Aaaaand I'm back! I'm pretty proud of myself for managing to whip out a chapter a week so far. Or at least close to every week. I'm the biggest procrastinator on the face of the planet so I was not expecting my updates to even resemble the word 'consistent.'

Ok, chapter three here we go. And TQOS, I also love Deadpool, and while he wasn't a direct inspiration for this, looking at what I've written so far Puck does remind me of him. I didn't even realize that until now! Even their suits sound the same.

Dude, my mind is so obsessed with Deadpool that it made me subconsciously create a character just like him without me even knowing…

Weird.


Ch.3: Boogly's Beautiful Bar

Things I learned from the motorcycle ride:

Never open your mouth while on a motorcycle, unless you want to eat every bug known to mankind.

Never go motorcycling in the winter because ice and wind will freeze not only your face, but your entire body.

Don't think you're good enough to ride without holding onto the person in front of you- you're not.

If you do not follow the statement above, you will fall into an agonizingly cold pile of snow and ice.

And so by the time the motorcycle stopped, I was freezing, coated in snow, my mouth tasted horrible, and my hair had never been knottier. Plus my back hurt from falling off. A lot.

"I wish you could've seen yourself fall. It was awesome. One second you were there and then the next you weren't. And then you were lying there all pathetically in the snow. Like I said, awesome," Puck laughed as he slowed down a bit, pulling to a stop.

"Do you even know how to drive?" I spat out once the engine turned off and I had lowered myself slowly and carefully onto the ground, ignoring his reenactment of my fall.

"Pssh, what would you call what I just did?" Puck replied, looking like he was as warm as a blanket in his stupid skintight suit even though there's no way he wasn't freezing to death.

"I call that suicide."

"Well maybe you should look up the word suicide instead of mistaking my awesome motorcycle skills for it."

"Yeah, ok," I muttered, attention focusing on the car as soon as I saw it.

"There," I said breathlessly. I had told the police to leave the evidence until I got it all figured out, and they had willingly agreed, not wanting to deal with towing a car anywhere through the snow. I ran forward, albeit pretty awkwardly in the heavy snow, and stopped beside the car. My car.

Just looking at it brought back painfully happy memories. Me and Mom's trips to the store which always ended with ice cream. Daphne and Basil singing off-key Adele from the backseat. Dad giving me the 'proper dating' talk in the front seat. Elvis barfing up sausages on the cushions. Granny Relda not knowing how to work the air conditioner. Now it was just a reminder of how all of that was missing. Maybe permanently.

"What an ugly car," Puck said, snapping me out of my reverie.

"It's not ugly, it's cozy," I responded defensively, still staring at it.

"No, it's ugly. Just like that duckling. Now, hush hush as I do my inspect-y thing," he said sternly.

I stood back, giving him room, not sure what was going on. He tapped the car's window twice, opened up the door with some piece of metal in one of those pouches, did a bit of scuffling around inside of the car, climbed on top of it, listened to the roof (literally pressed his ear to it and just sat there listening), and then brushed the snow off the windshield.

There it was, the bright red handprint, a vivid contrast from the pale snow surrounding it. It seemed to burn through the ice, a sign of all of the turmoil that my family had been put through.

Puck looked at it suspiciously, pulling up his mask enough to reveal his mouth, and licked it. "Not blood," he confirmed.

He licked it again, and I almost thought he was just joking with me. But he sounded dead serious, so I let him continue.

"Paint," he said after a while, licking it one last time.

"Everafter paint."

"Everafter paint?" I asked, clueless.

"Everafter paint. It's a special mix that will never rub off once it's applied. Whoever did this wanted this sign to be seen, wanted it to be remembered."

He trailed off thoughtfully, and now that he wasn't talking about killing or being completely irritating, I was actually paying rapt attention to what he was saying.

"What's that mean?"

"It means that whoever did this was an Everafter, with something against your family or specifically your parents, and whoever it was thought that red handprint would mean something to you."

Without warning he took off his mask, tossing it onto the hood, green eyes ablaze against his skin, which had turned pale in the cold besides the flush of his cheeks.

"Tell me, Sarah, what's your last name."

"Sabrina," I corrected, trying to keep the conversation light, not wanting him to find out.

"Sarah Sabrina? What kind of name is that?"

"Sabrina is my first name," I said.

"Oh. Sorry. Old noggin decided to take a nap," he said with a weird grin, tapping his skull. Then his eyes were fixed on me again, and I tried not to squirm under the gaze. "So, if Sabrina's your first name then what's your last one?"

"Why does it matter?" I said, trying to draw the attention away from me, stall while I could so I had time to think of a plan.

"Because I said it does," he hissed, and suddenly joking Puck was gone, and here was serious Puck, scary Puck, the one that sent shivers up my spine. He took a gun out of one of his pouches and let it hang by his side, a visible threat.

I gulped. There was no way out of it. He'd know if I was lying, and even if he didn't, when he found out he would no doubt kill me on spot. So I took a deep breath and decided to face the situation head on.

"Grimm. Sabrina Grimm."

There was no reaction at first, then he pulled the gun in one swift motion up to my face. I felt my entire body freeze, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

"Are you lying to me?" he asked, tone dangerous.

I shook my head.

The moment lasted for a second longer, and then the gun was stuck back in his hilt and his face broke into a smile and he was looking positively joyous.

"Why didn't you just say so? Would've made this whole thing a lot easier!"

I was confused, so instead of answering I just said, "What?"

"You're a Grimm. Tons of Everafters hate you! There's a whole rebellion against you for poop's sake! This makes my job a lot, lot simpler."

"Explain."

He was too excited to get annoyed that I was ordering him around. "You see, I'm what they call a mercenary. I work for hire. I don't care what my job is or who I'm hurting, as long as I get the money and do what I want with the money and no one touches my client. So, naturally, I've had a lot of Grimm haters hire me over the years. As a matter of fact, I'm there assassin of choice when they need to get someone taken care of. All I need to do is go to my little buddies and ask about this red hand and they'll probably know exactly who it is!"

It made sense, but I wasn't so keen about the 'go around asking evil Everafters about red hands' part.

"Are you sure? What if someone knows we're asking for reasons against them? What if they, I don't know, kill us?"

"First of all, don't use the term us. Signifies a team. We are not a team. Second of all, no one can kill me. No one. Third of all, you're kinda doing the fun stomping thing again."

"Oh I'm sorry, should I just let us waltz in and demand to know where my parents are, because that won't be suspicious at all?" I snapped back.

"No, you shouldn't talk to me in that tone and you should trust me! Besides, if you're going to stomp on people's fun, at least get bigger feet."

He cracked himself up, pointing to my feet and saying something about 'what a classic' and 'her feet are tiny' before I managed to reel him in again from his insane babbling.

"Trust you? You're a violent maniac who kills for fun! None of those qualities are exactly trustworthy."

He stepped closer to me, voice getting louder. "Don't label me and don't insult me and don't you dare question what I do. I do what I do because I can, and it pays well, and I don't give a donkey's ass about what people think of me. There are two types of people: annoying ones that deserve to die and ones who pay or don't annoy me that deserve to live. Right now, you're getting awfully close to the wrong line."

"Have you ever stopped to think of what line you're on? Whether you deserve to die!"

I knew I'd said too much, but his initial reaction wasn't what I had expected. Something flashed over those emerald eyes, something I almost thought was hurt, and for a second I actually felt bad. And then his face exploded in anger. He took his gun out, aimed it at my head, and I could feel my life flashing before me.

But something overcame him, and he threw the gun down, stomping on it violently, face twisting in unreadable emotions. Then he threw down his swords too, his daggers, ripped off his entire pouch belt and kicked it angrily into the snow. He gave a last shout of fury, of pain, and then stomped into the forest surrounding the road, dropping down to his butt in the snow and leaning against a tree.

My heart was ricocheting off of my ribcage because holy Jesus Christ, I had just broken him. I didn't know what to do, how to react, but some tiny part of me softened a bit. What I had said was harsh. No one, maybe not even him, deserved to hear it. So I methodically began picking up his stuff, brushing it off, the slow movements helping calm me down. I stacked everything on the hood of the car, next to his mask, and sat there for a bit, hoping he'd come out.

He didn't. So I took the lead.

I approached him slowly, carefully, like one might walk up to a wild animal. That's what he was, wasn't it? He was sitting there, face in his palms, breathing deeply, fingers digging into his cheeks and leaving red marks.

"Deadnight?" I asked cautiously.

He didn't respond.

"Deadnight?" Nothing.

I sighed, and remembering Moth, decided to take the chance. I couldn't make things any worse, could I? A sudden image of my own dead body leaking red into the snow proved that statement wrong, but I went for it anyway.

"Puck?"

His head snapped up, eyebrows furrowed. "How do you know that name?"

I just shrugged, not wanting to throw Moth under the bus and possibly sign her death warrant.

"Listen, Puck, about what I said-"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said flatly.

"Puck," I started.

"No. You kicked my butt with your stupid morals and feelings. Congratulations. But I'll have you know your little sentiments don't apply to me. They did once, but not anymore. Maybe I do deserve to die, maybe some people I kill don't, but do I care? No. So don't make me think that I do."

"Please, just listen-"

"Stop!" he shouted, and I backed up instinctively. He caught the action, and where I expected it to make him grin, he actually frowned a bit.

"I am heartless. I am cruel. Everyone knows it. I know it. And that's not changing." Was he talking to me or to himself?

"Would you just-"

"No. Playtime is over. I have a job to do, and if your meddling emotions get in my way I will have to end you. No refunds. I hate refunds."

He stood up briskly, wiping snow off of his outfit, and started walking back to the road. Well, it seemed I was out of the storm for now. I knew his anger could come back at any time, but for the moment, he was back to his usual state of distanced lunacy.

Only I wasn't back to my usual state of loathing. I kept thinking about the fact that he could've killed me, should've killed me, right there, but didn't. About the sudden flash of anger, throwing all of his weapons to the ground, that was just a defense to what must've been hurt. An actual feeling. And inside of me I felt something hatch, something dangerous yet hopeful, something the rest of me didn't agree with. I still hated him, yes, but it was there- sympathy, and the inkling of a thought that he wasn't lost, that he wasn't passed saving, that he was capable of feelings too.

I wondered if that's how it started for Moth, a little niggling of care that grew into something more.

I refused to think about it though, because this wasn't Sabrina's quest to save a horrible person from wrong, but Sabrina's quest to find her parents. And when I put Puck next to that desire, he meant nothing at all.

And of course, my sympathy didn't last long, because when I walked back to the car Puck was there, clad in all of his gadgets again, holding a dead deer. "Look what I just found!" he said, perfectly resembling two year old who had found a toy. Except it wasn't a toy, it was a bloody sack of animal.

"That is sick and disgusting. Put it back."

"No! We can cook it!"

"Stop."

"Perfect for the Christmas season, a little Rudolph stew!"

"You're horrible."

"That's what they tell me."

"Yeah well, they're right."

He gave me a wicked little grin. "Careful what you say Grimmie. I could get a pretty pile of pennies for your head on a silver platter. And if you keep this up," he pretended to slit his throat with his finger, "I might just have to bring my Grimm-haters a special Christmas delivery."

And there it was, the harsh reminder of exactly why I hated him so much. My sympathy would have fun trying to survive in that whirling pool of contempt and fear.

I must've had some outward reaction too, because he laughed a bit before tossing the deer to the ground. "You're so weak. It's amusing."

"I am not weak! I happen to consider myself pretty tough, for your information," I snapped.

"I'm sure that's what the deer said too."

He giggled at his own joke before throwing the deer to the ground and pulling his mask on. For a moment I wondered how it was so easy for him, to go from a raging mess right back to a cheerful maniac in the course of minutes.

"Climb aboard," he said in imitation of someone talking over a speaker, pulling himself onto the parked motorcycle and patting the spot behind him. "This spot right next to my butt is calling your name Sasha."

"Sabrina," I muttered irritably as I climbed up, grabbing onto him despite wanting to be as far from him as possible.

"Where are we going?" I asked before he could start up the engine.

I could practically see his grin. "Boogly's Bar. To meet a few of my not-so-friendly friends."

"Fantastic," I said under my breath as the engine revved up and we started sailing forward. I tried not to think about the car, one of the only real tokens of evidence, of help, of memories, that was quickly vanishing behind us. Just like my parents had. Just like my hope was.

Turned out Boogly's Bar wasn't too far away. But even a second could feel like a long time with chips of ice slapping your face and the wind shouting in your ears. Puck managed to sing a very twisted and disturbing version of "Wheel's On the Bus" eleven times before we arrived, and thank goodness we did, because I didn't think I could hear about human intestines on the bus going squish squish squish one more time.

The drive brought us into a small, rundown city I'd never seen before. Old wooden and stone buildings coated with snow, people shuffling about with cloaks wrapped around them, a man in the corner yelling something about free firewood.

"Where are we?" I asked as Puck parked the motorcycle, which looked drastically out of place against the dull colors of the city.

"An off the charts Everafter city. For those who didn't want to adapt to human life and are living out here, separated."

He hopped off the motorcycle, clicking his heels in the air, and adding way-too-pleased sounding "They are terrified of me here," to his statement.

"Great," I muttered, following Puck to a small wooden building with a sign that read 'Boogly's Bar.' He opened the door with a flourish, stepping in and letting it slam in my face. I bit my lip in frustration and pulled open the door for myself.

Inside was surprisingly nice. A warm fire cackled in the corner, wooden tables were filled with people eating and talking, and against the wall was a bar counter where a man was cleaning out beer mugs. Everyone looked up for a moment at Puck, who was standing there in all his glory as Deadnight, and I could see the uneasy fear that shone on their faces as they recognized him. They all hastily looked back down at their food, trying to continue conversation without looking too scared.

"You smell that?" Puck whispered.

"No."

"That's the smell of fear."

"And that makes you happy?"

"Sweetheart, I live off of the smell of fear." He walked forward, going immediately to the bar, where he sat down with a humph. At his arrival, the bar man scurried over. "Anything I could do for you Deadnight?"

"For starters, don't look at me. Your face is horrid."

The man just smiled and laughed nervously.

"I wasn't joking," Puck said softly.

The smile vanished and the man looked at the counter instead of Puck.

"Secondly, you could make me one of those zappy drinks that always come with a cherry."

"Zappy?"

"Yeah, it's like a furry temple or something."

"Shirley Temple," I said quietly, and Puck snapped in excitement.

"That's it! Shirley Temple. And lastly, have you seen Thorner lately?"

The man, who was busying himself with making the drink as fast as possible, looked up. "Thorner? Last time I saw him he was bringing some weapons to you-know-who. Told me he'd be back today and stop by to tell me the progress of the operation."

Operation? You know who? What was that all about?

"Got it. Stella, your job is looking for him. I'll be chilaxing here."

"What!" I said indignantly.

Puck grabbed his Shirley Temple from the man, took a sip, and let out a satisfied 'ah.' Then he nodded. "You heard me. Go on, go on," he encouraged.

"I don't even know what he looks like!"

"Oh, you'll know when you see him. He's big and tattoo-y and horrendously hideous, which you should relate to. Now off you go!"

I wanted to slap him. But I didn't. Instead I walked away, ignoring the bartender's anxious glances, and sat down at a table near the door to keep watch. Ten minutes later, no one else had come in, so I ordered some fries and a root beer. And kept watching.

Then I felt the table bend as someone sat down beside me. I looked up to see a boy, probably about seventeen, a year older than I was, sitting there smiling at me.

"Hello beautiful," he said.

I rolled my eyes. "If you're going to flirt, at least don't be use such a cliché pick up line."

He smirked. "Oh, I apologize. What about the old 'did you fall from heaven, because you look like an angel' one?"

"Worse."

He laughed. "Can I buy you something to eat? You downed those fries pretty fast- you must be hungry."

I grinned. "Getting better."

He raised a hand and shouted "Hey waiter!" turning back to me as he waited for someone to arrive.

"So, what brings you here?" he said.

"Business. Nothing fun," I answered.

"Well that's too bad. If you wanted, I could help you find something fun to do," he said with a suggestive grin. I was about ready to tell the guy to beat it because that had gone from pleasant to creepy in less than a minute.

I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, the waiter arrived.

Only it wasn't the waiter. It was Puck, in his Deadnight suit, with an apron tied around his waist.

"You called?"

The boy looked up with a smile, preparing to order me something, but he paled when he saw Puck.

"Uh- what-"

"You want to know our specials for the night? We have burgers, chicken tenders, and a certifiable beating if you don't leave now."

"I didn't, I don't-"

"Or a knife in the stomach, or a gunshot to the head, or a dagger in your heart."

Puck laughed lightly, before he suddenly leaned in. "I think you get the point, but if not, let me clear it up for you. You so much as look at her again, and you die."

The boy made a gurgling noise of fear, eyes big as saucers, before he stood up and left, fast as he could, dashing to the door which swung closed behind him. Puck watched the door for a few moments before untying his apron and tossing it onto the table.

"Success is sweet," he said.

I looked up, angry. "What was that for?"

"He was offending you. No one offends my clients but me."

"I can take care of myself."

"Oh can you now? Is that why you were off flirting with a stranger instead of doing the one job I told you to?"

"I wasn't flirting! I was about to tell him to leave before you stepped in! And besides why do you care? It's not like we're a team," I shot back, using his comment from earlier against him.

"I don't care if you were flirting or not, the point is, you could've missed Thorner entering because you weren't. Paying. Attention."

"I was!"

"You obviously weren't!"

We both stopped when the door opened suddenly, and I whipped my head up instantly. The man who entered was tall, thickly muscled, tattooed, and had a long sword tucked into his belt. Judging by the bad feeling I got in my stomach looking at him, the fear, I had a hunch that I knew who it was.

Thorner.

He turned to me, raising an eyebrow as I continued watching him, for some reason unable to tear my gaze away. "What you staring at girly?"

"I- uh, he's here to see you."

The man looked confused. "Who?"

"Deadnight," I said, nodding to the side of me. Where no one was. I wanted to scream at him for leaving me with the man alone, but suddenly Thorner's calm, intimidating presence dropped, and a look of panic that seemed very out of place on him filled his face.

"Deadnight? Where?"

He backed up, reaching for his sword, but suddenly Puck was there, behind him, and he tapped the man's shoulder.

Thorner made a small noise and whipped around, backing my way this time to get away from Puck.

"Boogedyboo," Puck said, daggers in hand. "Miss me Thorny?"

"What do you want?" Thorner asked nervously, eyes darting to the side, no doubt looking for some sort of escape.

"Really? No hello? No nice to see you? I thought our relationship meant more than that to you," Puck said with a pout.

"Last time I saw you you almost killed me!"

"That's because you sold me out for helping Marcel!"

"Because he was working against our operation!"

Suddenly Puck was inches from the man, the dagger in his right hand pushed right up against Thorner's neck, a small drop of blood trickling down from the blade.

"I am a mercenary," he whispered. "I do what I want for who I want for however much I want. Did you seriously think I would decline an offer like Marcel's?"

"I expected you to show an ounce of loyalty! At least to me! You've helped me countless times before, and I've helped you too!"

"Loyalty? Puh-lease. You almost sound as bad as her," he said, jerking at dagger at me. "Now, how about we take this little talk somewhere else. Somewhere where they won't hear you scream."

Thorner visibly paled and I could envision Puck grinning beneath that mask at the sight.

"Go back to your petty little lives people! None of you will be dying today!" Puck announced suddenly.

Everyone else in the bar, who had been watching the loud exchange tensely, breathed a visible sigh of relief.

"Or will you," Puck added, voice betraying his smirk, and I could see the panic rush back to their faces in a flash. He grabbed Thorner by his coat and dragged the man through a door in the back, and I said a rushed "sorry" to everyone in the bar before chasing after him.


Again, I love you all so much for taking the time to read this story! It's been a butt-load of fun to write.

And I finally cleared up Sabrina's age! Whoop whoop! I had forgotten to the last chapter but now you all know- sixteen! Puck's the same age, or looks the same age at least… you know what I mean.

Thanks to all those reviewers and readers! Love you guys!

-anniepear