I don't own Frozen.
Once upon a time in Italy, Anna woke to sunbeams streaming through tanned venetian blinds with a naked torso wrapped around her own bare abdomen. She had turned into the embrace with closed eyes, a patch of chest hair tickling the exposed skin over her black cotton bra. She was determined to feel, just for the moment, a security she never had the luxury of truly harboring.
She had been fifteen.
Paulo had been older than she by a handful of years, but he was sculpted, dark, Adonis-like in rigid jaw and demeanor. Rogue black curls had kept his forehead hidden, his heavy, wiry eyebrows, very masculine, very refined. Gentlemanly, despite the alcohol. Attractive, despite or enhanced by the ruggedness. He was the kind of man she could easily charm, easily land, easily swindle; she could settle into a living as a posh wife to an upper class financier or oil baron or vineyard owner. It hadn't taken much effort to flirt, to tease, to slip him a deluding cocktail of whiskey shots and Rohypnol, and then to get invited back to his place.
Which Anna knew was actually his parent's estate. Which Anna knew was one of the few private Italian compounds in Tuscany to display the Gianbattista painting she had been searching for for weeks. Which Anna knew was all-too-easily-acquired by putting out for their attractive, headstrong, fiery Italian first-born.
But she didn't put out. Not really. The drugs kept her from having to take… well, absorb the full plunge. She instead schmoozed and coddled and even grasped the deflated members of heavily intoxicated or drugged males, all for a job, all to get what she wanted. And there had been occasions, though less frequent, that Anna had done the same for the fairer sex. But it had never come to invasion, never a penetration and breaking that rendered her spoiled sexually. Yes, she had performed (hands down boxer-briefs and lips on a pectoral, pushing skirts north while tweaking a nipple), but had never lost enough control of a situation for someone to act upon her; for someone to steal from her.
No, her cubbyhole was reserved for her fingers and a select few removable shower heads until… she didn't know until when.
Or until who.
Not that her conquests had left her completely unaffected. Hans had instructed her in the mixing of chemical compounds, his winery affiliations and swindling escapades leaving him all the more sensitive to exact measurements, untraceable drugs dissolved by the stalwart liver and gall bladder and heated blood stream. He told her how much Ambien to use on a male weighing in at two-forty and towering over her petite frame at an astounding six-five. So the men (and women), though addled, would fondle and brush and thrust against her body. She'd feel an erect cock through a trouser leg and couldn't help but twitch, brush bulging breasts through fabric and try not to let her own hardening areolas strain against her lace brassiere.
Anna was obviously not immune to the human body. She studied art for a living, would stare at the renderings of muses, of the objects of the artist's desire. She wondered if one day she would ever love someone enough to turn them into a sort of masterpiece. She craved that emotional elevation as well as the physical. Still, Anna had experienced arousal, though never to the point that she would toss her virginity by the wayside for a quickie with a befuddled mark.
She'd normally get the job done, then take a few personal days. Pet at her lower body. Drink a lot of vodka (the birthday cake kind, sickly sweet). Claw at her bosom. Climax, inspired by a faceless image, and then turn into her pillows and cry. Repeat. Wish she had someone to kiss, who would kiss her back, and mumble her name against her lips. Her real name.
In her early years, when her blood-speckled thighs had caused her to perform Internet search after Internet search, when she first understood the release that came with masturbation, she thought that she had been cursed. Young and naïve with no one to explain anything to her, guilt crushed her nightly in those luscious hotel rooms every time her hand crept between her legs. But she got by. And now, still complete, still whole regardless of her 'career' choices, she knew that she had an ace in the hole. A cheat in the proverbial back pocket. Something she could use, if the time ever came to that.
She knew that she was astoundingly lucky.
Not that Anna planned on selling her virginity.
Not that, in truth, she hadn't considered it.
Not that she hadn't gotten a handle on her sexual desires.
Not that she didn't exploit her own sexuality for cons.
Not that she didn't acknowledge the attractiveness of the human form, male and female.
But what struck her, what moved her concerning her relationships, more than Hans being her teacher, more than Kristoff being a surrogate big brother, more than waking in the arms of a stupefied Paulo and Yvonne and Derek and James and Gillian and Robert—
Was how attracted she was to Jane. Not just her body, though that was certainly a contributing factor. Her carriage, her posture, her gait. Even navigating through a palm forest on the beach side, traveling further inland, the woman walked with a cat-like agility. It was all out of sorts for Anna. Jane was still wearing Anna's own blue skirt and tank top from their shopping adventure (which Anna found much too amusing for befriending a coworker).
The scene was straight out of the old black-and-white Tarzan movies. The pair should have been clad in khaki, hacking at greenery with machetes, one armed with a rifle to prevent the attack of a wandering panther. But no, Jane was leopard and lynx and panther enough: graceful, skittish, dangerous and gorgeous.
And broken, almost irreparably so. Interaction was awkward, unpracticed, rarely filtered. Anna just didn't know how to respond. She had studied human behavior, had made a living out of manipulating the vices of average man.
Jane was anything but.
And talking to her only made it worse. Jane was revealing herself, little by little, in a guarded display of what Anna could only figure was the blonde's version of trust. The friendship she had promised with that outstretched hand from last night. The bluntness with which she had relayed her own misgivings about Anna's motivations.
She let Anna dress her, tease her, and shared a meal with her (alright, snowcones, less than a meal, more than a snack). But the fact that they were sharing, two girls who had reconciled their own loneliness much too early in life, was telling. Telling in that Anna was deeply attracted to vulnerability. Probably because she was so vulnerable herself. And likewise aroused by a woman who was paradoxically crippled yet more than capable, handicapped but more proficient in her chosen field than Anna could ever hope to be in the con game. A fixer upper that needed restoration, not renovation. It was confusing and titillating and undeniable.
Anna wanted a drink.
"Where are we going?" Anna asked.
"To the golf course."
"Why?"
"So I can show you my computers."
"Which are on the golf course?"
Jane turned and gave her a look that was meant to say, 'where else would they be, dipshit?'.
"Yes."
Jane led Anna over manufactured hills of clipped sod, skipping between sand traps and water features that snaked demurely down to the ocean. Jane strode across a putting green, jogging downhill into a sharp ravine. Anna followed gracelessly, knocking a waiting ball away from the hole and undoubtedly screwing over some poor bastard intent on making par. The edge of the course was not far, nor was the jungle forest lining the links at Caneel Bay. Jane was but thirty yards into the listing palms when Anna ran full-body into her back, for she had halted. Jane didn't acknowledge the collision, and gestured without ceremony to a dilapidated lean-to.
"What is that?"
"Abandoned maintenance shed," Jane said.
"This far back off the links?"
"Hence, abandoned. There used to be nature trails with guided tours, according to a 1997 Caneel Bay brochure. This was used as an outpost of sorts."
"How did you come across a 1997 brochure?"
"If it's ever been online, I have access to it."
"Alrighty then."
Jane beckoned and Anna followed, pausing when a blast of frigid air hit her square in the chest upon stepping into the tin building.
This didn't make any sense. They were in the middle of the humid jungle, and it was coming on four in the afternoon. But it was as pleasant, arguably more-so in the confines of this tiny little shack than in the air-conditioned lobby of the resort proper.
"How is it so nice in here? There can't be like, fans or anything out this far. Is there even electricity for this place?" Anna asked.
She thought she heard Jane mumble something about 'mini-refrigerator' or 'generators'. The door behind them thudded shut, and they were blanketed in darkness.
Anna was panting a bit. She sniffed her underarm discreetly. And sweaty. She felt her hair glued to the back of her neck, sticky swirls plastered there and mane inflating in its inevitable poof with so much moisture in the air. She was suddenly very thankful for the darkness.
"A?"
"Yes?"
"We can run over the files on the Carols."
"Sounds good. All play and no work makes A a broke girl."
"Is that how the saying goes?" Jane asked. There might have been mirth in her voice.
"It's how it should go."
"Who could argue with that logic? Give me a moment."
Anna couldn't see much, but she felt Jane leave her side. She heard before she saw, the whirring noise of desktop fans and monitors booting up, speakers crackling as dim grey light lit the interior of the shed. Blue lasers shot through the empty space, and Anna felt like she was suddenly in a concert mosh pit. Beeps and pulses of light kept coming from this seemingly decrepit shack, brightening until she could finally make out the sheer amount of tech Jane had assembled in the small space.
Anna stepped back to take it all in.
"Oof!"
"Wha—"
"Hello Jane!"
"Aaaaaaahhh!"
"Wha—ahhhhhh!"
"Quiet, the pair of you!" Jane hissed.
Anna sputtered. "But I— but you— he's a—my hand's in a tiny man's head!"
The little blue man in lights was doing the same, rambling off a vocal serenade of ones and zeroes and flapping like an inebriated emu.
Jane looked to be playing referee between the two, though they hadn't even addressed each other yet. She held a hand up to Anna, then proceeded to say 'one' and 'zero' in no particular order, so rapidly the words began blurring in Anna's ear. The little blue thing just nodded, dopy smile on his face. He then turned to Anna.
"Hi! I'm Olaf, and I like warm hugs!"
"Ohmygod Jane, what is that? Do you speak fuckin' binary?!"
"You speak French."
"Yeah, and German, and Spanish, and Italian, and some others, but you speak numbers!"
Jane assumed her default position.
"Don't you dare look at me like that's normal!"
Jane shrugged. "This is Olaf. I made him. Olaf, this is A."
"So you're the one Jane made me search—"
"Olaf!" Jane coughed.
Even in the monitor light, Anna could tell Jane was blushing. It thrilled her.
"What are you?" Anna asked him.
"I'm Jane's assistant," Olaf said proudly, standing straighter, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his digital nose.
"How are you even—"
"Projectors," Jane offered. "Here, here, here and here, with several installed above and below for full three-dimensional effect."
"But… Olaf?" Anna asked.
"Yes?" Olaf answered.
"No, why Olaf? Why not, like, Bicentennial Man or Optimus Prime or Weebo or something more like that?"
"Olaf," Jane began. "Operations, Logistics, and Alias Facilitator. O-L-A-F. He does the grunt work so that I don't have to."
"I'm also the voice of reason!" Olaf said.
Jane gave him a reproachful look.
"Sometimes," he quipped.
"Anyway, Olaf, this is A, as I said. We're working together on the Seven Seas Trading job."
"Does that mean we made it to St. John?" Olaf asked.
"Yes."
"Then can I—"
"No. Olaf, you know better. You'll just dissipate into sunrays. Not to mention the placement of the projectors prohibits you leaving the shed."
"Not if you give me an extra surge!"
"The generators couldn't sustain that."
"No Jane, I meant with your pow—"
"Olaf, not now." Jane redirected her conversation to Anna, who had watched the entire exchange in confusion. "He can't go outside. He's a very complex piece of artificial intelligence, bordering on sentient, through programming of my own. But the type of power it would require for him to experience daylight would exceed my systems. That's why he says he likes warm hugs. Because he can never go out, never feel the sun, or the cold, or the rain. People wouldn't understand him... that just because he's not a person doesn't mean he isn't… someone. He'll never really experience anything corporeal."
"That's… tragic," Anna mumbled.
What was even more tragic was the fact that Anna feared Jane wasn't just talking about Olaf.
"Don't tell him that," Jane said. "Olaf? The Seven Seas personnel file, if you would."
"Yes, Jane."
Pictures and notes of everyone on the board of Seven Seas Trading splashed across the wall of monitors on the girls' left. Jane took a seat in a swivel chair and pulled her gloves on tighter. She hit one key on a keyboard, but the rest she did with her hands in mid air. The monitors responded to her movements, and Anna found herself spellbound. Jane was moving and directing information like a conductor did an orchestra, signaling with a flick of a pinkie, a swelling trumpet of embedded code surfacing when she straightened her long, indulgent fingers.
"Alright, here we are. That will be all for now, Olaf.
"Sure, Jane. Nice to meet you, A."
"Uhm… likewise."
A line of blue split the little man's center from the navel up and followed a clock hand's trajectory, erasing the assistant's presence in some big blue swirl of light.
Anna returned her attention to the monitors, the bulging face of one Ursula Carol nearly swallowing the screen. White hair, black blazer, and a sickly pallor that tinged her complexion a dull lavender.
"Ursula Carol, fifty-five, unmarried, childless, CEO of Seven Seas Trading for going on thirty-five years," Jane summarized. "She owns a forty-five percent stake in the company. Has a penchant for exotic marine life and a nicotine addiction."
Jane flicked her wrist and Ursula disappeared, a suited older gentleman with a cloud-white beard and sad eyes replacing her.
"Triton Carol, fifty-two, widower, father to seven daughters, CFO for as long as Ursula's been CEO, with the other forty-five percent."
"Other independent share-holders speculate with the remaining ten?"
"Something like that. There was originally a fiduciary trust set between the two, but it was dissolved long ago," Jane said. "The main point is, neither have a majority. But that's going to change if and when Triton retires, or if and when Ursula leaves the company."
"What does the current agreement state?"
Documents filed across the screen like ants marching back to their hill.
"Ursula has no heir. Her will from twenty-five years ago left all of her shares in the company to Triton, originally. But something happened. A falling out, a business disagreement, I'm not sure. She redrew the document and put her shares up as investment stake. She'll let the corporate jerks have their own go at it."
"The dissolving trust," Anna said.
Jane nodded.
"And what does Triton think of all this?" Anna asked knowingly.
"I'm not sure," Jane said. "I think he would be resentful."
Anna put her index finger on her nose and pointed at Jane. "Ding ding ding!"
"Don't do that."
"Sorry."
"And then there are the daughters," Jane said, as headshots of models flew by on the screen.
No, not models. Triton's daughters.
"You said the falling out happened twenty-five years ago?" Anna asked.
"That's when she cut Triton and his family out of the will."
"How old is the eldest daughter?"
"Twenty-eight. One of three currently married, with children," Jane said.
"Hmm."
"Hmm, what?" Jane asked.
"It's just curious, is all. If I had no heirs to my company position, I might consider grooming one of my multiple nieces for the job."
"Good luck with that," Jane said, the screen suddenly flooded with Facebook, Pinterest, and Instagram profiles. "These girls aren't exactly business-minded. It's all boys, booze and clothes for them."
Anna studied the women. Indeed, even the eldest was a consummate party girl.
"They make the Kardashians look tame and tasteful."
"Who?"
"We're not doing this again," Anna said. She attempted to scroll down the screen with a mouse.
"Not that," Jane said. "Come over here."
She scooched over to one side of the swivel chair, indicating for Anna to take a seat.
"We won't both fit in there."
"Is this another cleverly veiled comment as to the size of my butt?" Jane asked.
Was she teasing her?
"What?! No, hell no. I didn't mean anything about your butt, it's just that the seat is too small for the both of us, and it looks pretty tight, your ass… I mean, god no, not that, I meant the seat, looks like it would be very tight in there… fuck! No— the, the fit… that is, it would be very difficult to get two people into that swivel chair."
Jane was smiling up at Anna and her shoulders were shaking.
"Shut up and scroll down the feed," Anna said. She plopped down, half on top of the woman's left thigh. It was warm, at odds with the cooler temperature in the shack. The contact made Anna's skin thrum.
"If you think this is tight, you should try crawling through air ducts," Jane offered.
"I'll pass. Now, tell me more about these girls."
"There's not much more to them. Vapid underachievers, from the looks of it. They had a brush with stardom in the early 2000s. Apparently released a sibling girl-group album with a decently performing single."
"So you do know about music!"
"I read it in an article while doing research," Jane said.
"What was it called?"
"Making Waves with You."
"Now that's just sad," Anna said.
"The title?"
"Your lack of music knowledge. Remind me to burn you CD, or at least send you a playlist."
Her eyes read posts and messages, took in colons and dashes and parentheses. With the advent of iPhone tech, the girls had escalated to communication via emojis. None of their posts contained much substance.
"Yep. I'm with Ursula on this one. Who would want to give over half the stock of a Fortune 100 to this sorry lot? Not one MBA in the bunch," Anna said.
"She's got to figure out something soon," Jane said.
"Why is that?"
An image of two huge shriveled black beans appeared.
"What am I looking at?" Anna asked.
"Ursula Carol's lungs. Cancer. Stage three."
Anna didn't respond for a while. She was too busy processing. She'd missed out on the majority of Hans's run through due to passing out in a puddle of drool. She'd been reprimanded accordingly and, after vomiting at least seventy-five percent of her stomach contents, had resolved to catch up on the case. Once her head was out of the toilet, Hans guilted (read, ordered) her into taking Jane shopping. Anna had had such a great time today, she could hardly remember why she'd put up such a fight last night.
Was it really only last night?
What she now knew, was that Ursula was vulnerable. Pitiable, yes, but also corrupt, malicious, and deserving of whatever ploy they were about to run on her. So was Triton, maybe to a lesser extent. They both had something at stake here. The buyout of the Conch cruise line was coming at a point when Ursula knew she didn't have much time left as a capable corporate head. She'd worked her entire life to get this company off the ground (stepping over or on top of as many people as she needed to get the job done, poor souls). And now, she was going to leave her life's work to a bunch of shareholders? She obviously didn't want to risk handing it off to the idiot seven raised by Triton. She was looking for a legacy. Maybe she was hoping that one of the girls would show some bite, some spirit at the board meeting for the cruise line acquisition. Maybe this was her own form of Darwinism. Whoever survived in the boardroom reaped the spoils.
Don't give them what they want, give them the opportunity to get it.
"You have access to her medical records?" Anna asked.
"Obviously."
"Don't be mean. Can you pull up her file from… what was it? Twenty-five years ago?"
"Sure."
Anna's eyes scanned the document until she found what she was looking for.
"Bingo."
"What?"
"She's barren."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Twenty-five years ago, Triton had two daughters, with another baby coming. Ursula wasn't married, but at thirty, she was probably very conscious of her child-bearing window. Especially as the head of a major corporation. Though she hardly seems like the type to go the traditional route… She probably started wondering about her chances of conception should the opportunity present itself."
"And so she got… tested?"
"Yes. Right here," Anna said, pointing to one of the files. "Meanwhile, baby brother's poppin' 'em out faster than his little swimmers can get upstream; it'll all be split, seven ways, on his end of things. Meanwhile, she's got no one to pass on all of her hard work to. No one to groom for her position. She suspended her shares, took them out of the familial sphere, hoping that one of the girls would show enough moxy to win her favor."
"But they didn't."
"Right, which is why she never singled one of them out in her will. So now she's looking for a successor. She wants to give her stake to someone, wants for someone to prove themselves. That's why the daughters are attending the meeting. It's not just Triton splitting up his shares for all of them, she wants to see who the most bloodthirsty is going to be. Who'll sell the others out for the sake of the deal. In short, who will follow in her massive foot steps."
"Who do you think it will be?" Jane asked. "They all seem equally trite and insipid."
"Oh, it won't be in the family, I'm afraid," Anna said, smile tugging across her lips. "It doesn't matter who it is, as long as she feels a kinship to them," the copper haired girl explained.
Anna shifted to her right, her sweaty, bent knee hanging limply over Jane's exposed thighs. There was a draft above her head, hitting the back of her wet neck, the slick crease of her armpit. It chilled her, provided a slight out-of-body experience. Anna was diminishing moment by moment and A was taking over, plan forming, character building. Her environment, her knowledge was making her bold. And Jane's skirt was riding higher. The combination of scheming, chilling sweat and alabaster kneecap was turning her on.
She brushed a hand across Jane's knee, as if on accident, just to witness a reaction. There was none but a look; no bodily shivers, no sharp inhale, no uncomfortable shoulder roll. Just a twist of the neck and their eyes met, centimeters away from each other.
Anna watched as Jane licked her full lips, an inverted triangle of blueberry snow cone goo pointing down her chin to the rest of her sunburnt body.
Flawless no more.
But somehow, more perfect.
"Will you be working tomorrow?" Anna asked.
"Yes. I've got a lot of bugs to run and as many firewalls and accounts to break. It will probably take some time."
"I've got prep to do, too. Now that I know what Ursula wants."
"You sound… displeased about that."
"There are other people— things I could be doing," Anna let the statement hang in the air between them. The moisture helped, acted as platform for the letters to rest on. So Jane could take the words in her gloved hands, wring them out, mull them over, interpret them in whatever manner she chose. Anna inhaled and a fresh burst of mint hit her tongue, as distinctive and sharp as the first painful bite of Wrigley's Doublemint.
"What would you rather be doing?" Jane asked, unawares.
Anna had to stop herself from rolling her eyes.
She didn't even know how to flirt, for fuck's sake.
"It's the Caribbean. Swimming, for one. Maybe parasailing, jet skiing, hiking, adventures behind private little waterfalls. They have scooter rentals. Sometimes I just like to people watch. A lot of people have a beer, or maybe Sex on the Beach?"
Jane's eyes widened.
"Does having one preclude the action of the other?"
"Beer is beer. Sex on the Beach is a cocktail," Anna explained.
"Oh. You made that intentionally confusing."
Anna shifted. Jane's bare shoulder blade was nestled against the skin of her own bare right shoulder. Equally as burned as her front, it pulsed heat into Anna's arm.
"You know other people sunbathe, lather oil all over each other."
"That's wise, or else it increases their chances for melanoma," Jane said innocently.
And we're back to skin cancer. Mood—DOA.
Anna turned her head and snorted like a disagreeable filly. She removed herself from the tangled mass of limbs in the swivel chair, saddened by the retreating scent of mint.
"I really do have a lot to work on. An entire profile of Conch Cruises financials and personnel to study," Anna sighed. "But I'll see you tomorrow evening? To finalize everything?"
Wow, hope that didn't come out as desperate as it sounded.
"Hans wants to meet up. So yes, I will see you."
"Great. And then the next day, showtime!"
"Showtime?" Jane mimicked, giving an odd little shake of her hands. Anna could tell she was aiming for an enthusiastic flourish of sorts but it came off as awkward and nervous and… So. Damn. Adorable.
Anna giggled. "I, well, I look forward to watching you work."
"You won't be able to watch me," Jane said. "You'll hear me, but nothing else. EPs for everyone."
"Oh," Anna said. "Well then."
"But that doesn't mean I won't be watching you. I've got a lot of live security feeds in the resort to hack." Jane wasn't looking at Anna. She was playing with the hem of her skirt again, but at least she had stopped covering up her torso with those closed-off crossed arms.
"I like watching you work," Jane said.
"Really?" Anna's face hurt from the size of her own smile. Though it might have been her own sunburn.
"Yes. You're so—"
So what? Cool? Professional? Drop-dead sexy? Why thank you Jane, I've got an entire cabana to myself and a bottle of aloe lotion and you look like you need some help with that flushed skin—
"—good at it. Interacting. Manipulating. Coercing. I'm a little afraid of you."
"I'm a little afraid of you," Anna said.
It was meant as a joke.
"I'm a little afraid of myself," Jane was staring at her hands again.
Bad sign.
"Hey," Anna said.
She didn't know why she needed to comfort the girl. She almost went back to her. Jane shook her head.
"Don't worry about it. Tomorrow?" Jane said.
"Tomorrow. And then—"
"Showtime."
A/N: So, let's see... background+plot+Olaf+one-sided flirting=this chapter? I think that's the formula I was going for. Anyone confused? I like to answer questions. Look, the fanfiction website has provided a convenient little box for you to type any theories or ? into. How nice of them! Also, brownie points to anyone who noticed the reference to my other Frozen fic. It was fleeting, but it was definitely there.
Have I thanked all of you for being supermegafoxyawesomehot? Because you are. Every. Single. One.