Aftermath

Scene 25

Scene 25: Elsa, then

She let him into her room.

--

She didn't know why or how it had begun, but she had started to … tell him things.

Things like her fears—fears of abandonment, of imprisonment, of judgment.

Things like her dreams—dreams of confidence, of fulfilment, of freedom.

And he told her things, too—and she always wondered, with a burning chest, if he'd already told them to her sister—things about his family, his past, his fears, his hopes.

(But they never spoke of feelings—no.)

It had taken a long time by "normal" standards, she guessed, to open up to him. But by her own, it had all happened so fast, jumping from hatred and suspicion to fascination to lust to …

Whatever that was.

Even that, however, wasn't much by those same standards—just a few hushed words spoken in private places, like his apartment or his office (never hers) after he finished and was resting on top of her, or under her, or beside her—but inside it felt like a new life bursting from under her feet, like the shock of touching fresh snow for the first time, like a door opening.

Of course, the lust was still there, and so was the suspicion, though admittedly there was less of the latter and more of the former. Though she wanted to hold onto something like distrust, something like fear, that became increasingly difficult with every brush of his fingers along hers, and every secret smile he sent her when Anna wasn't looking.

(And the guilt wasn't strong enough anymore to stop her from seeing him, from touching him, from wanting him.)

Still, there were some things they hadn't broached; up until that day, she'd been intending to keep it that way, because it was easier, more convenient, to shove those thoughts down, down, down until she could pretend that they'd never existed in the first place.

Not that that stopped him from bringing them up, of course—and when he did, every once in a while, she almost always left him disappointed.

Recently, though, something had changed, shifted within her, though she couldn't name what it was, or even understand it all that well. He had sensed that too, and had pushed a little harder at her defences, chipping away at what she thought had been impenetrable.

First were the questions about her parents—why they separated her from Anna, why they isolated her, how they died—and she couldn't remember how he'd managed to coax the answers out of her, except that he'd been gently stroking her hair in the way her mother used to when he did, and his voice had been little more than a soft whisper against her ear.

Then came the reminder that yes, he still wanted her to buy out the Westergard chain—and that reminder left a sour, bitter taste in her mouth every time it left his lips—but lately, she'd been saying she would consider the idea, which was leaps and bounds from the first time he brought it up. In fact, she was quite aggressively investigating the prospect of a buyout with her team (though she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that—not yet, anyway).

And then, last of all these, there was the matter of her room.

He suggested, once, that they go there instead of always meeting at his place—but when she'd sharply rejected the idea before he could even finish the sentence, he'd quickly dropped the issue, and she assumed that that was the last she would hear about it.

But nothing was simple with Hans, nor easy, and after a month or two had passed, and things had changed, he asked again.

He was gentler the second time, though—softer—and he said he could just tell Anna that he had work at the last minute one day when they were supposed to be looking at things for the wedding together, and she could dismiss Kai and Gerda, and then they'd have the house to themselves.

She'd resisted, naturally, on the counts that one, she didn't like the idea of him lying to Anna about work (though that was incredibly absurd, she realised, given the context of their entire situation), and two, if they had the whole house to themselves … then why did they need to be in her room, specifically?

There was something in his gaze, though, that gave her pause—that made her think of the closed door, cold whispers at night, shivering tears—and she wondered if maybe, just maybe, it was time to—

Let it go.

And so, to his surprise, she relented.

She still swallowed uncomfortably, even with her hand on the door knob and her fingers shaking. She was thankful that he didn't touch her, because she needed to do it herself: to open the door, to let him in.

And then she did.

He held her back against his chest, once they were inside, his embrace tenderer than she thought him capable of being, and she trembled something awful in his arms even as he kissed the side of her face and told her it would be all right, pressing her palms into his.

It gave her the strength she needed to suck in a deep breath, turn around in his arms, and grasp his hands firmly in her own; she led him to her bed, laid him down atop it, and let her fingers steady themselves as they ghosted over the sharp peak of his nose, across the freckles on his cheeks, and along the strong line of his jaw.

For the first time in forever, she realised, she didn't want to run away, to catch a plane, to escape—and it was because he was there, and he understood.

She smiled.