I don't own Frozen.

"Holy shit, get it together," Jane mumbled, pacing outside the glass doors of the boutique. The tires of the 'borrowed' Porsche had shrieked when she rocketed into the parking lot of this particular shopping strip, having done a speedy check for best 'women's formal wear' in the area. She had broken her own cardinal rule, no web searching while driving, but she figured she could for A, just this once. The blonde wrung her hands, gloves back on, because hey, she was only human. Or so she hoped.

"Think of it as a job," she mumbled, fingers creeping over opposite elbows like cloying roots.

Yeah, after you just mentally insisted you could separate professional from personal. Excellent application, Jane.

Jane looked down at her watch.

5:35.

Dammit.

Okay, you can do this, give it 45 minutes to figure out what the hell I'm going to wear, and then make a passable attempt at being a woman. For two seconds, act like a normal person.

Jane sought absolution from her reflection in the storefront, but the worried features faded into the face of a young, definitely weirded-out girl changing the window display. Jane gasped and turned around, hands burrowing into her armpits like traumatized gophers. Jane, with all her frantic pacing and nattering, looked herself like a blanching, traumatized gopher.

5:38.

Fuck.

"Okay, control it," Jane chanted, throwing the doors open and walking into a glimmering, perfume-scented and halogen-lit oasis that might as well have been Mars. Jane gulped, and her eyes bulged.

"I can't do this…."

"Can I help you?" the salesgirl from the window. Less weirded-out, more intrigued. She approached Jane like a veterinarian about to set the broken leg of a skittish feline. It would hurt, and there would likely be claws involved; but maybe the pretty kitty would be able to walk once it was all said and done.

"I—I—I needtogetadress," Jane said in a flurry of syllables. Lights in the store started flickering.

The girl looked overhead quizzically, then shrugged. "Then you've come to the right place. Let's see if I can find you something before they send me out to flip the breaker again. All the lights were buggin' out last night, too."

Oops.

The girl, a put-together pony-tailed specimen with a squarish, tan face that suggested a Native American lineage possessed obvious fashion sense. She led Jane to the center of the store.

"So what kind of dress were you looking for?" the girl asked.

Jane opened her mouth to speak but blurted silence. Her jaw was bobbing, lips forming non-words, foreign and half-complete. She struggled for sounds, any letter, a grunt… god, say SOMETHING—

"I want to have sex!" she finally settled upon, and then clapped her hands over her mouth, appalled.

The other girl screwed up her face. "We're not really the store for that. If you're that interested, there's a place down by the pawn shop, but you didn't hear that from me—"

"No, that's not what I— I apologize, I'm quite, that is— I'm a very reserved person. I don't…" Jane moved her hands back and forth between herself and the girl like soft ninja chops, as if the awkward gesticulations were international sign language for 'I am positively incapable of holding regular conversations'.

The girl took one look at the gloves and Jane's disheveled braid and began backing away slowly.

"No, wait! Just— here!"

Jane fished her phone out of her pocket and raced toward the photos, bringing up a picture of her and A at the baseball game in Connecticut.

"Look," Jane said, swiping her finger repeatedly across the screen. "I love her," Jane said. The words fell from her tongue without faltering, as if she had always been meant to profess her love so nonchalantly.

"I flew us all the way out here to Vegas, and I got her these sunflowers… do you understand? And I booked the honeymoon suite, though we're not getting married! I just wanted it to be special…And tonight, I'm escorting her to dinner, to a five-star establishment… Elysium, I think? I don't normally like that sort of thing, I'm rather… uncomfortable, in places with so much electri— people! But she adores it, really, so we're going dancing, and then we're… uhm…"

The other girl was smiling at the screen of Jane's phone, her lips sucked into her mouth as if she were anticipating something. Her interest was strange for Jane. She had that glossy-eyed look A frequently took on during the last ten minutes of those dreaded rom-coms.

"It'll be our first time," Jane finished lamely. She flicked toward another picture. "And as you can probably see from these, I am wholly unfamiliar with the modern fashion scene." Jane plucked at the collar of her v-neck and gave herself an appraising glance. She was not happy with what she saw. "I prefer black and sleek, and shoes with enough grip to maintain my balance on a window sill."

"What?"

"Disregard that," Jane said, swatting the phrase from the air before her, as if she were ridding the store of a fly. "I just want… I want to be sexy for her, and as I am incapable of doing that myself, I humbly request your professional advice for this."

"You sound like you're asking for an organ transplant."

"I'm not the social one in the relationship," Jane returned.

"I can tell," the girl said, though not unkindly. "What's your name?"

"Jane."

"Jane, nice to meet you. I'm Allison, and as it is sort of my job to sell dresses that get women laid, I am more than capable of granting your request."

"Do you think we can find something by seven?"

"Seven? Is that what time you're meeting her?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing about your makeup?"

"Uh—"

"Oh, damn. No, no! Mrs. Sheila! Brittni! We've got a situation over here!" Allison hollered, frog-marching Jane into the bowels of the boutique. The girl had turned from sincere to department store demented in a snap, snatching dresses in varying sizes from hangers and displays with all the speed and power of a Thoroughbred. "And somebody get Gino on the phone and tell him to whip out his M.A.C. case. I'm sending someone his way and he's gonna have all of half an hour to transform this girl into a woman!"

Jane tensed as dresses were thrown into her arms. "You really don't have to yell—"

"You—" Allison pointed with an accusing finger, and then pointed toward a dressing room. "—are fucking adorable. And if my boyfriend ever went through the trouble of doing half as much for me as you're doing for her—" Allison nodded toward the phone, still glued like an electronic security blanket to Jane's palm. "—then he would deserve some help. It's hard being romantic nowadays, but thank God someone's still trying."

She pushed Jane toward the dressing room with piles of fabric in her hands.

"Those are all different sizes, lengths, and cuts. We'll see what's most flattering. I welcome your input, but from what you've said so far you might not have any," Allison stated.

"I… black. Can I have black shoes?"

"Sure. Brittni does the shoes. I'll send her to you with some options."

"Allison?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Allison came up and placed a hand on Jane's shoulder; and, for A, or maybe because of her, Jane didn't flinch.

"She's going to be very proud of you for doing this. I've got a kid brother who's kind of a mysophobe, so, we celebrate the little victories. You're not strange, Jane. Some things just don't come naturally to certain people."

"Are you a therapist as well as a retail worker?"

"Retail worker? Please. I'm majoring in design at the University of Nevada. Interior, fashion, graphics, you name it. I'm starting a company once I'm out called AmBeyoncé, 'cause everyone deserves a little Lady B in their life."

"I have no idea what you just said, but it seems as though you and my girlfriend would get along swimmingly," Jane replied.

"Less chatting, we've got work to do. And when we're finished, we're sending you to Gino."

"Who's Gino?"

Famous last words.

Gino was the head stylist at The Cutting Edge, a salon two spaces down from Allison's boutique. His hands flopped dramatically when Jane skirted in through the door, clutching the hanging bag and her shoes in a vice grip. He had on a slim tie, charcoal vest, a royal purple shirt, and sported a five o'clock shadow that looked like it required more maintenance than Jane's rappelling equipment.

"Come, come, come, don't be shy!" he instructed, waving those energetic hands towards an ancient torture device. There were metallic bars sticking out of it at all angles and it swirled 360 degrees at the lightest touch, probably the better to yank out fingernails and teeth while simultaneously extracting sensitive information needed by the Italian mafia.

"Now, let's see what we're going to do with this hair," Gino said, plopping Jane down and pumping the metal bar with his foot. It sent her skyward toward the mirror before him.

Oh. Or it could be a stylist's chair. Who'd have guessed?

"Let's see, let's see, oh honey," Gino unraveled her braid and brushed fingers through her hair. There was pity in his tone, and Jane was digging her fingers into the armrests so hard she was sure her nails were puncturing the leather. Thankfully, the black cape he threw over her body hid her heaving chest, disguising (or only prolonging?) an oncoming panic attack.

You can do this. You can do this. A has touched you, wow, has she touched you. This is harmless compared to that, just try not to say anything stupid—

"When was the last time you conditioned?"

"I do yoga every morning, cardio about every other."

Gino guffawed and gaped and gesticulated and gagged. "And your ends, tsk tsk, we've got some work to do. And there's so much of it. I couldn't hazard a guess as to the last time you had it cut."

Jane couldn't either, because she couldn't remember. She'd burned a good three inches off due to a security laser at a jeweler's in Copenhagen, and hadn't thought about it since. She washed it fairly regularly, and the braid was ideal for keeping it out of her face. She'd never given much thought to her hair, but now she wished she had.

"It's flatter than my aunt Maria's chest, God rest her soul," he held his hands up again, a gesture for poor, dearly departed Maria and her non-extant breasts.

This man is peculiar.

"But the color, damn, it's like essence of pearl."

"Uh… thank you?" Jane said.

"We'll trim it up, since Allison was simply gushing about you. What are we pairing the 'do with?" Gino asked.

"Pardon?"

"Girl, your ensemble. What are you wearing?"

"Oh, yes, right. It's over there," Jane said, gesturing toward the rack by the door.

Gino tromped across the salon floor in heeled boots and gave the piece a quick glance. He then scrutinized Jane with eagle-sharp eyes.

"Yes… definitely up," Gino decided.

"Up what?" Jane asked.

"If I do my job right, it'll be up your lady parts. Your significant other, that is."

Hair dryers roared to life and razors began vibrating, sharp, follicle-buzzing rats with corded tails enlivened by Gino's brash statement and Jane's mortification. The stylists started, then unplugged the devices, as if they had seen weirder things.

And in Vegas, poltergeist electronics are probably the least of their worries.

"We haven't got much time, from what I understand," Gino said, approaching Jane with a handful of instruments she was sure this time were legitimate torture devices. That hot iron looked like some sort of alien probe. "You need to be back to the Palace by seven, right?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall perform my magic!" Gino said, with a cosmic (and cosmetic) flourish of his arms. "Don't speak. For optimum efficiency and speed, I must be alone with my canvas. I am an artist, and you are a sad lump of clay ready to be molded by my skillful, practiced hands."

"I'm really not much for touching—"

"Silence! It has begun," and with that, he proceeded to yank her head backward, the teeth of a wide-toothed comb raking across her scalp. Another hair dryer came to life, but at least the nonsensical stylist wasn't suffering bodily convulsions on the floor. The comb made another pass through her hair and it hurt, knots and tangles more stubborn than the woman she was doing this for. Her thoughts returned to A, and the ordeal she was putting herself through because of her.

She better keep her promise of that mind-blowing orgasm, because this is utter torment.

"So, what do you think?" Jane asked, hands nervously working before her. She teetered in her heels, the black 'fuck me' pumps Brittni had suggested (Jane had been somewhat taken aback by the vulgar moniker).

A told me, back when I first met her… that black heels go with everything. Is… is this what she meant?!

"I'm straight as an arrow, and I'd totally have sex with you," Allison said. Jane stood before the four of them, Allison, Gino, Brittni, and Mrs. Sheila, her guardian angels (fashionistas? style gurus? love experts?) like a four year old on her first day of school. Jane was nervous, not that she would forget her lunch box, but that she would forget something equally as important.

Hair, check. Makeup, check. Dress, check. Shoes, check. Lingerie…

She squirmed in place.

Yes, the thong is very much there.

"I'm gayer than Neil Patrick Harris hosting the Tony Awards, and I'd still hit that," Gino said, cocking his head to the side.

"You look very nice, dear," Mrs. Sheila said.

Brittni gave her a thumbs up, and then Mrs. Sheila directed her toward a full-length mirror at the front of the boutique. Jane had returned after Gino's overhaul to change out of her clothes.

("Don't you dare dislodge those pins!" Gino had shouted through the changing room door as she pulled her shirt overhead. He had taken a ten-minute break to see the complete metamorphosis. "Or I will be on your ass like an Italian on a Vespa!")

Jane steeled herself, and met foreign, ice blue eyes in her reflection. Purple, violet, and lavender shadows threw exotic color over her sockets, cheeks rogued, liner around the eyes with mascara that popped lengthy, bushy lashes. Her lips seemed to bleed magenta, so glossy and bold. And her hair, no longer trailing behind her like some forgotten accessory, had been braided and looped, twirled around her head like a diadem.

And the dress.

Holy hell, the dress.

A black, lacey Queen Anne neckline that plunged into a shimmery bodice with quadrangled sequins of onyx, revealing inappropriate (but oh, so appropriate) cleavage. It was short and clung to her curves, ebony pleats and ruching clinging to the curve of her hips and thighs, then cutting off scandalously at mid-thigh and dividing into a minor slit, revealing the longest stretch of leg Jane had ever shown in public. It was backless, the lace pattern covering her shoulders yet leaving a diamond-shaped cut-out that pointed to a…

Oh. That explains why A is so infatuated with my posterior.

Fitting.

"Turn around, lemme see that cut out," Gino ordered.

She did so.

"Honey, you are definitely bringing sexy back."

This comment earned him a high-five from Allison, but Jane's bewildered face matched Mrs. Sheila's.

Her scapulas jutted from under milk-white skin, ready to be marked by A's talented mouth, or scarred by her manicured nails. Her heels were strappy, spikey, and too tall. She wobbled gracelessly, but figured she possessed enough balance and awareness of her body's center to readjust with a few paces before she met A. If the walking bit went poorly, she'd simply have to start doing her yoga in heels for future practice. She did have to admit, the shoes did wonders for her ass.

Which A will undoubtedly notice.

Jane smirked.

"I look nothing like myself," she said blankly, facing the foursome. "Thank you."

There was a collective sigh of relief from each person, faces softening with the air of satisfaction that occurs after time spent doing charity work. And Jane, in her v-neck t-shirt, pallored face and simple black pants, was like an entire Habitat for Humanity construction.

"You're going to be great!" Brittni squealed. "And if doesn't go well, take my card, I'm sure I can get you something—"

"Stop hitting on her, Brit!" Allison chided.

"It'll be a special night for you both." Mrs. Sheila.

"Go get you some!" Gino.

"You did a great thing for her, Miss Social Anxiety," Allison said. "But you better hurry Cinderella, it's five til."

"What? No, wait just a moment, please." Jane rushed, well, stumble-shuffled-walked-with-spirit toward the Porsche. She extracted a black bag from the trunk, and made the trek back toward the boutique in those disorderly heels.

"Here!" she said, tossing the bag at their feet. "And thank you, truly. You've done more for me than you know!" Jane was back to the driver's seat and peeling out of the parking lot before Allison had it all counted.

"She already paid with the credit card, the dear," Mrs. Sheila said.

"Holy shit," Gino gasped.

"There's twenty thousand dollars in here," Brittni said.

Allison gaped at the cash. "Her girlfriend better be one hell of a lay."

Jane slammed the door to the suite behind her, feeling as though she hadn't stopped gasping for air since she left almost two hours previously. It was 7:20, and she was in trouble. If hers had been a normal life, she wondered if tardiness constituted a night spent on the couch, as A had said was common in some relationships.

"About damn time!" A yelled from the bedroom. "I come back and you are nowhere to be found, computer shattered against the wall, just a stupid text letting me know you're alive, but that doesn't excuse—"

The girl continued to berate her through the wall while Jane calmed herself, trying to think of the most optimum position for her so-called 'big reveal'. That's what Google had advised: seductive stance.

Doorway? No.

She moved about with no real destination, nervously wringing her covered hands.

What if she doesn't like it?

Deciding she had put herself through enough distress already, Jane sat heavily on the barstool and hitched one leg over the other, plopping her chin on her hand.

No, I don't need the gloves with her.

Jane stared down at her hands, the gloves her only companions for the better part of her teens and flashes of her adolescence. And now she was discarding them for something real, something better, but it didn't mean they hadn't gotten her through rougher times, through times best not remembered. She gingerly pulled the tips of each glove from her finger, and slid them off her palms with a garbled mixture of reverence and relief. She performed the ritual for the other hand and sighed, placing her hands gently in her lap. Jane noted the lack of poniard-like griping, and turned her head to see A, mouth open wider than a crocodile's and drooling.

But this wasn't like her saliva monsoon every morning, more like—

Jane looked down at her leg. The one crossed was the one with the slit, which explained A's gaping. She had practically flashed A a good portion of her buttock with the movement, not that A was complaining.

She cleared her throat and stood, sheepishly sliding forward.

"A?"

"Jane— you look… different. It's a good different."

"Thank you," she said, shy but genuine. "You look… half dressed."

"Haha, yeah."

A didn't move, eyes roving instead over every part of Jane's body. Jane could feel them, A's eyes, binocular zooms and soft focus and scrutinizing vision on her skin, behind her knees, at her neck, between her thighs. The type of visual assault that was almost violating, so vehement was the shorter woman's gaze.

"Aren't you going to…"

"To what?" A asked dumbly.

"To get dressed."

A nodded, but didn't move back toward the bedroom. Stood in a thin slip and sheer brown hose, A dropped the powder puff she was holding to the floor. It didn't clatter, didn't thud. Just drifted down into soundlessness, and Jane swore she could hear the perusal, could hear the inspection A was performing with her eyes in the thickness of the silence. A began her approach.

"You have to say something," Jane exclaimed, A now inches from her.

"I don't deserve you."

"Not that," Jane fretted.

"No, you're just so—"

"Don't touch it!" Jane ducked from her caress. "It was enough ordeal getting it into place, I want it to stay for the duration."

"I won't touch anything," A said. She exhaled and turned reluctantly, kneeling to retrieve her fallen poof. She took another glance over her shoulder at Jane, and placed a hand on the doorjamb before entering the en suite. She spoke softly. "Thank you for arranging everything. I had a wonderful time today."

"How inconsiderate of me, I should have asked."

"No, it's only… you make me so happy," A tapped the molding along the door frame with her fingers, rolling them in indecisive thought. "I got something for you today."

"Really? A gift?"

"If tonight's Christmas…" she trailed off.

"You really didn't have to get me anything. You've technically gifted me two priceless Dutch masterpieces."

"I know," A said, still pensive. "But it's not just for you, I— I'm afraid I bought it selfishly. It's too soon. But then again, seeing how much trouble you went through for me… Jane, you probably let other people touch you to achieve this. Do you realize how big a step that is for you? For us?"

"You're worth it."

"Jane…"

The blonde couldn't take it anymore. She strode across the room as fast as her heels would allow and gathered A up in her arms.

"Don't!" A whispered wetly. "You'll smear your lipstick."

"I bought extra," Jane said, and kissed her with the care one would harbor when handling a china doll. Kissed her without the passionate tangle of tongues, but with something so special, and delicate, and ultimate that it required finesse and precision.

Satin underneath her palms, love underneath her lips.

Meant. She was made, just to save me.

"Get dressed," Jane breathed, and A's exhale was humid at her mouth. A moved a thumb just under Jane's lip to tidy the smudges, and then swiped her own hands across her mouth less carefully.

Twenty minutes later A emerged, looking more beautiful than ever, sophisticated, a definite woman despite her occasional immaturity. Glittery and gold, Jane's special sunbeam, sunflower, the one light she never had to fear. A had an iron grip on her clutch and waited for her own review.

"More than beautiful," Jane said.

"No, really."

"You're wanting more adjectives? Descriptors? Exquisite, a paragon, there is nothing lacking and nothing superfluous." Jane slipped her hand into A's. "Now…" she tightened her hold, and knew in her deepest heart, in her soul or spirit or pneuma or self, that everything would change with this girl.

"If you'll allow me, it's time I escort you to dinner," Jane said, and they exited the suite hand in hand.

A/N: It's about to get really real up in here, guys. Lots of speculation floating around in reviews and PMs, and some are definitely on the right track. Thanks again to everybody for the feedback, critique always appreciated. And yes, I wrote my stylist into the story. There, I confess. But we all know Jane needed him.