chapter word count: 617 (woops)

noir heart: forty-eight

A malignant narcissist sociopath, that was what he called her.

Clad in a pair of grey sweatpants and dark blue sweater, and resting with her back against the headboard of her bed, having intimated to Anna that due to being awake for nearly thirty hours straight she was feeling drained and in need of sleep, Elsa spends her time staring at the blue and white striped wallpaper directly across from her in the converted attic, wondering if he's right. She didn't see herself as such; people with that disorder tend to be rash and impulsive, to be paranoid and compulsive liars. Four character aspects that she knows for a fact she doesn't possess.

Sociopath? Doubtful. Sociopathic tendencies? Maybe.

She never truly knew what she was; all she knew was that on some level, she saw the world differently to everyone else. Things that have meaning to others are meaningless to her, bordering on sentiment that she has neither time nor patience for. She could count the number of people she cared about with one finger - technically two, Kristoff counts by association - and sometimes she is unable to fathom why people feel the way they do. Certainly, she doesn't really feel much for anyone, except perhaps the woman downstairs who knows she is different, yet still accepts her with open arms.

But then this man, this Detective Jack Frost, a man with wise and searching cobalt blue eyes, walked into the interview room with a weariness and darkness around him that she could practically touch. Who, in less than two hours managed to prove himself to be her equal. In less than six hours, shrugged off everything she threw at him and even managed to get under her skin by disparaging her work.

And that excites her, an emotion she hasn't felt in many, many years. He excites her. Intellectually, oddly emotionally, and sexually. The kind of flirtatious chemical interaction between those destined for a one night stand, except in their case it was a battle of wits over an interview table - and later, a kitchen table.

Over a table - her chest burns at the mental image.

It's strange, then, that her sudden yet intentional widowing has created an unexpected boon. She knew of Frost from the newspaper articles of various serial killers and psychopaths he had put behind bars - Mockingbird, Son of Mengele, the Skinner, even the White Fairy, and sought to see if she could beat him and commit the perfect murder. The consequences didn't really matter, not that they ever did; jail was vastly preferable to the hell of being Kozmotis Black's wife.

Smiling, she thinks of how the sensation of being laid bare, almost naked by his analysis was invigorating, and though he could not prosecute her for Kozmotis' death - her very presence in the attic bed is testament to that, but she has no intention of holding it against him - his ability to see and understand her was intriguing.

No-one has aroused that sensation for as long as she can remember, and so she makes a decision. Leaning forward, her hands grip the silver notebook which she asked Anna if she could borrow to help her doze off, and she pries it open with both hands. The home screen boots up almost immediately - thank you, explosion in a paint factory known as Windows 10 - and with a purposeful smirk she navigates the small pointer over to the Chrome icon and taps the touchpad.

Obediently, the ever omniscient Google search engine fills the screen patiently awaiting to be fed, and with great care she decides to find out everything she can about the man whose name she types into the search bar.

DETECTIVE JACK FROST |

first of hopefully many Elsa PoVs. Hope it worked out.

special thanks to: stefalove, colormeaya, jpbake, oninoko and heartonfire for reviewing!