We land on the roof of a hotel and Puck sets me down on the cold ground just under the neon sign that flashes its name. In spite of it being in the middle of the night, it is bright here.

"Ooh, comfy," I manage to say in my stupor. I lean against the concrete base of the sign, strangely limp. At least I'm too debilitated to feel the full sting of my wounds.

"No one will see us here." He states the obvious. "Think of it as the open-air penthouse but without actually checking in at the lobby. Probably best not to waltz in the front door in the state we're in."

"Good point." I sigh.

"But I'll go find something to patch you up with. Be right back. Don't die while I'm away."

"I'll try not to."

I close my eyes.

"And no sleeping, either. Stay awake, Grimm. Please."

I push my eyelids open with my fingers for his benefit.

He rolls his own eyes at me and leaps off the building.

I look up at the stars and try to name the constellations. My head is woozy and the map of the sky is different here than at home and it becomes hard to concentrate. I count backwards from 100 instead.

Before I get to 50, Puck is back with a case of bottled water and several folded sheets.

"I'm not dead." I inform him.

"Glad to hear it."

"Did you bring me a bathtub?" I ask hopefully.

"Nope. They were clean out of bathtubs. I brought the Band-aids you wanted, though." He holds up a sheet and begins ripping it into wide strips.

"Where'd you steal that?"

"Supplies closet. I had to smash a window. You'd think they'd be thoughtful enough to leave one open for emergencies, but no."

"How terribly inconsiderate of them."

"Uh-huh. Now lie down and let me look at you."

I crawl over to where he has spread folded sheets in a makeshift mat. It reminds me of the handkerchief beds Daphne made for her dolls in the happy days before our parents' disappearance turned our lives into a nightmare. I lie down, suddenly aware of how short my dress is.

Puck moves to sit beside me. His hands ghost over my thighs and I draw in an involuntary breath. The pain in my side has gotten worse and it makes the rest of my body more sensitive than usual to any contact. My eyes meet his and he hesitates, waiting for me to react.

I don't. The lines between us have always been blurred, I remind myself.

The same thought must cross his mind because he swallows, and pushes up the fabric of my dress, rolling it out of the way until it exposes my side. He frowns like he doesn't like what he sees and I suddenly remember another night years ago, when I wasn't wounded, when my skin had been whole and tingling for another reason altogether. His hands had been just as gentle then.

But the look in his eyes had been very different.

I shiver at the memory.

"Alright, give it to me, Puck. How bad is it?" I say, just to break the tension.

"Got good news and bad news. The good news is that it didn't go much deeper than the skin. . . I think."

"But the bad news . . . ?"

"It's poisoned."

"And we don't have the antidote."

"Nope."

"So I'm going to die."

"Not on my watch you're not. I'm going to try something. Might hurt."

He leans over, with his mouth millimeters from my skin. I feel his breath on my side.

And he spits.

Before I can recover from the indignity of it, I feel the sting, and then his fingers rubbing around my wound. The pain is exquisite. I gasp.

He spits and rubs again. I suck in a breath. I want to ask him what the hell he is doing, but I can't speak.

Finally, he sits back and looks at me.

"Fairy spit," he says, matter-of-fact. "Wonderful healing properties. Phenomenal stuff."

I continue to gape at him.

"But it only works for some poisons. Fingers crossed that this is one of 'em."

"You spat on me," is all I can say.

'Yep." He grins at me. "What an honor for you. And since you're such a wreck tonight, I'm not charging you a cent. Pro bono. You're welcome!"

I am about to give him a piece of my mind when I realize the pain has dulled and my head is clearer.

"Puck!" I exclaim. "I think it's working! The pain is . . . I don't feel it so much now!"

"Told you." He says it dismissively, although I don't miss the quick look of relief on his face before it melts into a smirk. "This mouth is so awesome that I should get it insured. So, where else do you want it?"

I blush before I can stop myself. He throws his head back and laughs, as if it were completely normal to be saying such things while I'm lying with my dress hitched up to my ribcage.

"Come on, Grimm. There's blood everywhere - I bet it's not just that one scratch. Goblins don't fight nice. Show me. Don't be shy."

Indeed. I'm half-naked already anyway.

I sit up and pull the dress over my head. I want to do it quickly to get it over with, but my head gets stuck in it as it catches at my shoulder where I have clamped my arm to my injured side.

"A little help here, Stinkbutt?" I call out from under the fabric.

It suddenly comes free and I shake my hair away from my face. Puck has not moved to help me; he's sitting and just staring.

I want to call him out for being a pervert, but the look in his eyes stops me.

They are filled with anguish.

Before I can speak, he is a hair's breath from me, one hand on my shoulder, pushing me back into the light, turning my body as he scans it, taking in the gashes and scratches that crisscross my torso, and the evidence of the goblin's bite. Without a word, he pushes me gently back onto the mat, grabs a bottle of water and twists off the cap. He reaches for one of the torn fabric strips, pours water on it and I watch, frozen, as he washes away the blood. I feel wetness trickle over my side onto the fabric below me. Slowly, methodically, he dabs the cloth all over my body, cleaning away the superficial trails of stickiness until he is once again at the wound in my side. He tips the bottle and I hiss as the water cascades over the deeper laceration, smarting. I feel it soak into my undergarments, a cold dampness against my skin. He reaches again for a fresh strip and presses it over the cut.

Then, without looking up, he leans down and puts his lips to my side, and I wait for him to spit again.

But he kisses my skin instead.

And he moves over me, kissing each wound, moving upwards to my neck. My eyes close as I feel him, my mind returning to that night long ago when my body first came alive under his touch. I am trembling in the heavy silence. I don't want him to stop.

I feel his breath on my cheek, and then it is gone. I open my eyes, groggy from the sensations, every nerve on edge. He is sitting up, his back to me, and tearing the sheet again.

"Turn over," he murmurs.

I turn on my good side, my fists clenched against my body to keep from collapsing completely on the damp mat, uncomfortably clammy under my belly.

Again, I feel the gentle dab-and-swab of the cool, wet fabric on my back as Puck repeats his ministrations, my body humming with tension. When I feel his lips on my shoulder, I exhale sharply, the sound like a tiny explosion in the stillness. I ache for his hands to join his mouth on my skin.

My hair moves as he pushes it to the side, out of the way, and presses his lips to my neck. I shudder as the realization hits me: I have no injuries there.

And he hasn't stopped.

I turn my face to his, my body lifting from the mat.

And his mouth is on mine, his hands in my hair, fingertips skimming my face.

I kiss him back like I am starving and he is sustenance. I should be aware of the pain in my side as I twist to meet him, but all I feel is Puck and the warm softness of his lips as they move on and around mine, slow yet insistent.

I am incrementally imploding.

Then he draws away. I force my eyes open, completely bereft.

He is looking at me with a half smile, his eyes wide. For a moment, we are silent and I drink in his beauty, letting my walls fall completely.

He raises an eyebrow. "Told you it could be done without fingers." He sits back and leans on his hands, looking smug. "But it's funner with."

And just like that, the moment is over.

"I shoulda just punched you like when we were eleven."

"Sure. In the state you're in."

"I hate you."

"Didn't feel like it just now."

I sit up with some effort, cursing the fact that I have practically nothing on, and that I want to slam Puck into the neon sign flashing above our heads.

I turn my back on him instead, picking up the clean strips of torn fabric. I make a thick pad with one of the strips and hold it against my side as I wrap the others around my body to keep it in place. Puck does not offer to help. He must think his astounding mouthwork was enough to bring instant healing but I still have an weeping - albeit slowly clotting - wound to deal with. When I am done wrapping, I tuck the end of the fabric strip under the band I've made around my middle and look around for something to wear.

My dress lies in a sorry lump beside me but I am not inclined to put it back on, especially soaked with blood and bits of goblin gore. There is one last folded sheet left, and I walk over to pick it up, fling it open and wrap it around myself. Then I finally let myself make eye contact with Puck again.

"Sorry," he says.

For ruining one of the best kisses I've had in recent memory? As if.

"For the goblins," he clarifies, looking up at me, completely oblivious to my frustration. "They did this to you because of me."

"Yeah, well, I figured out that much. Not surprising if you go around making enemies all over the place." I sound angrier than I am. "That goblin said you killed his family. No wonder he was in such a bad mood. Did you?"

"Yes." Puck looks completely unrepentant.

"Why?"

"They were terrorizing innocent villagers. Looting, killing, just like in the movies, except without the epic soundtrack."

"Human villagers?"

Puck shoots me a look. "Does it matter?"

He's right. It shouldn't. I say nothing.

"From what it looked like, it was a fun night out for them. Normally, I'd sit back and watch the action. I'd even join in with a few stink bombs and rotten eggs and such. But there were kids, Grimm. He and his clan were hunting kids."

I feel sick.

Puck continues. "So I hunted them back. It was me against, I dunno - forty? - of them. But it was still a fairer fight than with those villagers. Anyway, I left them dead or pretty close to it. I let Knobloch go, though, so he could go home and tell his people how to treat others better in the future. Since I spared his life, he owed me a debt. Always useful, debts. And then he turns around and comes after you. He's lucky I killed him quickly. It would've been worse if I'd hauled him back home to let my fairies deal with him."

"So Rhogin didn't send him?"

"Rhogin? Whatever for? He has no control over his subjects, I tell you. His kingdom is a mess. No, Rhogin is an ambitious, conniving butthead, but he's not a killer. Besides, he's got the hots for you. If anything, he'd send someone to get me out of the picture so he could have you. But he wouldn't. I know him. He prefers to seduce and conquer. Thinks it's more satisfying. Nope, that was Knobloch's personal vendetta; nothing else."

I sit down beside Puck, leaning against the base of the sign again. It's cold so high up, especially when I'm wrapped only in a sheet, and I welcome his warmth.

"How are you not injured?" I ask at last. Then I regret it immediately, imagining the earful I'd get about Puck's superior fighting abilities and supreme strategic intelligence.

To my surprise, he looks away guiltily. "Apparently, the real party was happening where you were. The diversion to draw me away was just three of them. Easy kill. I mean, they were fast but they didn't put up much of a fight. Although they did lead me all over the place so it took me a while to get back to you. I'm really sorry, Sabrina. You shouldn't have to settle my scores."

"I've always had to fight your battles, Gasbag." I say. "And you've fought mine. No reason to think any different as long as we're friends."

Puck turns to me and his face is all light and shadows under the neon glare. "Is that what we are? Friends? Huh."

I remember the kiss.

But also the years he wasn't here.

"Oh. Um. Well, you tell me what you think we are, then."

He sighs. "This again. How many times…?" He looks up at the stars for a long time before speaking. "Okay, fine. Torture me. I swear you're going to forget again and make me do this over and over like some demented penance, anyway. But . . . I owe you one because of tonight. So . . . yeah."

What is he talking about?

He takes a deep breath.

"Sabrina. You and I . . . we're . . . I love you, okay? Always have. And you love me back. At least, I thought you did. Once. But we. . . how do I put it… one day you just changed your mind about us. And you left. No, don't argue. Let me finish."

He puts up a hand as he sees me open my mouth to protest. "You did. But for some reason you don't remember it or you're acting like you don't. I thought maybe there was someone else. But then you called me and emailed and wanted to keep in touch and I couldn't figure you out. It drove me crazy.

"But . . . I missed you. So I kept coming back to you. And we'd be okay for a while but it was never the same, and you'd seem to forget what we had, and you'd leave again. Each time it was longer. And each time I swore I wouldn't let you do it to me again. But I also kept hoping the next time it'd be okay. Finally, one day you left and I waited, like the sap I've turned into, and you never came back. So I went back to Faerie and just threw myself into work. End of story."

Puck sits, biting his lip and frowning. I am silent as I process this utterly foreign explanation of nothing familiar that I've ever known.

"So," he says quietly. "Is there someone else?"

I cannot tell him about Bradley any more than I can tell Bradley about him. I don't know what to say. All I know is I have never ached for Bradley the way I ached for Puck when he kissed me tonight.

"I don't know," I say at last. "It's complicated."

"How? Either there is or there isn't, Sabrina."

"I really don't know, Puck. I'm just really messed up. My head feels like it's in mud. And not only because of the poison. I don't know what I'm feeling. That kiss tonight…" my face is warm as I recall it, and I decide to be honest. "It was great. It was like we were great. But all I remember is you leaving. Disappearing. Never calling, no forwarding address, nothing. Sure, I texted you and stuff, but I never heard back. How can we both remember the exact thing about each other, but totally opposite? Someone has to be wrong."

He throws up his hands. "Life sucks. I don't know what to believe anymore. All I know is I've missed you and here you are and some lowlife cut you up because of me and it's not cool."

His words sound surreal - it's as if I'd spent the last few years yearning to hear exactly what was already common knowledge. Have I been blind? Stupid? Misreading every single social cue that ever passed between us?

What am I missing?

Finally, I nudge his shoulder with mine. "I'll tell you what sucks: this sightseeing adventure." I make air quotation marks with the hand not holding the sheet against me. "Not to be demanding or anything, but wouldn't it be wonderful to actually check into a nice hotel, conscious and without bleeding or being poisoned? It can even have bad coffee. Or no coffee. I don't care at this point, my expectations are that low."

"What?" Puck looks offended. "Isn't my esteemed company worth something? I just threw my reputation to the wind and confessed my feelings for you. Again! And you're just interested in a nice hotel?"

"Not much of a reputation, Trickster. Not after saving an entire village from plunderers for zero personal gain, and plucking me out of a goblin ambush. You don't have an ounce of villainy left in your blood. Deal with it."

"And it's all your fault." I hear him mutter as I continue.

"I just want to sleep. Without fighting people or creatures or monsters. Maybe after a good night's sleep everything will suddenly make sense. Hence, I want to go to bed. And bathe."

"I just gave you a bath! With bottled water!"

"Yes, you did, and it was luxurious." My cheeks flame again. "And I appreciate the irony, particularly since we both know how much you love baths yourself. But back to my point - as you used to say back in the day, fate is mocking me: here we are at a hotel again and where are we sleeping? On the freaking roof. No nice sheets. No privacy."

"You want privacy? There are perfectly good beds below us." Puck grins mischievously. "I can easily break another window. Plus, you know what they say about doing it when you're afraid of being caught."

"That's not what I meant."

"Sure it is." Smirk.

I roll my eyes but say nothing for a while. I am struck by how I am actually content, sitting with Puck on a cold concrete roof, dressed in stolen bedlinen and crusty blood. How I've missed his wild energy and wicked humor, his common sense and integrity, so out of place beside his pranks and irreverence, his inherent goodness that he'd rather die than admit he has any of. I've missed them all.

I've missed him.

I stare at his hands, resting on his jeans that are streaked with my blood. I am at a brink, like so many others from which I've stepped away, run away. Screaming as I do.

Not this time.

I take a deep breath and curl my fingers over his. He does not pull away.

"Puck. What if we… can we call truce? It's a deadlock as far as who started what. Either we're both lying or we're both crazy. What if we just started again from here?"

He continues staring out at the velvet darkness. I can see his jaw clench. If what he said is the truth, he is weighing the cost of dragging himself through heartache yet again. If he is lying, he is wondering what I could possibly give him that would be better than his freedom. Either way, I am asking a lot of him.

Please step over, I mentally plead with him.

"Promise me one thing." When he finally speaks, I have almost given up hope.

"What?" I whisper.

"You don't walk away again. You stick around. No matter what happens." There is panic in his voice.

I want to roll my eyes and call him all the names of delusion because that was so not what happened, ever, but he is talking again. "And I swear I won't let you. Even if you kill me. And I won't leave, either."

He still doesn't look at me.

Then he turns, and his face is backlit by the garish hotel sign, making him look even more otherworldly. It is a mask of pain mixed with hope. It is one of the very few times he has been this serious.

"I promise," I say, and I mean it. "And I won't let you go, either."

He closes his eyes and relaxes.

We sit for a while, our hands together, completely still, utterly quiet, looking everywhere but at each other.

An image of Bradley enters my mind and I am wracked with guilt. I am sorry, because we were good together, like a quiet afternoon on a lazy winter day, and I have so many good memories of us. Bradley is wonderful, but he just isn't Puck. Which isn't his fault, but he's going to get hurt anyway. And I feel horrible that it wasn't more difficult for me to come to this conclusion.

Something pricks at my subconscious, like a piece to a puzzle that's been missing without me being aware that it is: why do I remember Bradley but not Puck?

I turn again to Puck, taking in his profile, outlined in neon. "What were we like? You know, when we weren't walking away from each other?"

He looks back at me, and I remember another night, handcuffed together on a trampoline under an open sky, his gaze equally intense.

"Amazing."

I swallow. "Really? We weren't at each other's throats all the time like when we were kids?"

His smile goes all the way to his eyes. It is irresistible in its impishness.

"We lit up the night, you and I." He says.

I shiver.

If tonight offered any hint, I believe it.


A/N: A kiss :) Tralalalala!