A/N: Sorry for the wait. This was supposed to go a lot more quickly, but my laptop is kind of on its last legs, and being able to use it often hit or miss. But, today is a good day for my faithful companion, and I was able to edit a chapter before I run off for the evening. Glad so many of you are still enjoying at as much as you did the first time around. And just in case I don't get another update in, an early Merry Christmas to those of you that celebrate it, and happy holidays to all!
The menu is a lie.
Sauteed beef and mushrooms smothered in a rich sauce of tomato and sour cream, served atop a bed of white, fluffy rice. That is what I ordered and what I assumed I would receive. What I got, however, is unlike anything I'd ever seen. Clumps of gray and brown sprinkled intermittently throughout a glop of reddish-orange goop — as if vomit eloped with diarrhea, and this was the ill-fated result to their sick and twisted tale. (Though still infinitesimally a better love story than Twilight!)
The meal stares at me and I stare back, looking equally as dejected as the pitiful excuse of an entree that sits atop my table tray. Hospitals aren't exactly known for serving five-star food, but not even my lowest expectations could be met by this monstrosity of a meal. In fact, the only edible portions appear to be the small dinner roll that sits untouched to the side — thank god for small miracles — and a chocolate pudding cup which, when compared to the rest of my food, is practically gourmet.
Maybe the fall hadn't been enough to kill me, but I'm slowly beginning to think that perhaps I had suffered a far worse fate…
Starving, I resign myself to the fact that I'll just have to make do, reaching greedily for the pudding and tearing off its plastic seal. Grabbing the spoon, I only just dip the flat, circular head into that sweet, velvety goodness when a harsh cough distracts me from my task. Glancing up, I'm met with Elsa's disapproving stare, her sapphire eyes gleaming at me over the top of her work tablet.
"What?" I ask, innocently enough. Her brow quirks questioningly, lifting as though to say, 'Really?'
"Anna, that pudding is for dessert," she admonishes, setting the device aside so that she can cross her arms in obvious disapproval. "Eat your dinner first."
Hah, sure. Me? Eat that? A big, fat hell to the no!
"Nope! Nuh-uh, no way, no how!" I reply, head shaking vigorously with rejection. "Have you even seen what they've given me? C'mon, look! I'm not sure they're even legally allowed to call this food!"
Elsa sighs with clear exasperation, standing from her seat as she makes her way towards the side of my bed. A look of repulsion is quick to take its place, throat bobbing with a barely repressed gag, though she's deft at hiding it, adopting a well-practiced look of stoic professionalism. Of course, I've known her almost my whole life, so there's no disguising her disgust from me — as well concealed as it is. Still, she pretends to be unaffected, giving off an air of indifference as she says, "Don't be so fickle, Anna. It's not that bad."
"Oh, really?" I scoff, sliding the tray in her direction. "Then you eat it," I challenge, finding a modicum of satisfaction in the way she flinches back, instinctively placing as much distance between herself and the food as possible without physically moving from her spot. Hah! 'Not that bad,' my ass!
"No, this is for you," she insists, frowning deeply. "You haven't eaten anything since this morning, and you'll need something in your stomach before they can give you further medication."
"But I don't need more medication," I argue, huffing. "I'm fine now. I mean, yeah, definitely hurts! But I'll live."
Lucky doesn't even begin to cover how fortunate I am to have survived the fall, sustaining only a couple of broken ribs and a minor crack to the sternum. Compared to what other injuries I could have had — head trauma, a severed spine, nerve damage just to name a few — I think it's safe to say I walked away from this one relatively unscathed. And the pain, while still very much there, had dulled to a more tolerable ache, making me reluctant to introduce any more drugs into my system. I have nothing specific against modern medicine, but I was raised on the principle of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger," and I'm willing to suffer a little just to prove it.
Elsa has never agreed with this particular belief of mine and, to be expected, is displeased with my answer, dragging her chair across the worn linoleum to settle down directly beside my bed. "Regardless," she says, picking up the fork and handing it to me, "You have a long recovery ahead of you, and your body will need plenty of nourishment in order to heal swiftly and effectively. So eat. Or must I feed you myself? Becuse don't think I won't."
I glance in her direction, eyeing her skeptically and snorting at the thought of Elsa physically forcing me to do anything that I don't want to. Sure, she's in great shape — there's no denying it — but a body built on cardio and yoga alone is nothing compared to one hardened and toned by years of sports, heavy lifting, and long hours of arduous labor. Seriously, even just the idea is laughable!
"Oh, yeah?" I dare, an inflection of defiance in my voice. I can feel my lips quirk into a confident grin. "I'd like to see you try!"
I — quite literally — eat my words only a moment later as Elsa swipes the fork from my unsuspecting hand and shovels a generous helping of food into my gabby mouth. If it weren't for the utensil currently crammed halfway down my throat, I might have actually been surprised at how good it tastes. I mean, sure, it's not exactly up there on my "top ten greatest things I've ever eaten", but it's not nearly as bad as it looks (and it looks bad).
Still, I'm not about to give Elsa the satisfaction of knowing that she's made me eat, so I fight her off and spit into the nearest napkin. Yeah, yeah, I know — childish, right? But I have my reasons, so don't be so quick to judge me, alright?
"Anna!" she scolds, glowering at me through narrowed eyes as her cheeks flush with frustration.
"Elsa," I retort bluntly, fighting to keep a straight face though the task proves difficult, especially when all I want is to see her express an emotion other than the constant agitation and worry that's been etched into her features all afternoon. To everyone else, she's held a face of perfect composure, but I've known her long enough to read between the lines, to see in between the in between. Her most glaring and obvious tick is the way she'll constantly flex her fingers, as if reaching for something that can't be touched, and it's all I need to know that something greater is bothering her.
I would ask outright if I knew she would answer me honestly, but I've had enough experience with Elsa to know that she won't, and so I hope to coax it out of her in the same way I've done for years. People often assume I'm just another happy idiot; I fight too much, I drink too much, and I like to play around. But I'm an actor more than anything, just another role in other people's lives, playing the part of whatever it is they need me to play.
And presently, I play the part of instigator.
Elsa stabs a sliver of beef — or is that just a poorly cut mushroom? — and holds it to my lips, an expectant look upon her face. "Eat it," she demands, positioning the fork closer.
"No, thanks," I reply, lifting a hand and gently redirecting the fork away from my face. "I'm not hung—" In a horrible sense of timing, my stomach snarls ravenously, and I quickly alter my statement to, "I'd rather starve."
The look she gives me is one our government should weaponize immediately and use against our enemies, as it would surely win any war from now until the end of infinity. "Why are you being so stubborn?" she asks, eyes pinched with disapproval.
"Why are you being so insistent?" I counter, and she shakes her head at me.
Her mouth parts to retort, but she's cut off by the sound of her phone, its incessant ringing blaring to life in the most inconvenient way. Her jaw clenches, the muscles of her cheek twitching with annoyance; there's more she wants to say, but work — as always — comes first in her life, and she can't ignore it even if she tried.
With a weary sigh, Elsa grabs the mobile from her purse, shooting a pointed look between me and the tray a final time before slipping into the hall to answer the call.
"Anna… I'm pregnant."
The first time she says it, I don't quite catch on. Her words are soft, barely spoken, and said completely out of the blue. In fact, the first time she says it, I mistake the entire thing for a joke. Kristoff, who had left earlier to make sure our renovation was still underway, stopped by on his way back home and delivered us a glorious meal of burgers, fries, and double-chocolate milkshakes. Mouth stuffed to the brim with warm meat and oozing cheese, I instantly assume she means she's pregnant with a food-baby.
Because really… what else could she possibly mean?
"Anna… I'm pregnant."
The second time she says it, the food is gone and we're not alone. My nurse — a tall, slim brunette by the name of Jane — is writing on the whiteboard hung up in my room, updating my condition and vitals. The marker squeaks against the board as she scrawls against it in neat, precise strokes. But then Elsa speaks up and the silence that follows is permeated only by the high-pitched squeal of the pen as Jane veers wildly off course, her hand sliding across the board and off towards the wall as she pauses abruptly in surprise.
We both stare and her cheeks flush. She quickly erases her mistakes and finishes with her charting before hastily excusing herself in a shy, stuttering English accent. As she leaves, she carefully closes the door to the room, but not before reminding me of the panic button on the control panel for my bed. "We'll have the crash cart ready…" I think I hear her say, just as the door is fully shut, leaving Elsa and I alone.
Our eyes lock and, for the first time in my life, I have nothing to say.
Or rather, I don't know what to say. And, more than that, I find myself incapable of forming words, let alone coherent sentences. The only thing I manage to do is make a few, inconclusive grunts, sounding more like a Neanderthal than the modern day Homosapien that I'm supposed to be. I shift anxiously atop my bed, though even that proves difficult as I only end up aggravating my injuries, and I'm forced to repress the spasms of pain that shoot through me (lest Elsa mistake the look for something negative).
Despite my best efforts, she recognizes the tight lipped expression upon my face and is at my side in an instant, the tension momentarily vanished as she frets over me.
"Are you alright, Anna?" she asks, helping ease me into a more comfortable position. "What hurts? Should I find Jane? I told you to let her increase your dosage for the pain killers, but you wouldn't listen!"
"No, I'm fine. Don't worry," I reply, shaking my head. The feeling of two bones grinding together is not at all pleasant, but for Elsa, I'd endure just about anything.
Her look softens, a warm glow in her bright blue eyes, and she says, "I always worry about you. You know I do."
A smile finds its way onto my own lips, and I scoot over until I'm pressed against the railing, making room for her on the bed. Elsa gives me an inquisitive stare, so I throw back the covers and pat the empty space beside me, inviting her in. She initially resists, but I tug her arm, gently coaxing her in until she finally relents.
Our bodies mold together like two pieces of the same puzzle, Elsa curling carefully into my side as I slip an arm around her shoulder to draw her in. Her head rests gently against the crook of my neck, loose strands of platinum hair tickling my chin; the room silent for several moments as we simply revel in the familiar warmth of each other's bodies.
Eventually, I tilt my head down and press a kiss against the corner of her brow, mumbling softly into her bangs, "Okay… so who's the poor, sorry bastard that I need to beat up?"
I can feel her lips twitch against my neck, curling upwards in a barely restrained grin. "I don't think that will be necessary," she says, and there's a hint of bemusement hidden beneath the softness of her voice.
"Oh, c'mon," I reply, nudging her playfully. "Don't take this moment away from me! Some irresponsible asshole has just knocked up my best friend, and you're saying that I don't get to kick their ass for it?"
Elsa scoffs, a sharp exhale of breath that is both amused and exasperated, as she burrows further into my embrace. "Trust me, that 'irresponsible asshole' you speak of has certainly suffered enough as it is," she sighs, shaking her head slowly, side to side.
"Oh, Elsa! No!" I gasp, feigning insult. "Don't tell me you beat them up! But that's my job… my birthright… my sworn duty! I've waited my whole life for this moment! How could you take it away from me?"
"Don't be so dramatic, Anna," she says, rolling her eyes, her exasperation nullified by the small grin she wears, though it fades quickly. "And please, be serious. There's… there's more that I need to tell you."
"More?" I repeat, wondering what else there was for her to say. I mean really, just "I'm pregnant" was a monumental statement all on its own, so for there to be more…? Honestly, I'm not sure what to think.
"Yes, more," she replies, pausing briefly in hesitance before continuing, "I… I don't really know how to say this, but… the thing is, or, what I mean to say..." Once again she stops, swallowing a lump in her throat as she struggles to bring meaning to words.
"Hey, don't worry about it," I assure, rubbing a hand soothingly along her back in an effort to calm her nerves. "Just take your time. I'm right here whenever you're ready to talk."
She smiles gratefully and nods, burying her face against me as she takes several deep breaths. I wait patiently, allowing Elsa the time she needs to process her thoughts, and to come to terms with whatever it is that she needs to say. For a long time, all is silent, and I hold her closer; lending her my strength to help her through. Minutes pass and finally she lifts her head, a look of tired resignation etched into her features.
"Do you remember that night? The one we shared on the beach after Flynn and Rapunzel's wedding?" she asks, though the question is rhetorical, and I remain silent, waiting for her to elaborate. "I didn't really think much of it… after all, it's not like we haven't been intimate before, and you pretty much shoot blanks ninety percent of the time…"
My stomach clenches at the unintentional reminder that I'll most likely never have children, or a family of my own — not quite sterile, but close enough. Still, I push the thought aside and focus my attention on her as she speaks.
"As I said, I hadn't put much thought into the matter," she continues, "But… then I missed my period. At first, I just assumed I was late before I eventually concluded that I was simply under too much stress, and that my body's cycle had fallen out of rhythm. It was during the time we were merging several smaller companies under Queen Enterprises, and while not entirely common, I had missed a period once or twice before. So again, I didn't think much of it."
Elsa pauses, taking a moment to catch her breath before going on, "A few weeks later, however, I found myself feeling ill. I'd wake up with my gut twisted into knots, and even if my stomach was empty, I'd still heave into the toilet until I was too weak to stand. Along with that, I was constantly fatigued, and no matter how many hours I slept, I was always exhausted.
"I visited my physician, thinking I had come down with the flu or some other virus, but after running a simple assessment, turns out I had come down with something far more substantial…"
Our gazes find one another in an instant, and my stomach sinks slowly with understanding.
"Anna… I'm pregnant..."
The third time she says it, Elsa stares directly into my eyes, and something inside me just clicks. 'Oh, no...' is all I can think, bracing myself for what I now know is to come.
"... and, for all intents and purposes… you are the father."
Then, it hits me.
I'm the poor, sorry bastard that had knocked her up…!