
"For what?"
"For everything! For cursing you, and stealing your flute, and hurting your pixies. I don't know why I did it, it was — it was like I didn't even know what I was doing. It was like I was just watching, and, and — " She chokes on her words, or maybe her sobs, for a second. "I'm so sorry, please please believe me, I just couldn't take it. And then, and then... after that, you hated me. Every time I did something it was like I did it wrong, and I couldn't... It just hurt so much, and I'm sorry, I'm so..." And suddenly she can't talk, and she doesn't know whether its the shock of almost dying, or her relief at being alive, or the fact that he cares, but she finds her throat clenching, her voice breaking off, and she cries.
Puck watches her, watches her as she lapses off and cries, and he bites his bottom lip 'til it turns white. He's silent for a few seconds. He makes up his mind.
Walking over to her, he bends down so his face is level with hers. "Sabrina," he says, "stop it." And then he kisses her, her cheeks her lips her neck, short and sweet and infinite in their number. Warm arms encircle her, pulling her close, and he rests his chin on top of her head.
"Stop apologising," he whispers "I never hated you."
Her shoulders steady for an instant. "What?"
"I never hated you. I was angry, yeah, and disappointed, and if you had killed my pixies I don't think I ever would have talked to you again, but I never hated you. Stop being stupid." He takes a deep breath. "I love you, you know that? I loved you then, and I love you now, and you need to stop saying sorry before I start crying again."
She looks up at him, his tear-stained face mirroring hers, and he cracks a weak smile at her. She smiles back, and he leans down til his forehead knocks with hers, noses touching, lips millimetres apart, she can feel his breath hot on her lips.
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
"I know. Stop saying that." His voice is just as quiet.
"I love you."
He chuckles. "I love you too."
...
They finally kiss, properly, on the roof. They are sitting there alone together, sharing a mug of hot chocolate, and suddenly they're looking at each other and they grin. They move closer, the breath catches in their throats, and then they're kissing, and he's holding her small body in his arms, her scent is there, everywhere, her warm goosebumped arms beneath his fingers. Her hair brushes his shoulder, he nips at her bottom lip, the taste of her is intoxicating. There is a bead of blood on his lips, along with something sweet, apples maybe?, he doesn't know, he doesn't care.
She tangles her fingers in his thick blonde hair, she can smell him, like mud and leaves and rain and magic. Like magic that's making her body shiver, and she can't get enough of it, and there's this strange scent of pine coming off him as well. It's so attractive, and it's so alluring, and it's amazing.
Their eyes are open as their lips connect, and for that moment they are one person. Their eyes stare into each other, blue-green, green-blue, water plants growing along the smooth expanse of the lake, a sprinkle of rain droplets amongst fields of grass.
As they kiss there is a spark, a small bolt of lightning magic, but she does not feel the turning of her stomach, there is no painful shudder through her. Nothing but the surge of bliss, pure and clear, a spark that electrifies her, makes his arms tremble.
It is a spark of love.
It is a spark of magic.
Well, this took a long time to write. It was fun though. Thanks for reading this, and I hope you liked it.