A/N: One of my favorite chapters - food, action, bickering and some fluff. Enjoy, and leave a comment if you did!

Following the instructions in his text, I meet Puck at the park a block away from Rhogin's fancy hotel. He is sitting on the ground, leaning against the bowl under a statue of a winged boy spitting water. I am amused at the irony. His hair is misted with spray that he doesn't seem to notice.

"Well?" He says when he sees me.

"Well, what?" I stare down at him as he gazes expectantly up with all the trust of a little boy waiting to be told his plans have been a rousing success.

"Did you wrest it from his eager fingers in exchange for the promise of a kiss?"

"A kiss? You filthy swine. I seem to recall the terms of this mission being something like, 'I won't let him lay a finger on you.' "

"I'm quite sure kissing can be performed quite satisfactorily without fingers."

"And how would you know?"

"Secret." His mouth curves almost imperceptibly, his eyes challenging. He finally rises, not bothering to dust off his clothes. Miraculously, he has managed to have sat in the only spot on the ground not decorated by the birds.

"So, where's the potion?"

"Elixir," I correct tiredly. "And I don't have it. Rhogin didn't bring it with him."

"Oh, so we're on first-name basis now."

"Yes, we are, Puck. Because calling him 'Your Royal Constipatedness' wouldn't have added much to the romantic mood! Which, if I remember, you told me to create!"

Puck is silent for a nanosecond. Then he inhales.

"You fell for him."

"What?"

"Oh. My. Word. You actually fell for him." His face is a picture - and the colors are smeared from wicked delight to simmering anger.

"I did not! He. . . I . . . there's a captain of the . . . there's only enough . . ." I start babbling facts to distract from emotion.

Puck interrupts, his hand suddenly on my chin.

"You've been crying." He is wary. "Did something happen? What did he do to you?! Did he touch you?!"

"No! Nothing! I broke down and was a basket case, okay?"

"Did. He. Touch. You?" Puck's words whistle through clenched teeth.

'Not in that way, idiot! He held me while I was crying! It was a kind thing to do!"

"You let him touch you. Argh." My face is suddenly free from his fingers as he runs them through his hair. "And you fell for him. I should've warned you. Why didn't I warn you? Ergghh!"

"What is going on? Puck, you'd better start talking or I'm going to punch you. Hard. Right now. Right here. On every single part of you that I can reach."

Puck spins, his back to me. When he speaks, his voice is almost bored.

"Goblins. They manipulate everyone, right? All they need to do is touch you in . . . in . . . well, like when you're vulnerable or when your defences are down or crud like that, and BAM! You're under their power. Goblin royalty are especially potent because of all that pure bloodline crap. Gurdach, for instance, controls his entire kingdom because they were stupid enough in the beginning to adore him. Idiots, all of them. And while they were all starry-eyed and soft-hearted - yes, Grimm, shut up; goblins, like fairies, have feelings - he took their minds. So now he owns them. Rhogin, that lowlife piece of trash, isn't as strong as his father - yet - but he has a pretty impressive track record himself. Why on earth were you crying, anyway?"

The sudden change of subject throws me off momentarily. Then I refocus on Puck's green eyes boring into me as he waits for an answer.

"I dunno. He was talking about death and the power of the elixir and I thought it was all bosh and I told him it wasn't funny because I was thinking of Briar, you know? And Seven, and. . . Granny. . . and then I was crying and I didn't even realize it. But I was angry, Puck! I wasn't all weak and grief and sadness, okay? I was mad! Mad that he thought he. . . he. . . had all this power over death when I couldn't . . . when no one we knew could bring back Briar."

Even now, I feel the stirrings of that same anger in the hotel room, spectral wisps of the original explosion.

"And you have feelings for him?"

"Why the third degree? Is it a crime that I find him . . . pleasant, and extremely easy on the eye? Please don't pretend you're jealous. We're only fake-engaged, in case you forgot! Just acting!"

Puck's face is stone. I have struck a nerve. Which nerve, exactly, is anyone's guess. He closes his eyes, turns away and breathes in and out several times, noisily.

"Right. We are," he flatly intones, barking out his next words like a military commander laying out battle plans to a doomed army. "That's not the point. The point is that he's now in your head. Which makes it harder for us to use him in the future to get the elixir. Your loyalties are in the wrong camp now. You're compromised; unsafe."

"Well, you could've told me before you sent me in blind! How hard would it have been: 'Sabrina, don't get vulnerable! Don't let him hold you! Just tease him! But carefully! Because he's actually a snake in disguise and so poisonous that people hand over their souls to him after looking in his eyes!' I can't believe you did that!"

I am angry again, and my head is throbbing with it.

"How was I supposed to know that would happen?" Puck spits out. "You were supposed to reel him in, not the other way around!"

"And I was doing fine until he did his pheremone thing on me! Which I'd have been prepared for if someone had had the brains to tell me about!"

"If you'd known, you'd have your guard up and he'd have seen through it right away! And we'd have wasted all this time setting him up for nothing!"

"So you admit that you deliberately withheld pertinent information to save your own butt! And, thanks to your incredible stupidity and shortsightedness, I'm now poisoned. I have goblin poison in my head! In a critical moment in battle, I'm going to betray you to the enemy."

"Overreacting! And the real point is I don't need my butt saving. So, irrelevant."

We fall silent and face each other, breathing heavily. Our roundabout exchange has unexpectedly defused my fury and even Puck is now strangely calm as he continues.

"You're not going to be a traitor and there is no battle. Which is a pity because a battle would've been awesome! Sadly, we still failed to get the elixir so we're going to have to postpone the Bahamas." He sighs despondently and dramatically.

"But we know that Rhogin has it in his palace. I found out that much," I offer.

"And detour to Florida!" Puck recovers joyfully. "I've always wanted to try that Buzz Lightyear ride!"

"Infant." I roll my eyes, not completely immune to the charm that is Puck once again in good humor.

"I'm famished." He ignores me. "I was never a fan of finger food or whatever crap it was that Rhogin called lunch."

"Insubstantial?"

"Pretentious! And Prince Silverspoon's gourmet offering was especially pathetic." He shudders. "Brings back bad memories of dinner parties in Faerie where I was forced to mingle with Important People. All I wanted to do was chuck oysters at them. Let's go get some real food! I know a place!"

He grabs my hand and locks it in the crook of his arm. "Let me show you how real royalty eat!"

Manic Puck is a migraine disguised as golden curls, but it is sunshine after the toxic downpour of abject failure, and I don't begrudge it in the least. I lean into him and smile.

"By the way," he finishes, without turning his head to look at me. "If you think that's pheremones, you ain't seen nothin'."

We are seated in a booth in Die Alte Dame, the restaurant that Puck has chosen. It has a distinctly German feel to it: bright reds, yellows and white against dark wooden panels and, from the menu, the promise of a mind-boggling assortment of ales and beers. Puck has been watching me, an almost-smirk on his face. His eyes are golden as they catch the light from the hanging lamps.

"What?" I ask. I appreciate that, in spite of the festive air, the booth makes it easy to be heard without shouting.

"Nothing." He looks innocent. "We should order."

We do. The server leaves with our requests - German pancakes for me, and spaghetti for Puck.

In the minutes before our food arrives, he is still smiling, looking like he would burst from keeping a secret. Suddenly, he slides next to me on my side of the booth and puts his hands over my eyes.

"What are you doing?" I gasp.

"Shhh. Waitwait. . . okay!"

I look.

My jaw drops.

Puck bursts into a full-throated laugh.

"Oh, your face!" He gasps between guffaws.

I swear I have not seen true mirth until this moment. It strikes me that his title of Trickster King is well-deserved.

My pancakes are pink. The little jug of syrup next to them is filled almost to the brim with a glistening liquid, also pink.

Puck's spaghetti sauce is green.

For a moment, I am speechless. I can still feel the laughter shaking Puck's body beside me.

Then, suddenly and all at once, the first emotion hits me - I miss her.

I feel it behind my eyes and in the tightness of my throat. My hands fly to my mouth, as if by holding in the sob that threatens to burst out, I can also hold in the ache of no longer having her.

Puck has finally stopped chuckling long enough to look at me, his glee changing to something else as he takes in my expression. I expect scorn but see, instead, wistfulness. I feel his hand on my head, and he pulls me against him, his cheek on my hair.

He doesn't speak, but his fingers find mine. For a while, I let the tears come; after years of repressing it, the wave of sorrow is a deluge and I am relieved to surrender to it. Then the wave recedes and I slowly become aware of everything else around me - the hum of noise from the other patrons, the hardness of the bench beneath me, my body twisted against Puck's, one hand in his and the other fisted against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp and crumpled after my outburst.

As if he feels me shift, he clears his throat quietly and murmurs, "Yeah, I missed her cooking that much, too."

I look up at him, and he smiles crookedly back, offering me one of the napkins from the table.

"How did you find this place?" I ask, when at last I can speak.

"I opened it." He says, his eyes searching the crowd.

When it sinks in, I burst out, "You own this?"

"Yep." Over my head, he catches the eye of the serving staff. Our server hurries over immediately.

"Your Majesty?"

"Hyacinth, coffee, please."

"At once, Sire." She disappears.

"Yeah, I own this place. And another in Manhattan. People love the food. Rave reviews all the time."

Now that he mentions it, I do remember hearing about the New York restaurant - the critics made it sound like a gastronomical paradigm shift. And now, of course, its name makes perfect sense- Die Alte Dame: The Old Lady.

"When?"

"When did I open it?" Puck leans back, his arm still around me. I am acutely aware of it, but I don't want to move; it's a good place to be at the moment. "Two years ago - I started the one back home first, and when it did well, I opened this one. Personally fine-tuned all the recipes, by the way. 'Old classics done weird' is generally what the critics call them, but there's nothing weird about them. Wait till you try the desserts. Anyway, they're comfort food for us, aren't they? I eat at the one back home all the time. Especially when. . . anyway, the old lady would be so proud."

"Yes, she would." I marvel at the light in Puck's eyes. This is his tribute to someone who had been kind to him at a time when he had no one. He'd never said as much, but he'd always loved her. This restaurant is as sentimental as he'll ever get.

I see our server approach our table, bringing our coffee. In spite of it being the wrong part of the meal for coffee, it's exactly what I need after crying my eyes out. I hope the coffee is decent because there is nothing worse than horrible coffee after a good cry. And it's surprising how easy it is to get appalling coffee even in fancy restaurants. In my ideal world, all coffee would be served black with a generous drizzle of caramel, the way I always drink it when I make it at home. But here I am, in the middle of the rest of the world and I can only hope for so much. Besides, my thoughts are arrested by the idea that Puck would know to order coffee. It is baffling to me, and somewhat suspicious, as if in the years he'd been gone from my life, he was off doing more than just growing up.

Puck gestures in my direction and the server sets the coffee down in front of me, turning the saucer so the handle of the cup is on my right. She does a quick bow and moves off, and my eyes follow her for a while. Then I look down.

The spoon is dipped in caramel, resting in its own little spoon rest beside the cup.

My mouth gapes. I can't help it. I stare at the server's retreating back and then at Puck. His smile is warm and affectionate.

"You still like it with caramel, don't you?" He says. "You always did, anyway. Especially after leaking your entire brain out through your nose."

As I continue to stare at him, he shakes his head. "You're welcome, idiot." Then he slides back into his seat across me, and digs into his pasta.

"Eat." He waves his fork at me. "It's not getting any hotter sitting there."

I feel as if this means something but I don't want to ask. So, instead, I eat my pancakes, now lukewarm. As with my first glance at them, my first bite returns me to the kitchen in Granny's house in Ferryport Landing. I close my eyes and savor the gift of that memory. It's funny how I was always a little leery of her unconventional food presentations but now I welcome them for this brief, guilty moment in which I allow myself a hiatus from the present to soak in the past.

Puck watches me as he eats, and tries not to look smug that I am clearly enjoying the food. He pushes his own plate towards me.

"Try," he orders.

I cut one of his meatballs with my fork and spear it atop a roll of noodles.

"I'd offer you my pancakes in return but I think you already know how they taste, seeing as it's your recipe," I say before closing my mouth around the forkful.

"That's beside the point," Puck replies as he snatches the last bit of my pancake and dunks it directly in the little pitcher of syrup . "It's always polite to share."

"And what would you know about polite?" I return.

"Excuse me? Did you see me eating with my hands? Did you see me pulling rank here even though (a) I'm the owner and (b) I'm King and (c) I'm awesome?" He is completely serious as he counts off on his fingers, but I'm grinning.

The rest of the meal is light and silly, and I settle into our comfortable pattern of teasing banter and talking about old times. I notice that he avoids mentioning the years he was away, or the fallout we had. Anyone listening in would imagine that we are old friends, even cousins, rather than two people supposedly in love once but now in denial that it had all gone so sour that we are pretending it had never happened. Puck orders his own coffee - with a stick of cinnamon and nutmeg - and the server returns to top up mine, bringing with her an enormous trifle to share.

"Granny never made trifle," I remark in surprise, to which Puck pooh-poohs.

"Not for you, she didn't. She made it for me all the time, and she put these little sweet eggs in it."

I look, and there are hard-boiled quail's eggs in the jelly layer. It feels good to laugh.

Some time later, stuffed and contented, we drive away from Die Alte Dame down the open country road back towards the city. I've kicked off my shoes and am curled up in the passenger seat under my coat, warm and oddly happy. Outside the sky is dark and we pass mile after mile without street lamps.

"I'm assuming you know where we're going?" I turn to Puck.

"Duh. We're driving back to London. This time we're getting a nice hotel, not a dump like the other one."

"Well, you chose the dump."

"Only because it was the first one I found after you'd passed out like a sloth. I really didn't care for driving around looking for a place to crash when I didn't even know if you were dead or alive. What was that all about, anyway? That was so wimpy. The Grimm I know isn't one of those useless females with the -what is it - delicate constitutions. You're not sick, are you?"

"Of course not. I was just tired - jet lag and traveling and chasing princes and everything."

"Hmph."

I look down at my hands and suddenly realize I am still wearing the ring. I pull it off and hold it out to Puck. He sees the movement and takes his eyes off the road for a second.

"Here," I say. "I should probably give this back. I think it helped with my cover. Rhogin kept looking at it and sulking."

"He would; covetous pig." Puck returns his attention to his driving. "By the way, you did good, Grimm; sounds like he totally fell for it. But I don't want the ring back. What would I do with it? It's not like it'd fit me. Keep it. Wear it."

"I guess. After all, if we're hunting him down in Florida, I'll have to keep up with the charade, right?"

Puck smiles crookedly. "Well, that, too."

I turn back to the road, just in time to see a shadow moving quickly in front of the car.

"Holy- !" Puck exclaims and swerves the car. We skid as the brakes engage, still moving forwards, and the car lurches, turns, and careens off the road. A great dark shape looms ahead of us, growing rapidly in size.

A tree.

We slam into it and I am jerked forward, the seat belt cutting into my body while my face is suddenly enveloped in the airbag. Warning sounds go off, very loud in the confines of the car. A single, lucid thought enters my mind - this is an accident - before everything is confused and surreal.

For a moment, I sit there, trying to gather myself. Then, loud knocks and crashes sound above the alarms. Dark shadows swarm around the car. I hear the screech of metal on metal and the roof shudders.

The glass of the windows shatters. Limbs reach in for us.

Fingers close around the air just inches from my skin.

My next thought amuses me: why didn't I bother to change out of my useless dress? It's not going to be pleasant fighting in it.

Because it sure looks like a fight is about to happen.

Puck swears colorfully.

"I think we're being robbed," I say, trying to dodge the fingers. I notice they are spindly; not at all human.

"If only," Puck mutters back. "This is retaliation."

And before I can ask more, he shifts the seat back, draws his legs awkwardly up from the pedals, twists and kicks his door out. Something living grunts as the door makes contact with it, shooting out into the darkness.

"I'm going to draw them away! Hide!" He shouts as he ducks and propels himself head first out through the opening. I expect to hear him hit the ground but with a familiar whoosh, he is up in the air, a dark silhouette against the sky.

Draw who away? I ask silently, as I peer out through the window. I see slight, dark shadows running away from the car, following Puck. But I also hear other noises that tell me not everyone has taken the bait. I am going to ignore Puck's advice. He must be stupid to think I'd sit and wait out the action. My door is jammed, so I climb out the same way that Puck exited the car, although with less panache. I keep my back against the side of the car, even though I know I could just as easily be conked on the head from rooftop assailants as attacked from the front. I am in the worst possible outfit for battle - barefoot and in a short dress. I guess I'm going to have to choose my life over my modesty.

For a moment, nothing happens. My eyes are slowly growing accustomed to the darkness, but it is still hard to make anything out where the headlamps do not shine.

Then - hissing, close enough that I hear it over the car alarm.

Just before something hits me from the side and I fall. I feel pain streak across my neck and I catch the glint of flashing eyes. Instinctively, I roll and punch, and my fist catches something cool and solid. I struggle to my feet as quickly as I can.

On the ground before me is a huddled shape. It stirs and rises. And stands still just long enough for me to recognize the misshapen humanoid body.

Goblin.

It lunges.

This time I see it, and I step aside and bring my fists down together on its shoulder. It staggers and holds out a knife - I see the glint of metal - and slashes at me. With not enough distance between us to twist away, I feel a burning in my side as the knife connects. I don't know how deep it's gone. I fight down the rising panic and deliver a downward kick to the creature's legs. There is a sickening crack as it rebounds and falls to the ground. I run to it and kick it some more, for good measure, then punch it in the face. It does not move again.

I rip the knife out of its hand, and turn around, watching for others. I am starkly aware of how vulnerable I am from behind but I cannot hear anything above my own ragged breathing. I shift quickly, turning a semicircle in erratic jerks, expecting to be hit from all directions.

Instead, a shadow drops down from the tree above. I see it out of the corner of my eye as I turn, a second too late. I feel my head snap back as my hair is grabbed. I lose my balance and fall, the stars rising above me as I land on my back.

"He killed my family." The hiss is right in my ear, although I can barely understand it through the pain in my scalp. "Now I'll kill his."

The months I spent in orphanages and foster homes are something I never want to relive, but I did learn some of my most useful self-defense maneuvers there, even more so than in the war. The kids I lived with may not have been skilled at weaponry, but some of them were the kind of bullies that snuck up on you from behind and laid you on the floor before you could blink. Hair-pulling was a popular move against girls and Daphne and I often had to fight on our backs while our scalps were on fire. If we didn't, we'd lose more than just face.

I grit my teeth as I drop my knife, pushing myself into a backward roll with my palms. I brace myself for the extra tension on my scalp as my body moves upwards. I crash down as hard as I can on the goblin holding me and feel its grip loosen. It grunts as I roll off to the side, scrabbling in the grass for the knife. Thankfully, I find it quickly, even in my disorientation. But even as I rise to my feet, I am knocked backwards, with the goblin around my middle. I feel a tight squeeze on the soft flesh under my ribs and then sharp pain. I stab frantically at it, praying I don't miss and cut into myself instead.

I yank the knife out and stab again and again. The goblin howls and releases me. I back-crawl until I am far enough away to see all of it. It rises unsteadily, holding its side, and hisses. It stumbles towards me, coming into the pale moonlight that pools on the grass between the cover of the trees. Its bared teeth are slick with blood - it must have bitten me - and its yellow eyes gleam. It is dressed in an outfit that looks familiar.

I recognize him - Knobloch, the knife vendor from Portobello Road.

And I suddenly understand what Puck meant by retaliation.

In a fit of desperate insanity, I consider reasoning with him: his problem is with the King of Faerie, I am nobody in their feud, I'd never met him until that day, I certainly didn't kill anyone he knew etc. etc. I have another sudden misplaced thought: Daphne would be proud of me trying to use my words instead of my fists for once. In spite of everything going on around me, I grin.

But the look in his eyes returns me to the gravity of the situation. He inclines his head and makes an odd, screeching sound. Immediately, other shadows fall from above into the dim light. My heart sinks: with the knife, I can possibly take him on, even though I am injured, but I am clearly outnumbered by these reinforcements.

Knobloch jeers. "I wanted to be th' one to tear your throat out. But I think you'll scream louder this way. And I want him to hear."

I barely register this before I see them all leap. In that moment, I know I am going to die. All my training goes out the window as I close my eyes and wait for the impact.

It doesn't come.

There is sound all around me, but it is a dull roar, as if I am hearing underwater.

I open my eyes in time to see a blur of motion, sweeping low over the ground into the ranks of the goblins and then something shoots almost vertically into the sky. It happens so fast that the sound is stolen away with the flight, leaving an abrupt silence in its wake. My mouth is agape as I realize that I am suddenly alone.

Then I hear noises again, from far away. When I try to locate them, I think they are from high up in the air. But they do not sound like birds. They are getting louder and nearer.

Screams.

When they are close enough for me to tell they are not human, I see them: dark shapes falling out of the clouds, limbs flailing, hitting the open ground where there are no trees.

I count nine thuds.

And then there is silence again.

I am as cold as ice. My knees give way just as Puck lands beside me.

"Whoa, Grimm," he says as he catches me. "It's okay. It's over. They're all dead."

"I had it covered." I try to sound nonchalant. After all, I've fought in a war against much worse. But I feel sticky with oozing things, and I am light-headed, and trembling with the effort of staying upright.

"Are you hurt?"

"Just a scratch."

Puck's arms are around me, holding me up, carrying me to where the light shines from the car's dying headlamps. The alarm is silenced, although I don't remember when it happened. He gently pries my fingers away from the knife where I have clamped them, and it falls to the grass. Then I feel his hands all over me, carefully examining, and I hear his quiet curses as his fingers come away viscid.

"We have to get you someplace safe," he says at last, and I can hear the worry in his voice.

"Please." I sigh. "I just need a shower and some Band-aids."

"You need more than that, Sabrina. Can you walk?"

I snort, but it comes out as a gasp. " 'Course! No. I don't know. I hate that you had to save me again."

He holds me up as I lean against him. It is testament to the seriousness of my injuries that he doesn't mouth off a comeback.

"Did you kill them? All of them?" I ask into his shirt.

"Well, technically, the ground did. I simply lost my grip while we were taking a ride. Oops - butterfingers!"

"Did you see who they were?"

"Uh, no, we didn't take the time to introduce ourselves. They were too busy screaming and I was more interested in stopping them from killing you."

"One of them was that knife seller from the market," I inform him.

I feel Puck tense against me. Then he pulls me away from him and holds me at arm's length. Without another word, he bends down, picks up the knife and stares at it.

"Where'd you get this knife?" He asks.

"I killed one of the goblins after he slashed me with it. Then I took his knife. And stabbed that other goblin."

"Not good. Not good. We have to go now."

"Why?" For some reason, I feel floaty. I hear my speech slurring as if my tongue is numb. "Puck, I feel weird. I'm so sleepy."

"Nonononono! Don't fall asleep, Sabrina! I think there was poison on that knife. I can't tell in this rum light. You have to stay awake. Stay with me!" I hear his voice phasing in and out of my head. He slings an arm around my waist and drags me to the car door.

Another curse as he kicks the tire in frustration.

"Well, the car's shot. We'll have to fly. But we'll need our stuff and the car eventually, because no way am I losing the rental deposit. I'll have to summon the cleanup crew. And they might as well get rid of the bodies, too."

I hear the light notes on his flute and in a little while, his pixies arrive. Puck gives them instructions and they swarm around the car, lighting it in a glowing sphere.

Then I am gently hoisted in his arms again and his voice rumbles in his chest, "Here we go."

I am lightly jogged as he breaks into a run and then we are up in the air.

"I'm sorry for bleeding all over your shirt," I murmur.

"No, you're not," comes his voice, and then, more kindly, "Damn, Sabrina, you've got to stop doing this to me."

And I feel his lips brush the top of my head as, around me, his arms tighten just the slightest bit.