AN: Holy something-or-other. Two updates in a week. I have been inspired, and props if you know where Joan's line is ad-libbed from.

It's been a long week, it's rained off and on too. Nothing really happened though, so I'm feeling like I should do something, lazing on Elsa's couch on a Friday afternoon. I have the day off because I managed to put my back out last night. Yes we were, and no, we didn't. Kind of ruined the mood. I saw the doctor this morning—I'm better about that these days—and he recommended I rest for today, then try and get as active as I could tomorrow. Apparently exercise helps alleviate the symptoms. It should keep me active too. I'll try walking the block in the morning.

Today though—I won't say no to a rest day. We haven't be working overly hard at the plant, but I get to have the house to myself and it's been a while since I had that kind of freedom. For a while I just lie back, thinking of you, and all the good times we shared. I even flick through the pictures on my phone. We really did do a lot and, whoa, hey, I don't remember that one. You've just stepped out of the shower and you're not even really wearing that towel. Did you pose for me for that shot, or did I just catch you in the moment? I try to think back but I don't get anything. It pains me to think I've forgotten anything about our time together, but I have. Eighteen years is a long time to remember every little detail—and you'd probably remember things differently to me anyway.

I smile and wave lazily at the ceiling, lying back on the couch. "I miss you, Elsa."

I'm not… I'm not sad though. Not this time. I really do miss her, but I've mostly managed to accept that she's not here anymore, and that I can take solace in having known her. It's not always easy to make that distinction though, and emotions often don't obey logic. But for today I think of her, and more than anything, I'm happy. I can remember all our good times, and though I know there were bad times too, they don't bother me so much.

I blink and take in a deep breath. The sun has moved visibly—at least, the shadows have—but I can see it darkening and I think I hear the distant rumble of thunder. I look at the time and it looks like I've been dozing for about an hour. My back feels much better too, but that might just be the painkillers I took earlier. I shift around on the couch, experimenting. No, my back really does feel okay right now. But now I'm bored and need something to do, and the house is a little too clean to bother dusting or vacuuming or anything. Hmm.

I take a chance and head for the stairs, retrieving my laptop from our room. Sitting back down on the couch I open a blank document. Maybe I'll write something. A wicked grin crosses my lips and I blush. Just because I didn't finish last night doesn't mean I didn't want to. Maybe I'll write something naughty. I rub my hands together in glee and hover over the keyboard. I frown at the screen. Damn it, I have no idea where to start. Then I start thinking about us, and about Kristoff, and about all things we've done together in bed.

I'm not getting any inspiration, but somehow one hand has found its way into in my pants. You know what? I don't care. I've got at least a few hours before anyone gets home, and the run of the entire house and—ooooh, I know, I'll take a bath. A nice, hot, relaxing bath. No one has to know what's so relaxing about it—unless you're still watching me, that is. I give the roof a devilish wink. I really do wonder if Elsa would still watch and then I think about if she saw me and Kristoff and now I really don't want to know. But I'm still gonna take that bath.

A little later, lying in the bath, and I am now very relaxed. It's warm, not hot, but that's just about right. Especially with the bubbles. I slip down the back of the bath, trying just to float there. It's a pity the tub's small enough that my knees are up around my ears at this point. There's just no way to get all of me under water here. Sometimes I really do wish we'd gone for a hot tub—then again, rather less useful for bubble baths.

I remember there were a few times we both tried fitting into the tub. And then I have to remember the times we had to. When you could hardly walk. Or even stand. I remember sometimes you'd rest your chin on my shoulder and just talk—not because you wanted to, but because the talking helped me know you were still there those times. I remember washing your hair too—before you lost it, of course. I know that one was hard on both of us. I also remember a handful of times when you asked me to… well, because you were worse than dog tired, but still wanted some. Just to feel any kind of happiness.

I know I said remembering the bad times didn't hurt—but I was wrong. I can feel a sting in my eyes, and its not from the soap. I know this feeling—I know have to let it happen. It's okay to be sad sometimes. I blink up at the suddenly blurry light and I can feel the tears slowly rolling down my cheeks. There's a hole inside of me, and it's shaped just like you. Why… why did you have to die so soon? Just one mo—No. No! Not if it means giving up Joan. I can hold on to this sadness. I can let the tears flow. But I can't keep holding on to you. Not now—not if it means I. We. Not if it means we lose our beautiful daughter.

I take a deep breath and gently dab my cheeks with the towel. Maybe I have a few tears left, and maybe I really do want to cry about losing Elsa—but I also really want a hug, and not to be alone. Whose idea was it to take the day off anyway—oh, right. I can only smile ruefully at my luck, and then I wonder if this kind of sadness—buried somewhere deep in memory—was why I stopped taking baths.

Nope.

It's because of that time you slipped, caught me, and I chipped a tooth against the goddamn taps over there. I can't help but smile because I remember the panic you were in seeing the split lip and bit of tooth, and I didn't seem to notice because you were sprawled on the floor and I was too worried that you might be hurt. I close my eyes and remember with a smile. Both of us too concerned about the other to notice our own injuries—even if yours was just a sprained wrist and a bloody nose. We made a great pair in the emergency room that day.

Well, the bath is cold now, so I step out onto the mat, pulling the plug on the tub and reaching for my towel. Dry enough—not leaving puddles where I step—I throw on a robe and collect a few things that really shouldn't be seen by prying eyes. Not that Kristoff doesn't know, but I'd like to keep Joan innocent of these things for at least a little while longer. Maybe I'm a little overprotective, but then there's also the fact that these ones are mine. And now shut away safely.

But that's just running on autopilot. I'm still sad. I still want a hug. I still want not to be alone. I'm tired. With my eyes struggling to stay open I lie against the duvet, wet hair on the pillows. I close my eyes and try not to dream of you.

"Hey, you okay?" I can feel a hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me awake. I know that voice.

"I got sad." I won't lie to my husband.

"Thinking about Elsa again?" but there's no judgement there. He just scoops me up in his arms and rests my head against his chest. I can hear his heart, clear and vital. I can smell work on his shirt, the tang of ozone and steel. Working on something pretty big then. But there's also his smell, a musk like something wild and untameable, but it's mysterious instead off-putting. I close my eyes as I feel him cradle my head and my horribly tangled hair. "You'll be okay, just take your time. I'll still be here when you get back."

Wait, was he expecting me to go somewhere? Also, wait, if he's here, shouldn't Joan already be home? Did she try to wake me?

"Is Joan home?" my words are slightly sleepy as I look up into his eyes. Kristoff smiles down at me.

"Joan's cooking dinner now. She checked on you when she got back from school; said she didn't want to wake you, you looked happy."

"Maybe I was. I dreamed of her. I think I dreamed she and Elsa actually met each other." Kristoff just pulls me closer. He knows how much a dream like that hurts. I take a deep breath, not really sure of how to continue. Somehow I don't have to.

"How about I just lie here for a little while and you can tell me about if you feel up to it." He winks at me. "Then dinner."

"Then dinner?"

"Well, Joan should have set off the smoke alarm by then."

"Kristoff!"

I can see the smile behind his eyes, and how hard he's trying to keep a straight face. Oh, I so needed that. I reach up and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I kiss him. Once. And again.

"So, you wanted to take me to dinner?" I stand up slowly, stretching.

"I hear the chef's not so bad." Kristoff stands next to me, and like the traitor he is, tickles my exposed belly.

"Hey! And that's my daughter you're talking about."

"Oh, so she's your daughter now?"

"Between the hours of six and eight," I wink at him. "And 'til ten on Wednesdays."

"Oh, good, because it's only five-thirty." Of course I looked at the clock. 6:02. Liar. He smiles at me. "And you might want to put something else on so you don't scar her for life."

"Hey!"

"Well, I don't mind if you only want to dine in your bathrobe, but I think she might—you know how teenagers are these days." And I can only smile, because he's right. I step over to the wardrobe. "Need any help there, feistypants—back not giving you any trouble?"

"It's actually okay for now. And keeping moving should help me anyway, right?"

"That's right. Keep moving." He leans in to whisper in my ear as I'm pulling my bra on. "Doctor's orders."

A few minutes later, and showing some decorum, I am now dressed. I don't know what Joan's cooking, and Kristoff has thus far neglected to mention it too. I'm suddenly very suspicious, leaning around the bottom of the stairs to see what's going on in the dining room. The door's shut. Now, what could be going in there? There is of course only one way to find out.

On the table sits a—well it looks like a giant pretzel. Only one leg tho—oh, I know what it is, but where did she get the recipe?

"Internet," comes a whisper in my ear. Thank you, Reindeer King.

"You made kringle?" I half shout into the kitchen.

"For dessert. No touching," Joan leans out around the partition, hair a in a tidy updo, hidden by a chef's hat—also, where did she get that on such short notice?—then she smiles at us. "Sit; it's just about ready."

When she places a plate in from of me the first thing I notice is that it's slightly burnt—but only slightly. There's a salad. And possibly what were crutons. Bit smaller now. And the meat is in the shape of a fish, but it certainly doesn't smell like seafood. She's smiling at us. Obviously there's a little story here.

"So it was just going to be stuffed chicken and potatoes but I thought that'd be like totally boring for a Friday night and anyway I also thought maybe you could use a little cheering up, mom, so I broke the crutons, turned the bird into a fish and on second thought made the potatoes a salad."

I can't help but smile at the high energy delivery. It sounds like me, and I love it. She looks like you—like us, because Kristoff's nose and my slightly rounder face—but she isn't us. Not a one, and yet I think she's got the best of all three of us. She's the reason I've held onto you for so long, but she's also the reason I had to let you go. I know you'd understand. I also think you'd quite enjoy her cooking. After all, that has never tried to kill me.