Disclaimer: I own nothing related to any Disney universe including, but not limited to, characters, names of places, lyrics, dialogue, or any other piece of product. Disney retains all the rights to this universe. I am making no money or receiving any kind of compensation, material or non-material, for this fiction. It's all for fun. Please don't sue me. I do claim the writing, the idea behind this particular narrative, and any peripheral characters or locations created to augment Disney's work.

...

A/N: does anyone actually read these? Nah? Okay. Read this instead:

...

He leaves her alone after that and somehow that is worse. Somehow the fact that he never catches her glances or the way she can hear him laugh when she passes by but never so much as acknowledges her sets her off balance even more.

She has to convince herself that this is not some ploy, some sort of reverse psychology to get her to chase him instead.

He probably just realized that she is not worth the trouble, that there are plenty of other eligible young women who can actually give him what he wants, or might want, or - whatever

She has a headache.

For most humans the only thing that means is that they should drink some more water, take a pain reliever, and wait for the pain subside. She, however, is not most humans. Tonight though she will chalk it up to the late hour (it is three in the morning, after all) and the fact that on top of all of her other duties she has been battling with keeping her focus anywhere but where he lingers in her periphery. Her headache could just be from working twenty hours straight with four more to go.

It could.

It is what she chooses to believe. She does not have the space or strength to acknowledge her other option.

She focused beyond all that, needing every fiber of will power to stay on task for this final push.

Tiana and her crew are long gone as are the band that has been replaced by a mellow DJ. The bride and groom exited at midnight beneath a Technicolor display of fireworks The bar had been replaced with a boozy smoothie and doughnuts truck for those party goers who were still going strong but even that has packed up and left. The last of the guests mill about the tent, sit scattered between tables, as Elsa and crew finish tying up the final details.

Rentals have been organized for pickup.

The crew hired to dismantle the tent and get it offsite would arrive at six AM to make way for the next day's event.

Gifts and cards had already been catalogued, packed up, and shuttled to the specified location courtesy of Rapunzel and Eugene along with sentimental items including Ariel's dress.

Final checks had been provided to all vendors for their services.

The videographer and photographers left when the bride and groom had.

The leftover cake had been boxed and sent home with guests along with bottles of Dom Pérignon.

The florals are being donated to a local hospital and all but the centerpieces have been dismantled accordingly.

The list continues and Elsa's mind mechanically checks and rechecks the boxes. She has done this so many times it is like clockwork. She hardly has to think anymore when it comes to the operations side of things. At least she normally does not, but tonight she runs through the list again and again until she is dizzy from it. She allowed her focus to slip and now she pays the price.

He is among the chosen few that still huddle in groups, laughing and chatting. He has lost his tie and suit jacket, his hair is not quite as perfectly placed as it had been as he relaxes back in his chair across the way. He seems happy, fully engaged in whatever the giggly brunette next to him was saying, and she isn't jealous. She is glad, relieved in many ways, but there is a strange twinge of sadness that twists in unbidden in her chest. It is a funny kind of mourning for something that died before it has a chance to live and it is a feeling she knows all too well and she hates it.

She will not pity herself.

She will not give into grief for all the things she will never have.

She looks away and goes over her list again.

….

The last of the guests finally throw in the towel half an hour before the tent crew shows up. They have rooms here in the winery where they stumble to, laughing and smiling, and that is all Elsa needs. These days are long, grueling, and relentless but to see smiles on the faces of the guests is enough to let the stresses fall away to nothing.

That feeling is just enough of a boost to finish the last few tasks before she goes home and falls into bed for the next few hours.

The men start the process of unstringing lights as the women dismantle the centerpieces. They blow out the few candles left burning and start separating out the flowers into respective types for the donation. It is a large tent and there are so many tables that they spread out into sections, all exhausted and ready to be done, but working dutifully. She moves robotically just trying to get this all done as quickly as possible and does not hear him approach.

"Let me help you."

His voice catches her off guard and she squeaks. A thorn in the bunch of roses she is bundling stabs the soft skin of her palm and she drops the flowers to the table.

She had thought he had gone up with the others and maybe he had. Her head whips to the side to see him standing there, rumpled but eyes still bright, as she rubs the stinging place on her hand.

"I don't need help."

It is quick, a knee jerk response, and he tilts his head to look at where she is tending her sore spot.

"Looks like you might."

She forces her hands down and chin up. "Is there something you need, Mister Westergaard? Problems with your room?"

He looks at her like he hasn't quite figured her out but cannot wait to.

"If I didn't know better I'd think you were offering to come up with me," They both get the implication. "But I have the feeling that any kind of proposal of the sort would mortify you."

He is right. Her ears heat even at the thought, at the idea that anything she said could have been construed in a way that could give him an inch. He lets it go, however, and nods towards the hand she has clenched at her side.

"That okay? I could find a bandaid or something."

He is so sincere and she almost buys it.

"It's nothing," and it is. She is used to being poked and prodded. This is nothing new. "If there is nothing I can do to assist you -"

"I want to help you."

He cuts her off and she looks for the lie. She looks for the bravado, for the arrogance she knew came with this class. She looks for the price, but she doesn't find it. All she sees is the same earnest expression he gave when he helped her straighten the chair covers all those many hours before.

"I really don't -"

"Please."

And she wants to refuse. She wants to turn her back and return to her work and forget she had ever seen him before but she knows that is impossible. She knows that he will not relent until she gives in and what scares her more than anything is that she wants to. She wants to let him help. She wants to let him in, and that cannot happen.

She must keep her distance, but she knows he won't let her go far.

There is only a few hours longer, and then he will be gone for good and she won't have to worry about this again.

She can do this.

"Sort the flowers by type. If they are too wilted we trash them. Greenery gets sorted, too. Leave the piles on the table and we'll get them where they need to go." She keeps it simple, direct. "You can finish this table and I'll move to another. Feel free to stop at any time."

She doesn't mean that last sentence as much as she wants to, her heart beating into her ears till she can hardly hear.

"Sounds good, boss." He smiles and she hates how bright and wide it cuts across his face. He smiles like he doesn't have a care in the world, and she wonders what that is like.

She doesn't trust her voice, trust the words that might trip out of her mouth, so she gives a terse nod and turns on an aching heel. With trembling hands she begins to dismantle another centerpiece. She isn't sure if she can feel him staring or if that is just her exhausted paranoia. She can hardly get her mind to focus on the task at hand and she takes a deep breath.

Just a few more hours, maybe less, and he will be gone.

She doesn't know why that makes her feel so sad, but she chalks it up to exhaustion. It is easy to confuse feelings or feel things that you normally wouldn't when you are overwrought. She has seen this many times, felt it too, in all aspects of life.

You don't spend collective years of your life waiting on tests and scans and results, uncertainty ringing like an alarm in your head at all times, without knowing a thing or two about emotions creeping in where logic would better serve. She will sleep soon and the world will make more sense then. She will shower and wash every trace of his touch against her neck, his breath on her cheek, his scalding palm on her waist down the drain and forget she ever felt a thing.

She has done it before, and she will do it again.

She does not have time to feel sad for an impossibility. That road has never helped her before and she refuses to take it now, but she cannot ignore how close he is. She cannot pretend she does not notice him working in the periphery, and maintain her focus.

She grabs and armful of peonies and marches behind the bar. There are dozens of buckets set up waiting for the florals and she starts the unloading process. The rest of the crew have been creating piles on the bar according to type as instructed and this is the perfect place for her: secluded and protected behind the solid wood and marble of the outdoor bar.

She is busy assigning buckets to their floral counterparts when he approaches with an arm full of greens.

He drops them on the bar top across from her and shifts his weight. She nods in acknowledgement, hoping to keep him at a safe distance. He does not approach but he does not retreat either.

Not yet.

Not until: "I'm sorry if I came on too strong."

Her hands falter just for a moment. Of all the things she had expected - an apology is not one of them.

She shakes her head, not looking at him as she reaches for another pile. "Let's just forget it and move on."

He pauses before stepping away, not pressing the issue, and again that is unexpected. She does not try to deduce anything from it. Her mind too exhausted from running in circles to go any further down this spiral. Whatever game he may or may not be playing - she is done trying to determine the rules.

He is back before she has too much time to decide she isn't going to spend any more time thinking about him. This time he brings arms full of white roses and she remembers feels like a lifetime ago already.

"What if I don't want to forget it?"

Her mind blanks at his question, already moved on from her flippant statement and stuck firmly sixteen hours before.

"Excuse me?"

"You said we should just forget it, but what if I don't want to?" He shakes his head, looking the closest thing to flustered she has seen on him yet. Her heart skips when he brings her eyes back to hers. "I mean, I don't want to forget you or any part of this the time I spent with you. So what should I do about that?"

There is something deep, secret, and hidden in the way he asks - the way he looks at her. It strikes a familiar chord within her that she cannot place, does not want to try. She is too exhausted.

"I thought you were sorry for coming on too strong." She can only recycle his words, cannot dare come up with ones of her own, cannot begin to tell the truth and bare the look of pity or disgust that comes with it.

He huffs a smile.

"You're right. I am sorry. It is something I apologize for a lot - and not just where beautiful women are concerned."

She hums under her breath, a non-committal half answer in hopes to hide the fact that his flattery irks her. She is aware of her appearance. She knows that in many ways she is objectively beautiful which is why she takes measures to downplay it. She does not want to be noticed or appreciated and his attention only serves to show she has failed. She hates failure.

He leans into the bar, elbows resting dangerously close to the gardenias she is grabbing when he says:

"I may come on too strong, competitive nature - I guess, but I have to say you are possibly the most cagey and confusing and honestly the most frustrating human I have ever met."

And she can't ignore him then. Blue eyes flash to green to find them watching her with that locksmith precision that leaves her breathless.

"And despite all that I swear I have never wanted to get to know someone more than you."

His voice deepens to a whispered rush of air as if he is just as affected by her gaze as she is his.

She sucks in as much air as she can, chest rattling with effort, and she lies: "There is nothing to know. I'm just like any other girl."

He laughs out loud at that, a deep chuckle that brightens his eyes and softens his face an errant thought wonders what it would be like to rest in that expression, in his presence, instead of fighting.

"Not any girl I've met." He meets her blow for blow.

She fights back, is always fighting, is never allowed to stop fighting. "My work is my focus." The flowers she grabs are her punctuation. "Girls like me don't have time for distractions which is probably why you don't meet us."

He studies her a moment, head cocked to the side just so.

She pulls her focus, uncertain if she had just been too hard. He may have apologized but she won't. She drops a bunch of baby's breath into a bucket and reaches for more, trying to do anything but look at him. She already knows what she will see if she does: that seeking, searching human gaze that let's her in as much as it asks to be let in.

She sees him shift back off the bar and stand up straight.

"Okay," he says.

It catches her off guard. Everything about him catches her off guard.

"Okay?" She cannot stop the question in her voice, not sure what exactly she is agreeing to.

"Okay," he says. "I won't distract you."

She waits a breath for the catch, for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn't come.

"Okay," she replies before she can stop herself.

He looks back over his shoulder and shoves hands into his tux pants pockets. "My table is done. Anything else you want me to do, boss?"

The way he says 'boss' really makes her feel like he means it, like he takes this seriously - her seriously, and she appreciates that. She wishes she didn't appreciate that.

She straightens and meets his eyes. His hair is a mess, shirt and pants wrinkled. His vest, jacket, and bow tie are long gone. There is something young, hopeful in the way he looks at her. He looks like someone who has time to live his life and while she envies him she also respects that her journey is hers alone. In a day's time he will have forgotten her and go on without a second thought. She will go back to her work as long as she is able. It will all be as it should be.

So she gives him a soft smile of understanding, nods her head, and says, "That will be all, Mister Westergaard."

He gives her a cocked smile in return, kicking his shoe against the dance floor Kristoff and Sven are dismantling for pick up. "It's Hans."

He doesn't give her a chance to respond as he walks away, whistling as he goes.

It is only a few moments later she realizes the tune he chose.

What a Wonderful World sticks in her mind for the rest of the job.