Chapter Text
The first time she and Kristoff ever kiss—after she blindfolds him, after he lets her lead him through the market with nothing other than trust in her hand in is—he asks for permission.
“I could kiss you! … I could—I mean. I’d like to. I’d… may I? We me… I mean. May we? Wait, what?”
It’s not until later, when she’s giving Elsa the play-by-play of what she said, and what he said, and what he did, and what she did, for probably the eight thousandth time (Elsa, Anna is rediscovering, is very patient), that it really sinks in for her. That he didn’t just swoop in and take what he wanted. That he waited. That he checked.
Huh.
In every book Anna’s ever read (and she’s read, y’know, a lot), True Love has always been, above all else, predictable. Like—like crocuses in spring, or arithmetic. Available Damsel plus Dashing Hero equals Kiss; to ask would be to spoil the mood. She frowns. Are they… doing it wrong?
“You’re making a face,” Elsa chuckles softly, and Anna schools her features into something a little less conspicuous. “What is it?”
“Nothing, just... was I being too bossy? Maybe I should have just let him kiss me.”
“You did let him kiss you,” Elsa points out, clearly not seeing the problem here.
“No, but. It had to be a whole big thing. It wasn’t…” Anna searches for the right word. “Easy. Natural.”
Elsa shrugs, but her smile is shy, and weighted with feeling. “I think those things come with time,” she murmurs, and—that’s never how it was in the stories, but admittedly, probably the lesson here is that Anna should rely a little less on what she thinks True Love is supposed to be and a little more on the way people actually treat her.
It’ll be a project.
So, fine.
Kristoff treats her like a princess.
“You are a princess,” he retorts, often, when she points this out, often.
But that’s not what she means. He doesn’t immediately defer to her opinions; doesn’t bow and scrape and simper. At least half of the time, he acts like a sarcastic, grumpy brat to everyone, her included. (“It’s part of his charm,” Olaf offers guilelessly when Kristoff gets into an argument with Kai at dinner over whether the staff should call him ‘sir,’ and Anna laughs so hard Chardonnay comes out her nose.)
But as days turn into weeks, and even as Kristoff’s sometimes-I-casually-crash-here bedroom in the guest wing becomes the place he’s sleeping more often than not, he hovers on her periphery. He never initiates anything, no matter how much time they spend together. He never grabs for her hand, or leans in for a kiss, or winds an arm around her waist as they walk through the market. She’s always the one who has to be first to reach out and touch.
And once she realizes, it kind of starts to become the only thing she sees.
It’s so subtle she hadn’t even noticed, at the beginning. She’d just been grateful to have anyone to reach for at all, grateful to bask in the once-familiar warmth of Elsa’s attention, and the novelty of Kristoff’s. Grateful to have people accept her invitations and advances, for once, instead of brushing her off or ignoring her or leaving her alone.
But one by one, things start to add up.
Every morning, Kristoff waits for her at the foot of the stairs, and walks her to the dining room for breakfast. The first time he ever did it, she’d playfully offered up her hand—like he’d kiss it, like it was an introduction at court. He hadn’t, but—of course he hadn’t, that’s not Kristoff’s world. She’d laughed at herself for her error, even as he’d taken her hand, awkwardly, and entwined their fingers, and held on until he’d pulled out her chair for her. And that had been fine, had been sweet, even, but… every morning she pauses at the bottom step, enjoying that last moment of height, of being just as tall as him. And he smiles at her, and he waits. And if she pecks him on the cheek, he grins and blushes, and if she kisses him softly, he kisses her back.
But if she does nothing, he does nothing, and she knows, because she’s checked. For four days in a row, she smiles and breezes past him, and all he does is follow behind. Like it makes no difference to him either way.
It makes a difference to her.
It’s Elsa who points out he might be nervous in his new role as suitor when they’re from such different walks of life—and that makes sense, Anna can wrap her mind around that. But none of the things she does to reassure him seem to help. Reminders about which pieces of silverware to use when leave him flustered and stammering, and she’s lost count of how many times she’s tried to gently correct his posture. (To be fair, if she were as big as he is, she might want to be less conspicuous, too—she knows that he hates standing out, even though she can’t really understand why. He’s the most interesting person in almost every room he walks into; doesn’t he know he’d stand out either way?) She asks him questions, as many as she can think of, about where he came from and how he grew up and what he likes. And if the answers are not sure and alone and ice, well. She can handle that.
Because he’s wonderful. He’s so gentle with her, and hilarious, even when he’s not trying to be, and—and he thinks she’s funny, which is a particular head rush. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to make people laugh, and she doesn’t know what she’d do if she lost that again.
(Or, well. She does. She knows exactly. She knows four languages fluently and eleven different ways to play solitaire and every romance trope in the books; she knows the particulars and provenance of all of the portraits on the walls and exactly how many freckles she has—347, at least as of spring. She could know more; there’s room. But she doesn’t want to have to anymore.)
So she chases that feeling, amplifies it, does everything she can to remind Kristoff of just how lovable she is. Only she can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s the problem. She knows she’s… a lot, sometimes. Knows there’s inevitably going to be a limit to how much Kristoff can take, going to be a day where he thinks okay, that’s it, I’ve had enough. But she has no idea where that line is, and all of her attempts to narrow it down just leave her more confused as he maintains the careful distance he’s created between them.
Which, in her darker moments and on her (thankfully less common) worse-for-wear days, kind of makes her wonder if—if maybe he’s not that invested because he’s not that invested. Maybe it’s not kindness, or propriety, or nerves at being suddenly thrown into the upper class. Maybe he doesn’t actually like her as much as she likes him, and all he’s doing is reciprocating when it’s convenient. Taking advantage. Leading her on.
It makes her feel… on edge. Desperate, a little. Like she’s powerless; like she’s still trapped in a locked room, waiting for someone to love her back to life.
She hates it.
And she doesn’t mean to let it show, she tries to keep her smile on and power through it, but it scares her—the idea of losing him when they’ve only just found each other. She hears the most ridiculous things come out of her own mouth, petty digs and passive-aggressive comments she can tell get under his skin. And she wants to stop, but can’t help but feel a thrill of vindication at it, too. Let it bug him. Let him be the one itching with it, for once, this feeling like things could topple over at any minute.
(“I think you’re making a problem where there isn’t one,” Elsa ventures after dinner one night, having watched Anna spend an entire evening embarrassing herself playing hard-to-get with someone who seems determined not to chase after her.
Whatever. What does Elsa know? “So I’m making mountains out of molehills,” Anna grumbles, putting words in Elsa’s mouth because apparently she can’t content herself with pushing away just one person in an evening.
Elsa looks hesitant, then screws her face up with resolve. Like she’s psyching herself up to talk. “There aren’t even any molehills,” she asserts. “You’re just… tripping over your own two feet on perfectly even ground.”
“Well, that certainly sounds like me,” Anna concedes, aiming for self-deprecating but landing further south of bitter. And then Elsa pulls her into a side-hug, thoughtless and big-sisterly, like it’s nothing, and Anna bursts into tears.)
Somehow, despite all of that, it still takes her by surprise when things finally come to a head.
So she’s been having nightmares lately.
It’s not a big deal. She’s not a child; she can handle it. But she puts a lot of effort into getting the most out of each day as it comes, into spending time with Elsa and getting to know the citizens and pestering entertaining Kristoff, which means that she hasn’t really left a lot of room for, like. Processing. Which would be fine if anyone had actually bothered to tell her brain that, but instead it stubbornly insists on reflecting upon the last month whether she’s awake for it or not, leaving her dreams disjointed and frightening—full of sharp ice and dark nights and doors slammed closed. She wakes up shivering at all hours, fighting against every instinct she has to get up and find company. Because—it’s absurd, and unnecessary. She’s been sleeping alone for an awful long time; there’s hardly any need for that to change now. Not when she already has so much.
But her latest dream—it throws her. Because she’s cold, she’s so cold, and he’s everywhere but close to her, back to the couch as he spouts seemingly-benign nothings that cut into her like knives, and he won’t even look at her, why won’t he look at her, but then he does, only it’s whiskey-brown eyes and Kristoff’s voice and “if only there were someone out there who loved you” and he won’t touch her, he’ll never touch her and she’s alone and—
It would have been fine if Kristoff had been waiting for her at the foot of the stairs in the morning, like he always is.
But he isn’t.
She’d planned on going on a stroll with him down to the schoolhouse, to play with the children. Awed as they are every time the princess visits and spends time with them, it’s Kristoff they really love—the way that, if they needle him and ignore his fake-complaining long enough, he lets them ride tall on his broad shoulders; the way he unabashedly gets down on his hands and knees and makes braying, playful animal noises as he chases them down, shrieking laughter. It’s a side of him Anna hardly ever sees, outside of overheard conversations with Sven and the one time they visited the Valley of Living Rock. But that had been—well, her mind had been on other things then, obviously.
But he isn’t waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, and he never shows up to breakfast. Elsa hasn’t seen him; Olaf hasn’t seen him. He’s nowhere—not in his bedroom, not in the marketplace, not at Hudson’s Hearth.
No… instead, she finds him in the stables. Readying Sven’s tack and packing his gear.
“Are you… going somewhere?” Anna asks, hating the strange way her voice comes out.
He jumps, surprised. “Anna! Way to sneak up on a guy.”
“I’m not sneaking, I live here.”
He goes back to what he was doing. “Almanac says next month is supposed to be a real scorcher; I figure if I can get high enough up the North Mountain, spend a week or so really building up my supply, I can be set almost through fall.”
A stab of fear clutches at Anna’s heart—he is leaving, he’s leaving her—but she doesn’t let it win. Instead, she turns her attention to the tiny, flickering flame in her gut telling her she’s allowed to be annoyed about this, and fans it; lets it turn to anger.
“A week,” she repeats faintly, processing. “Were you planning on letting me know?”
He blinks at her, baffled. “I was gonna say goodbye, yeah.”
“Great. Goodbye.” She turns to walk out.
“Hey, wh—” he huffs. “Anna.”
“Was there something else?”
“No, but. You’re being weird.”
She stares at the loose straw on the floor. “Well there you go. You can escape into the mountains and live your life and never have to deal with my weirdness again.”
“Is that a promise?” he asks, teasing, clearly trying to lighten the mood, but it lodges like ice in her heart. (She’s annoying. She’s a burden. He tolerates her at best.) It must show on her face, because his expression softens immediately. “Anna, hey, that was a joke—”
“Don’t worry about it. You don’t owe me anything. Come back whenever,” she says, forced casual. “Or don’t.”
His features cloud over. “Wait. Are you—mad at me? Seriously?”
“Take a guess!”
“I’m not going to play games with you. If you have something to say, you can come right out and say it.”
“Fine. I don’t see where you get off leaving without breathing a word to anyone. It’s—it’s ungrateful, is what it is. After all we’ve done for you, you’re just going to traipse off?”
The clouds of his face are approaching a full-on thunderstorm. “Excuse me?” he asks in a low growl. Sven anxiously scuffs and stamps inside his stall, staring back and forth between them in distress at the mounting tension; Anna ignores him.
“Poor Kristoff,” she mocks, putting on a voice for him: “My life is so hard, getting a room in the castle and a brand new wardrobe and top-of-the-line equipment. I’d better skip town.”
“Skip town?” She can tell by his tone that she’s struck a nerve. Good. “This isn’t some vacation, Anna; it’s what I do. Some of us actually have to work for a living. I don’t expect you to know anything about that, but you know what? Yeah. Maybe I don't want all of these things just handed to me. Maybe they’d actually mean something then.”
(She means nothing to him.) “So sorry to have afflicted you with the terrible burden of nice things,” she sneers.
“I don’t want your stuff, Anna! And you know what? News flash: not everything is about you!”
“Stop talking to me like I’m some spoiled—”
“What? Princess? You are one!”
—child. She was going to say child.
“And believe me, I’ve gotten the message,” he continues. “Stand up straight, Kristoff. What did your parents do, Kristoff? You think I don’t hear it when you laugh at me? It’s humiliating! So excuse me for wanting to get away for a few days and do something I know I’m good at. Excuse me for not thinking I needed to check in with you before doing my job. Y’know, the one you had to title me for before we could even be seen together in public.”
He might as well have slapped her. “Do you really think I’m that shallow?”
“You tell me! You’re the one who said I only spend time with you for what it can get me.”
“You wouldn’t be the first!” she blurts.
He rears back, stung. “Don’t. Don’t compare me to him, that’s not fair—”
“What else am I supposed to think?” she stutters, placed on the defensive. “You don’t—you don’t touch me, not ever, you don’t kiss me or hug me or hold my hand; not unless I start it. You’re just here, and now you don’t even want to be that anymore.”
“So I’m trapped here, now?”
He’s being as gentle as she thinks he knows how, voice mild and goading, but it sticks in her craw all the same. Anna knows what it is to be trapped here; he’s got no idea. Not a clue. “I don’t think it’s a lot to ask,” she says, through gritted teeth, “for you to give me a heads-up if you’re going to disappear.”
“It’s not. And I’m not. But, Anna… you didn’t ask. You never ask. About any of that stuff—the kissing, the—whatever. Why didn’t you just…?”
The festering thing inside her, the bubbling, fizzing brew of anxiety and doubt and lingering betrayal boils over: “Because I shouldn’t have to ask! You should just know. If it were true love, you’d just know.”
She regrets it as soon as it’s out of her mouth. His face falls; she watches as heartbreak flutters across his expression, only to be replaced by a cold, distant absence of feeling. Blank. “Well. Maybe it’s not, then.”
“Kristoff—”
“Forget it,” he mutters, turning and heading for the door. “If you want a mind reader, then I’m not your guy. So why don’t we do ourselves a favor and stop pretending like everything’s working when clearly, I’m not good enough for you.”
But that’s not what she—this is the last thing she’d—no. No, no, no, no… She runs, scrambling to catch up with him, then passes him entirely and throws out her arms, blocking his access to the door.
“Kristoff, hold on, I never said that. I—stop, please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it—”
“But that’s the thing,” he says, and he doesn’t even sound angry anymore, he just sounds—sounds exhausted, and sad, and that’s so much worse. “You did. So just—move, Anna. Please. Let me go.”
She can’t. She won’t. She never should have let it get this far. Everything inside her is screaming not to let him leave this room; that if she lets him walk away now, it’s the last she’ll ever see of him. He tries to get around her; she steps with him, blocking his way once more.
“Anna—”
“I’m sorry!” she bursts out again, and—oh no. She’s crying. He’ll never take her seriously if she’s crying; she’s ruining this. “I just—I always do this, I need too much, and it pushes people away, and—”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he argues. “I just don’t understand why it’s so impossible for you to tell me what you want!”
“I want you!”
“You have me! I’m right here!”
“I don’t want you to go; I want to stop feeling like everything’s going to fall apart if I don’t hold it together. I’ve spent my whole life settling, and I want—I want—”
“What?” he demands.
“I want it to be perfect!”
The word echoes starkly off the wooden rafters.
Anna takes a deep breath and plows ahead. “Everything’s been so hard, for such a long time, and I just—I’m so tired, Kristoff. I just want one perfect thing. Is that so wrong?”
Kristoff looks at her—deep-down looks at her—and it’s like all the fight goes out at him, all at once. “No. It’s not.”
His agreement makes her feel wrong-footed somehow. “…It’s not?”
They stare at each other, seemingly at a mutual loss.
“…Let’s sit,” he suggests, only to look around and realize their options are fairly limited: a single low stool by the stalls, and a pile of hay in the corner. Mouth twisting, he walks around to the side of his sled and climbs in, then offers a hand to her to help her up. Against her better judgment, she lets him hoist her into the seat, but releases his hand as soon as she can and is careful not to sit too close to him as she settles down. Leaving room between them. If he wants it.
His voice is quiet and serious when he apologetically murmurs, “I’ve never made you cry before.”
“Oh,” she says. Not sure if she’d realized. She wipes idly at her cheeks, clearing away the moisture. “Yeah, well… big emotions. Kind of comes with the territory, if you’re… me. It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and rubs at his neck, clearly thinking hard about every word before he says it. It’s still new for her—this kind of consideration. It’s been a long time since anyone’s taken so much care with her; there hasn’t been anyone around to. “I’m… I’m not gonna do great if the bar is perfect. I wish I could be, for you, but—it’s not in the cards. I’m not a prince; I’m not storybook romance guy. Most days, I’m barely even person guy. My best friend is a reindeer. I’m not good at—at reading signals, or at subtext. I need you to tell me how I’m doing. What you need from me. Otherwise, I don’t know. If that’s gonna be a deal breaker, then maybe…” He doesn’t seem to want to end that sentence. She doesn’t want him to, either. He takes a different tack: “All I can do is love you, Anna. That’s what I’ve got. So if that’s not enough for you…” He sighs. “I don’t know what else to do.”
She blinks at him, feeling as though someone has shoved a crowbar through the clockwork of her brain, its delicate gears grinding to a sudden, crunching stop.
“You… love me?”
He’s never said that before. Not in as many words. And it’s not like she didn’t know (didn’t she?), she’s not surprised, this is her definitely not being surprised, it’s just… well. Knowing Kristoff loves her and confirming Kristoff knows he loves her are two very different things. And, as it turns out, hearing Olaf say it and hearing it from Kristoff himself are also two very different things.
(Having it not be life and death, that probably helps. She doesn’t need him to love her, he just—does. Apparently. And that’s. That’s something, alright.)
He turns bright pink. “I—yeah. Anna. Yes. Of course I do. I thought that was obvious.” He groans. “See, this is exactly what I mean. We’re clearly not on the same page. I never know how to just talk to you, or what’s allowed and what’s not, and clearly you’re still nervous about talking to me, and… oh. Hi.”
He’s taken the fact that she’s decided to slide into his lap pretty well, she thinks. His arms go around her automatically, his broad, warm hands spanning whole widths of her to keep her firmly in place.
“See, but this is exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, draping herself around his neck and pressing her forehead gently to his. His eyes fall shut. “You do know how to be romantic. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah, because it was an accident. I don’t know how to do that on purpose. I don’t even know what it is I said.”
“You love me,” she reminds him, and he laughs.
“Yeah. I love you. It’s weird.”
She frowns. “Excuse me?”
His eyes fly open. “Oh, jeez. Not that—not that you’re weird, but I mean, you are, but not. Not in a bad way, it’s a good weird, I like it, but I—”
Okay, maybe he knew what he was talking about when he said he’s bad at this.
“Kristoff.”
It’s quiet for a long moment as he figures out whatever it is that’s on his mind. “I never thought I’d love anyone, is all,” he eventually admits.
“Wait, what? Why?” That’s got to be the saddest thing she’s ever heard. “And also, that’s not true. You love Sven, and your troll family, and…” She can’t help but beam at him. “And me.”
He shrugs, shifting uncomfortably beneath her. “I mean like… romantic love. It always just felt… I don’t know. Far away. Like something other people got to do. Not something that was meant for me.” She must look horrified, because he hurriedly adds, “Not because I thought I was unlovable, or anything! More that it just seemed like such hard work. Getting to know someone, having to change your whole life to make room for them. I was happy alone; no one I’d met ever seemed worth the effort. No one ever clicked.” He smiles at her, soft and tentative. “And then I met you.”
“Well, I love you, too,” she says, and she wishes she could capture the look on his face in this moment, could turn to it and replay it over and over and over again, like a music box. Wind it up and watch his face come alive like a flower in the sun. Or maybe she’s mixing her metaphors again. He’s beautiful, is her point.
Then, his expression of wonder morphs into a sly grin. His fingers press in on her—tickling her, just a bit. “Yeah. And you’re still hard work.”
“Hey!” she yelps, trying to twist out of his grasp, breaking into peals of laughter. It’s absurd; for all that he’s been avoiding touching her, he seems to know exactly the right places to run his fingertips to make her squirm and giggle. “Kr-Kristoff, cut it out!” He eases up on her, and she settles back into his embrace, catching her breath. She knows he was joking, mostly, but… well. Just in case, she adds: “I’m sorry. That I’m—hard work.”
She wants him to deny it, or take it back. Instead, he gives a carefree shrug. “A little hard work has never scared me,” he says simply, like—like it’s not a problem, if she’s a problem, sometimes.
It fortifies her. “Me neither,” she says with as much conviction as she can muster, and her heart rises and fills like a hot air balloon at his responding fond grin.
“Yeah. I know. And—I’m… sorry, for making it sound like I didn’t, earlier. I don’t think you’re shallow, or spoiled, or any of that stuff. I just. I want to be the kind of person you deserve. ”
“You are, Kristoff, you’re—I’m so sorry I made you think you aren’t. I just got so in my own head. I know I should’ve talked to you about it instead of picking a fight. It’s only… my parents…” She bites her lip. “It’s not just fairy tales. My parents, it was like they could read each other’s minds. I’d say something, and they’d look at each other, and it was like they just knew. They were always so in sync.”
“They were married for years and years. We’ve got time, Anna,” he says. Swallows. “I mean. If you want it.”
“I do!” she insists, and then realizes she’s just said I do when he’s mentioned marriage, and grimaces. She can feel her face burning with her sudden blush. But then he smiles at her again, that sunlight smile, and she buries her face into his neck, overcome. She breathes in the scent of him as his arms tighten around her; he rocks the two of them back and forth, and it’s ridiculous, how soothing it is.
“I wasn’t gonna leave,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I mean I was, I was gonna go cool off, and I’ve still got to go into the mountains, but. I wasn’t gonna leave you. I wouldn’t.”
Her brow furrows, recalling their earlier words. “You’re not trapped here. You could go, if you wanted to,” she says, her voice coming out smaller than she’d intended.
“I don’t. I’m exactly where I want to be, okay? I just, uh. I’m gonna need your help to figure it all out, is all. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
That seems reasonable. She can’t ask him for more than he knows how to give. But still, the doubts niggle at her, in the back of her mind.
Which he won’t know unless she tells him.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, either. This is all new to me. And… I know maybe it’s not fair, but. I guess it feels like if I have to ask for it—for what I want—it doesn’t… count?” There’s a loose thread on the button hole of his shirt, by his neck; she picks at it, to avoid looking up at him. She feels him hesitate before he presses a quiet kiss to her temple; lets his choice shore her up. “I spent so many years knocking on Elsa’s door, begging her to spend time with me, and it never made any difference. I’m just. I’m so tired of having to ask. It makes me feel…” Pathetic. Weak. Unmoored. “…like a little kid again.”
“I don’t think it’s childish,” he murmurs into her hair. “I think it’s brave.”
“…Really?”
“It’s the first thing I ever admired about you. The way you just go after the things you want. I don’t know why it should be any different when it’s me.”
“Sometimes a girl wants to be swept off her feet,” she grumbles.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m an ice harvester, Anna. You’re the princess. I can’t just—have my way with you. That’s not how this works.”
“Well, the way it works is dumb.”
“Kind of above my pay grade, feistypants.”
“Then I’ll have to take it to the Queen. I have an in with her, you know,” Anna jokes.
And he laughs, and he kisses her. And it feels like they can leave it there, for now.
Kristoff should have known that one heart-to-heart wasn’t going to be enough for Anna.
She’d been gracious and playful when he had actually left for his harvesting trip, full of good humor and ready affection and promises that she’d be fine, Kristoff, honestly, and he’d headed into the mountains letting himself think maybe it would be that easy.
And in some ways, it has been. She’s been genuinely better about being honest with him, talking out her thought processes, and catching herself when she’s accidentally pressing his buttons about ‘proper’ behavior. But he’s been back for days now, and things are still… off. She’s a good sport about it, or she’s trying to be, but it turns out Anna’s not great at masking her emotions even when she’s putting literally all of her effort into it. He notices, now, in a way he didn’t before—how every time he pulls back instead of touching her, she gets this pale, anxious look on her face. How her eyes dart to his hands, sometimes, when they’re just sitting quietly together; as though he’s liable to do a magic trick any minute now and she doesn’t want to miss it when he does. The soft, disappointed sounds she makes when he doesn’t.
He wants so badly to be everything she needs, so he takes himself out of his comfort zone. He tries. Only when he does, he only seems to make it worse—his every attempt to take her off guard, to woo her like she’s said she wanted, ends in disaster. She either startles and jumps or she freezes, and then trips over herself in apology, which isn’t necessary, but does tend to ruin the mood, and then they’re back where they started.
“It’s just so frustrating,” she confesses to him one night, applying an ice-filled handkerchief to the bridge of his nose. (After he’d played Guess Who?, covered her eyes from behind, and dropped a kiss behind her ear, only for her to spin around and punch him instinctively in the face. After she’d apologized profusely over his insistence that he didn’t need ice, her tiny fists could not do much damage to his very hard head. After she’d led him to the cellar next to the kitchens and gotten him ice—his own ice, that he’d brought back for her himself—despite his protests.) “I don’t know why I’m like this.”
He has his guesses—about Elsa, and Hans, and how getting hurt like that enough times could leave a girl gun-shy. It’s inevitable, probably.
But the idea that she might be scared of him, of the things he might do, is torture.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he says, frowning at the slightly nasal whine his voice has taken on. “I don’t take it personally, Anna. It’s natural to want to protect yourself.”
“I don’t. I don’t want to protect myself from you. I want to—surrender? No, sorry, that’s weird. To, um. Open the gates and lower the drawbridge and… establish firm diplomatic relations,” she says, stumbling over the words in her haste to be understood. She smiles a little, helpless and winsome. Knowing how she sounds. Trusting he’s charmed by it.
He is.
“Okay, so. How do we do that?”
The smile turns into a grimace as distress creeps back into her features. “I don’t know.”
“Alright,” he says. “That’s alright. I can wait.” He’d wait an awful long time for Anna, if she asked him to.
“I just wish I had someone to talk to about all of this,” she frets. “But I can’t go to Elsa because she’s—busy, obviously, but she’s also never had a, a person, like you. So even if she could help, I don’t want to, I don’t know, rub it in her face? And I can’t ask the staff, they’re staff. It’s not their job to hold my hand through my stupid drama. And I just wish—” She wipes at an eye, looking more frustrated with herself than sad. “It’s so silly, but. I wish my mom were here.”
“Oh, sweetheart…” he murmurs, before he can think about it, before he even realizes it’s what’s going to come out of his mouth. He braces for awkwardness, but Anna doesn’t seem to mind; she even manages to give him a half-hearted, watery upturn at the corner of her mouth. It’s just… his heart aches for her. He longs to pull her into his arms and hug her until everything else goes away. “I know it’s not the same, but. You can talk to me. I may not always say the right thing, but—my ears work, I can listen. Last I checked, anyway.”
She considers this.
“I just… it feels like everything’s gone off-script,” she admits. “Ever since—well, forever, I guess, but especially after my parents died—my life was supposed to go a certain way. There was a plan. And it’s all just totally off the rails now. And I’m glad it’s different—I love spending time with Elsa, and I’m so lucky I didn’t end up running off with—” She swallows, hard, and Kristoff finds himself clearing his own throat in sympathy. Like his windpipe’s full of wasps. “—y’know, the first guy I met who showed an interest. But now…” For whatever reason, she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze. “I have no idea what’s going to happen next. I don’t know what to expect. Everything changed so fast, and it feels like there’s nothing I can do about it.”
He reaches up, gently removing her hand and the ice bag from his face so they can look at each other properly. “If it scares you to feel like you’re not in control, then take control. If the sleigh’s not going where you need it to, you don’t wait for someone else to take the reins. You grab the reins yourself. I know you can do it because I’ve seen you do it. Literally,” he adds with a chuckle, to soften the intensity of the moment. “It’s not—cheating, or immature, or whatever. It’s not.”
“How about pushy? Or emasculating?”
“I think I can take it.”
She surges forward then, her small hands on his cheeks, her hungry mouth on his. He hisses when their noses collide; she breaks away, already halfway to an apology, but he cradles the back of her head in his palm and pulls her back in, swallowing it down. Desperate to show her how he feels, in a way she can understand.
If the way she kisses is any indication, they’re starting to get on the same page.