I don't own Frozen. M for sexual situations.

"Mmmmm… A, oh god, A—A—A!"

Jane bit into the knuckles on her right fist and depressed her clitoris with the pad of her left thumb. She shoved another finger inside of herself, hips canting upward to meet her hand on the grey satin sheets of her bed in the Amstel. Jane groaned again and turned on her side, sweat seeping from the juncture of hairline and forehead. She shut her eyes, and her axons and dendrites recalled A's touch. Jane's fingers were plug prongs wriggling in and out of the electric socket that was her body.

"A—" she moaned.

Tears welled in her eyes. Her windows were open and she could see street lamps reflect off a river of licorice. She kept picturing A, grinding against the pole in the center of Frollo's rounded stage; releasing the button-eye hook that secured the panels of her corset; yanking the garment away to reveal tanned, nubile flesh; tonguing her lips in the darkness of Club Utopia as their nipples chaffed against each other. That look. That look that made Jane feel like she wasn't even human. Those hooded lids and bedroom eyes just this side of aquamarine; the ones that turned her from girl to snack, a delicacy A couldn't wait to savor.

An unbidden image of A standing behind Jane, with the cartilage of the blonde's ear secured by two rows of possessive incisors.

Stop imagining things.

Jane sobbed.

She was disgusted with herself.

A had done her level best to help Jane get the information on Hans. Information that could have gotten them thrown into some serious, sexual shit if they had slipped up even once. Jane had debased herself, and had likewise served her friend a large portion of humiliation during the process. The sight of Judge Frollo zipping his slacks as he walked in on them in their dressing room was enough to make her gag. Yet here she was, writhing and masturbating to memories that should have never happened.

Experiences easily avoided.

She had split from A once they walked back into the suite, feigning exhaustion. She mumbled something about the stage lights giving her a headache, which was total bullshit. She controlled those lights, and she slept better during the day anyway, never mind the European time change. The truth of it was written all over her face, and A didn't have to be a skilled people reader to know it. She watched A make her way toward the minibar to mix herself a thirty dollar cocktail. Jane had contemplated the selection in her own room, and her bloodstream was begging to be drowned in alcohol.

The first time she guzzled booze was the night it happened. The night she lost her virginity. At first, she drank to remember the sensations (physical, emotional). Then she realized he wasn't coming back. And when it hadn't happened like it should've, when she didn't feel whole after the coupling, she gave herself over to liquid forgetting. Seven months of haze, combined with scores of sparking accidents, several of which led to arson cases, two fender-benders, one sloppy plane landing, a broken arm, and finally, the death of an innocent bystander.

A father of three, a decent man, who had seen a skeletal looking teenager on the darkened Chicago streets with a brown paper sack in one hand, tattered clothing draped on a malnourished frame. He had come to see what was wrong. ("Can I call someone for you?" he had asked, and placed a hand on her shoulder.) As soon as the man touched her Jane whirled in her stupor, shooting a current of electricity so powerful it had blackened the palm of the man's hand. His eyes were green and glazed, his mouth drooped open and his tongue unfurled into a puddle on a cracked sidewalk. He wore a tie with ducks on it. Five o'clock shadow. A scar below his left ear. Glasses. Receding hairline. His skin sizzled like egg yolk in a skillet.

She had called 911 and hidden behind a corner, watched the police, the ambulance (too late, she thought), the medical examiner pull a white sheet over a dead face. In her trembling hands she held his wallet, looked at the school pictures of two boys and a little girl. Another of him and a woman with dishwater blonde hair. Three credit cards. Sixty-eight dollars in cash. A business card for a mechanic's garage. An Illinois driver's license. Social security card.

What normal should be. What family should be. What love should be.

Jane had thrown all of her bottles into Lake Michigan and vowed never again.

Six years ago? Seven?

She had still been a child.

A child with an alcohol addiction. No rehab for her, because even in her teens she was a stubborn ass. Looking back, she could have kicked herself for trying to go cold turkey with zero assistance. Shakes. Cold chills. Heat flashes, head rushes, and electric surges. She needed to get her mind off of alcohol. Off of death. Off of contrition. Off of depression. She kept the wallet of that man in her duffel bag at all times. A reminder to never go back, to keep pushing forward, because the past would pool in the recesses of her body, congeal into stagnant infection and suffocate her.

Tuberculosis of the soul.

Whereas computers had been a hobby before, she turned them into obsession. She relocated to New York. Bought another plane. She'd spent nearly eight months creating and perfecting Olaf's code. She stopped going out as much. Turned nocturnal. Her stealing was precise. She had purpose now. Eternal retribution for taking a life. Untraceable funds appeared in a widowed mother of three's account every quarter. Orphanages in distant countries started popping up like fresh spring flower shoots. A benevolent, anonymous donor, concerned with the plight of those abandoned.

Her would-be lover's betrayal exacerbated an all too sensitive emotional abandonment. Jane had wallowed in her loneliness up until her sobriety; so, to turn the new leaf and so forth, she finally started researching her own history. She needed more than ever to find her family. Just something. Something to prove she was not a novelty, but a person. Old enough and sober enough to ponder her existence, she cast her nets: medical records, birth certificates, finger prints, anything. She thought she was onto something, a critical case of a young girl at the turn of the millennium, admitted to a Memphis ER, bizarre reactions to medical electronics. But what records there had been were no more, confiscated or sealed or burned for all the information the nurses gave her. One woman remembered the strange case, that the little blonde came in alone.

No parent. No sibling. No fourth cousin twice removed.

No one.

She had been trying for over five years…

Jane discarded the memories and mentally returned to her room in Amsterdam.

So maybe the sun-and-moon performance was justifiable? Stripping while men (or women) got off behind glass panels, violating her only friend for the sake of her identity. Jane needed that information, needed the distraction of an assignment, because it was the only thing keeping her from uncapping one of those tiny London gin bottles and upending it down her throat. She was psychically parched, and the gin would burn, and tingle, and dilute. It would wet the desert of sanity, and lend a forgetful hand.

Jane flopped back right-side up, fingers still working between her legs. Her right hand moved down to palm a breast, but not for satisfaction. Just another means to an end.

In the end, the moon and sun's performance had yielded results. And, if she were being honest with herself, they had gotten more out of Frollo than she thought they would. They were unharmed (relatively), and safe. They were informed. They were going to keep after Hans. It had been worth it. It had to be worth it.

Jane swirled her fingers within her core and released the tiniest zap, her internal muscles spasming and contracting against her hand. Her high was short-lived.

Good. I don't deserve it.

She wiped her fingers of the fluids on the bed sheets and stared out the widow, gauzy floor-length curtains billowing in the night breeze.

She shut her eyes again but she couldn't escape the memory of kissing A. Plague. Curse. One of the con woman's DVD's perpetually paused, then rewound, replaying the crucial part, the scandalous tableau until it froze itself into the screen. Until it became a painting with no artistry, a picture with no depth, disturbingly pornographic, because none of it was real.

The show itself was nothing compared to the awkwardness backstage and the negotiation that followed. There was a hesitancy and a conscious distancing that hadn't been there before. Before, they hadn't cared. Now, Jane knew she cared too much. Physical attraction. Emotional affection. The like you-like you sort of connection. A filled her up like alcohol never could. The blonde had nearly drowned back on St. John, and now, it was happening again.

All at once she was back on stage in A's arms, half-naked and moaning.

Jane sucked A's upper lip between her own. Sparks from the ruined lighting systems above fell onto her pale skin, singed a hair, and charred a stray sequin. The smell of burning plastic and sweat-salt. Jane felt A's tongue prod curiously, a toe in the waters. She groaned, parted her lips, and swiped her own against A's mouth. The lights above surged and so did A, nails raking down Jane's back as the girl rolled against her hips. A snapped at the plump flesh of Jane's lip with her upper and lower canines, biting just enough to alarm the blonde. Jane gasped when A's knee crept between her legs, a burgling appendage accustomed to breaking and entering. Jane wrapped her arms around A's waist and pulled her flush. The stage went black.

There was a loud beep, signifying the end of the performance. The music stopped.

They broke, still near-naked, still holding. Sweating. Panting. Noses touched. Jane's organs were railing. She could feel A's heartbeat (a rhumba) because her chest was practically melded into the blonde's, the feminine lumps massaging each other because of how closely they stood, the desperate pressure with which they embraced.

A came back to her, lips brushing only just, and she whispered, "I'm sorry."

A wrenched herself away and faded into the darkness.

Jane felt a tear on her cheek, but it wasn't her own.

She fumbled about in the dark and retrieved the discarded slip from the stage floor. She threw it over her head, and returned to the changing room.

A was pulling on a pair of grey slacks when she entered. She didn't make eye contact, choosing instead to march through to the bathroom and wash the pancaked gunk off her face. The brightness of the bathroom clashed with the lights of the stage. The theatre had been all soft atmosphere, setting, illumination for mood and milieu. Here the hydrogen bulbs were thrumming and clinical, harsh as autopsy lighting. Liner and mascara clumped in the interior crease of her eyelid. Her lipstick was smeared on her chin.

A had done that.

Jane's hair was straggly and her cheeks were searing. She turned on the taps, splashed water on her face, and scrubbed. She reemerged in the grey party dress she had worn to the club that night, still 'in character' as far as Judge Frollo was concerned. But her hair was back in a high pony, Jane willing to do anything to stop the heat from flushing her persistently warm body. The back of her neck was sticky with rosin powder and damp baby hairs. Phantom stings from A's nails flared on her neck as Jane caught sight of her partner. Red chalk lines on a white board, a never-should-have-been.

A was sitting with her legs crossed, tense and determined on the couch. Though her arms were draped over the back, her breathing even and composed, she was not relaxed. She didn't look at Jane as she instructed, "Sit by me."

"What?"

"He'll be here in a few seconds. We need to look like we've done this before."

Jane complied, settling herself what she thought was an appropriate distance from the woman she had just molested. Not close enough, for A scooched nearer and turned in to face her, hooded lids obscuring darkened pupils.

"I—"

"I—"

Knock knock knock.

"Ladies," Judge Frollo nearly growled.

The worry on A's face melted like ice in the sun, but Jane couldn't disguise her contemptuous scowl. Not when Frollo's fly was still open after their show. A shifted so that their torsos were aligned and touching; the cramped contact on the love-seat had Jane's bones boiling.

"I believe we had an agreement," he said.

"We 'ave held up our end of ze bargain," A said, once again affecting a French accent. "I always do. You might want to…"

Frollo looked down at his crotch, readjusted himself, and pulled the zipper up. He continued, unfazed.

"That you do, Madame. Tell me, why is it that you are so eager to locate our Mr. Westerguard?"

"My reasons are my own, Judge. I don't question your practices."

"Nor should you, but you do owe me the respect that comes with age."

Jane suffocated the snort threatening to rise.

"I'm not ze little flower you picked so long ago, Judge. My reach is not as far, nor my grip as tight as your own, but please don't question my own leverage."

"Dare you threaten—"

"I am doing nozing of ze sort," A leaned back into the couch, her arm sliding down to rest atop Jane's shoulders. A squeezed Jane's arm, probably to give the blonde some comfort as the conversation escalated. Or maybe A needed comforting herself.

Mutual support. Whatever had happened between them on stage, Jane was going to have to stomach it, and then suppress it. Move forward, deal with what's happening in front of her, instead of harping forever on moments that shouldn't matter. A had practically forewarned her.

'That's not us,' the freckled girl had said.

So Jane placed her left hand on A's knee. Squeezed, and turned a blank gaze toward Frollo.

"I'm merely pointing out zat we 'ad an agreement, and I expect you to fulfill zat agreement."

"Or what?" Frollo asked.

"Or I will walk out of 'ere, and make it known to my contacts in ze east zat Judge Frollo Debauché reneges on his oaths. And 'ere I zought you were looking to expand to Asian markets? Judge Frollo, what do you zink I've been doing in Japan for ze past five years?"

"What if I don't let you walk away?" Frollo said.

Blatant threat.

Jane hissed.

A smiled.

"Zen you should expect a visit from a few locally stationed members of ze Yakuza. Zey will not take kindly to a sleight against zeir favorite redhead."

"You're bluffing."

"Non. Try me, Judge Frollo."

A sat back and waited. Frollo scrutinized her. Jane didn't dare breathe.

"I haven't met with Hans personally, Madame," Frollo began. "He contacted me concerning an upcoming venture. He inquired as to the purchase price of some of my better dancers. Novelty talents especially."

"Really? What for?"

"That, I cannot say. Knowing him, he has some marvelous scheme up his sleeve. He'll reveal his cards when the time comes. I can say that he's offered me a stake should I want it."

"Investment?"

"Of course."

"Did you buy in?"

"The matter is very hush-hush, and he assures me that he will have more information in a few weeks time. I was under the impression that he needed to talk to several others before pitching anything substantial. Though I haven't discounted it, you and I both know Hans is ever the shrewd one. My assistants have sent him my typical charges for the girls."

"Only ze girls?" A asked.

"Yes."

"Can you give us anymore information? A location, preferably."

"Alas, he informed me two days ago that he would be leaving the country."

"And traveling to…"

"The U.K., Madame."

"London?"

"He didn't specify."

"Was he meeting wiz anyone in particular?"

"I've given you his comings and goings, I am not a personal secretary."

"Forgive me, Judge, I did not mean to imply otherwise."

"If that is all, ladies."

Frollo inclined his head and pivoted, stately, opening the door with a lethal grace. "If you two did wish to stay, I have several bidders open to private showings. One enthusiastic patron is willing to pay you exorbitantly for soft S&M. Under the grounds that he's allowed to participate. I'd take a manager's fee, of course—"

"Merci, but we are content," A returned.

Frollo eyed the pair of them, his drug-drawn face twitching. "Are you sure? You were always a more sensual than sexual performer, Madame, but this is easy money."

"I am content, zank you," A said again, harder this time.

"Good evening ladies."

"Judge."

Jane rose from bed and shuffled to the ornate writing desk in her suite, flipping open her laptop and booting up. The instrument hummed to life and the screen cast a dull grey pallor on the lacquered table top. In the sheen, Jane could make out her own muddled profile: patchy, fragmented. Much like her past. She pulled up a map of England, two huge red dots blipping at London's Heathrow and a noted hotel in Chelsea. There was another dot, this time further north, in York.

If Hans isn't staying in London… we need to head him off.

Jane shrugged, then brought her fingers to rub over her tired eyelids. She scooted through the open floor length windows and propped herself on the walk-out railing facing the river. She stared into the full city and let the breeze from the river caress her naked flesh. Her insides felt jumbled, instincts frazzled, emotions raw and fraying. She climbed atop the thin railing, hoping a balancing act would clear her head. A second wind caught her hair, compelled her to acknowledge her moistened fingertips. She sparked, shimmery discharges reflecting off the night waves. Her stomach refused to sit low in her body, instead hammering insistently at her diaphragm, which put pressure on her lungs. She felt faint from the consequential lack of oxygen, and her heart crawled a path up her throat, working its way toward clean air.

Nothing was where it should be. In her head. In her heart. She had once been so compact, so precise and regimented. Then A happened. The Moore mansion. Deburque's. The SUNY showcase. St. John. Louisiana. New York again. Now Amsterdam. And then to London, or further? How far had they come, for them to end up like this? Brooding over a fairy-tale river; contemplating discomforts; ripping pricey sheets in ecstasy; jet-setting in haste and style. What were the odds that both of their lives would filter the mundane and capitalize on the extraordinary? And then, the more astounding, for those two life-lines to intersect?

Jane didn't really believe in fate or fortune cookies, or even magic, despite her powers. She had lived with them for so long that they had become integral, though not quite necessary. She treated her 'magic' as one might a natural artistic ability. Or athleticism. Innate, if artistry or athletics could have you shunned from society. What was second nature to her was anomaly to others, which is why A's casual acceptance forced her to consider some grand design in the preceding weeks. Her previous attempts at rationalization had been ineffectual and left her wanting. Why would tonight's mental hurdles result in anything other than a migraine? Especially considering the activities of the past few hours.

She turned back toward her room and vaulted off the railing. Trudging back toward her bed, Jane resigned herself to restless dozing.

The knock paralyzed her.

"Jane, are you awake?"

She didn't move. Couldn't or wouldn't and definitely shouldn't. She heard A release a long-suffering sigh, and felt a chill along her neck.

Left the window open.

A's voice was clear as diamond. She could imagine A was right by her shoulder, standing in the room with her.

"I think we underestimated how that performance would… affect us," A began, voice turning soft but a little scratchy. Like unspun cotton, still locked in its boll. "But that doesn't have to make everything weird, you know? I told you, it didn't mean anything, not really."

Jane's heartbeat waltzed down to her sensitized sex. The wet stains on the pillows were a toothbrush down her throat, activating her gag reflex and regurgitating her guilt.

"Please, I know you're in there. And I know you're not asleep, you never really sleep at night."

When Jane didn't reply, she heard a muted thud. The light peeking from underneath the slit at the door was blotted out. A seemed to have slid down to sit at the foot of her bedroom entrance.

"But if it's weird, this is me apologizing. I'm sorry I…I— t-touched you like that."

You're sorry?!

Jane was pretty sure some invisible goblin had taken a hammer to her toes, her ankles. She was finding it difficult to stand.

"And you don't have to worry about anything like that ever happening again. I get it, message received. I just couldn't… you didn't expect me to not… I mean, I have eyes, Jane," A said thickly. "You're so—uhm… you're very pretty," she whispered to the door panel.

The goblin bounded higher, shattering Jane's kneecaps, assaulting her intestines.

"And we can just reboot, like your computers? Erase it all and pretend it never happened, if you'd prefer it."

Higher still, the goblin was shrieking gleefully, pummeling Jane's rib cage. It hurt nearly as much as the beating from Ursula's men.

"Jane, please… We can work this out together, I know we can. We'll, rewind. Reverse the situation."

Don't go back go forward I'm sorry I—

"Please don't shut me out, Jane," A breathed.

The goblin walloped her in the back and sent her hurdling toward the door. Jane was across the room, hand on the handle. But she couldn't turn it. Everything was still too grueling, too fresh against her razed ego.

"I think we just need to lighten up the situation, right Jane? We don't even have to address it, not anymore. We could go get breakfast, it'll be sun-up in a few hours. I don't know if they have cronuts here, but they do breakfast cruise tours. We could get on a boat! Or rent bicycles, or go to the gallery— ahh! Jane! I've got it!"

She heard some scrabbling and jiggling of the door handle. It wiggled in her grip and she nearly lost her hold, wet bar soap sudsing out of her grasp.

"Do you want to steal a painting?"

Jane could hear the smile in A's request. She steeled herself, cracked the door, grinned sheepishly, and nodded.

Somehow, A had weaseled her way into Jane's comfort zone: she was hot tea and mint TicTacs and princess cut sapphires and binary code in a body, and yet none of those things at all. Her ease, her compassion, allowed Jane to forgot the tiny details. The most glaring detail of the evening, the blonde would later curse herself for neglecting.

Jane had not removed the miked EP from her ear since that afternoon.

Playing around with structure on this one just a bit. Don't know how the transition came across from the last heavy chapter to this somewhat heavy one. Would love to hear your thoughts and speculations. Thanks for all the love!