I don't own Frozen. Stolen Ice is Aesla's, as are the characters within it.

Jane slammed the tablet down after yet another almost-connected connection suddenly shut down as if Jane herself had zapped the power. Connection lost. The lights in the room briefly surged on and the heater died. Again. She hated that detail the most. A was affected by the Scotland weather and though she never complained, Jane could read the chill on her lips, the discomfort in her limbs. It was hard to stop herself from staring at A sometimes, though A never seemed to notice. Everything about A was so... physical now. The heater's death would mean a brief chill in the room for A, discomfort that was her fault. The intensity of her thoughts was like a storm that was suddenly much closer than previously thought, quiet rumbles turning into booms and threatening to drown her. The way she turned from thought to thought was like torrential winds, buffeting her back and forth

She wondered if destroying the supermagnet would be worth it. She almost relished thinking about it, planning the execution. She would tear it apart piece by piece until it was laid like scattered legos at her feet. The thought momentarily startled her with the pure clarity of her anger, and the realization she'd been fantasizing about destroying something with her powers.

When did I become a super-villain?

Disturbed by the intensity of her own emotions, Jane chose to attempt her pre-sleep exercises within the confines of the hotel room, focusing on the heater the entire time. Giving it just a little more juice, pushing it a little harder than she should've, but still careful not to push it into breaking. Her focus during her exercises and the brief emptiness of her thoughts gave her the control she needed. Pulling her legs in from inverted leaning, Jane slowly lifted a hand from the floor, holding herself up on one hand while the heater pulsed.

That's good enough. A should be more comfortable now, I hope.

Discarding her clothes, Jane hesitated to take off her shirt, choosing to leave it on. It would take her some time to unwind and her muscles to relax enough to fall into sleep. That meant another brief time of Jane awake and A asleep in the same bed. It was almost tradition at this point. A's assurance that it was "weird, but okay" had removed most of Jane's concerns about natural or comfortable behavior and she simply acted as she felt compelled to. She climbed into bed across from A and...

Very carefully she leaned over and checked on A. Was A awake? She was breathing quietly. She didn't react to Jane's face suddenly being remarkably close to her own, nor to Jane waving her hands in front of A's face. A light poke only caused a quiet burble. She was drooling again.

Jane sighed and hesitantly brought a hand up to A's face, stroking a glove slowly across A's bottom lip, cleaning up the drool. She was not unaware of the intimacy of the action, and caught herself staring intensely at A's lips. A's lips. A's lips.

All at once she shifted herself back into place like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, quickly wiping her thumb off on her shirt and locking her fingers together above her belly tightly.

Physicality.

A freckled arm suddenly came across her midsection, as A adjusted in her sleep, unconsciously aware of Jane's presence somehow and drawn to her. Jane delicately pulled A's hand off her belly and placed it on the covers.

No touching. No internet. No movies. No sound but silence. It was a rare occasion that Jane found herself without sensation at her fingertips. There was comfort in the light of a computer screen, the tapping of a keyboard, the whirring of a fan. What do you do with silence?

Her dozy thought was interrupted by a slight shuffling noise. A was twitching in her sleep, her fingers digging into the covers, her hairs raising. A was growing heated in her sleep, her face a broken mirror of disgust and fear. Jane recognized it. The tightness of the lips. The slight exposure of teeth, the cheeks twitching, eyes flicking. It was the fear of an animal cornered. The heat in the room suddenly felt unwelcome. Jane wished that she could somehow cool the room down.

This was not troubled sleep. This was a nightmare. She felt helpless, watching A squirm, fearing that waking her would only disrupt her sleep and cause her discomfort through the next day. Jane didn't want that.

She pressed a hand to A's shoulder. A familiar movement for her now, but it didn't help. A's dreams could not be quelled by gloved hands and soft whispers, not this time.

"...non... non...où est ambien..." A's voice spoke French, but was A's simple, easy voice, caked in fear. It was like someone had unmasked A during one of her performances and she had kept going, the same words that her trained accent and perfect charm would say, but without her trained accent and perfect charm.

"S'il vous plaît... prendre un verre..."

A needs comfort. I have to act. I have to do something.

"Bien sûr, il est entré." A's face cringed with disgust and a bead of sweat formed on her forehead. Jane began to seriously consider shaking A awake. Nothing could be worth having to go back there again for A.

Jane felt the same desperation she imagined A was feeling, trapped inside a memory.

What would A do?

Three weeks blurred past Jane in a frenetic frenzy, memories and sounds blotting together. Shapes replaced by strokes of color, like one of A's paintings, except A, in every memory, remained distinct, an image atop the canvas, interacting with Jane.

A would push against her shoulder, help her stand if she was even in the slightest pain. A would give her Neosporin and ice packs. A would smile at her to ease Jane's discomfort. She'd hold Jane if Jane cried. A would drown for her, let Jane almost kill her, and not even care afterwards... enduring even near-death experiences like she was getting the better end of the deal. Jane felt a painful pang of wonder and awe, looking at the fragile yet impossibly strong woman beneath her.

Enduring even Jane as if she were getting the better end of the deal.

What could A do...

Jane's eyes widened.

A would teach the neglected children to sing on a mountain.

"Doe..." Jane started, speaking softly over A's whispers, biting her lower lip and forging ahead. "Ray. Me. Fah."

Like a cold wind quieting, A was relaxing.

"So la ti doe..." Jane finished. She took a deep breath, and began again.

"Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do..." She sang, her voice full of breath and nerves and touchings. Again she sang the scale, repetition building courage, A's reactions building security. She sang clearly, now, with as much... care, as she could manage. It felt dangerous and frightening and yet her voice was clear and strong as diamonds.

"Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do..."

A had stopped squirming, and no longer looked heated, though her face still held traces of Amsterdam upon it. Jane briefly and wildly imagined kissing the traces away.

Her voice caught in her throat, but she managed to hum the scale. And the next repetition, she didn't speak the words, just sang the scale. Singing to A in her underwear and t-shirt, in a lonely hotel room in Scotland, A's nightmare passed. Jane's voice quieted, but the scale remained. It had lodged itself in her throat and refused to stop humming, escaping her lips as she gently brushed her fingers over A's hair, loosening A's cover, letting chill and warmth in parts until she was satisfied A would be comfortable.

She laid flat on her back next to A, and her chest ached. She tugged her shirt off and let it drop beside the bed, sliding under the covers and counted minutes as Morpheus entered her veins.

Somehow, A found her way to Jane's side. Jane gently pulled A's arm over her belly and let the girl's head rest on her shoulder. A would hold her. That's what A would do. So she let herself hold A, just for now. When fingers curled into her side and she felt lips brushing slightly over her collarbone, she didn't even care.

She was still humming when she fell asleep.