AN: Ideas are dangerous things. I had one for a modern Elsanna, expanding on this self-same story. The world just came to me, and I knew I had to do it. There will be feels, and laughter, and doomed romance. All the classics. If you have comments or criticism, don't hesitate to leave a review or send me a PM; I promise I won't bite.


Joan has her eyes. That piercing, crystalline blue. She's our daughter—all three of us, even if one of us dead now. Elsa… losing you was the hardest thing in my life. It still is. I doubt anything will compare to what we had, but Kristoff has always been understanding and supportive. And yes, sometimes we 'do it', you great prude. But us, you and me, we made love. There's an indefinable difference there, and somehow I've never felt for Kristoff what I felt for you. Sixteen years, and yes, we have passion, but that great spark, it's just not as strong. I think I might be rambling though, because I started talking about Joan, and now I'm talking about Kristoff.

Okay, take two. Joan has her eyes. Elsa's eyes. It makes sense, because Elsa provided the donor egg. Kristoff, uh, helped. I provided a womb in which to grow our daughter of three parents. But only after—because Elsa was smart enough to know that I wouldn't be strong enough to do it until after she was gone. That I wouldn't want to. Elsa will never get to see her daughter, but at least Joan can see her, in the pictures around the house, in the videos we made, in my occasional, longing writings. Joan's fifteen, she's a smart kid, really bright, like you were Elsa. She's not a dancer though, she's a fighter—I mean, an actual, proper fighter, err, fencer. Historical, she keeps telling me. I've watched her, and it's so fluid and graceful I can't help but see you there sometimes, waving that longsword around. You'd be proud of her, I'm sure of it. My strength, your grace, Kristoff's wit—well, maybe not so proud of that part.

She's started asking about you, Elsa. Properly. She's always known I cared. She knows we loved each other, and that we were involved sexually—and I can see your blush from here, it makes the heavens glow, you stinker. Anyway, she asked about us. Not just you—but she does want to know about you an awful lot—but us. Us. She knows we were together now, and I kinda want to reward that, y'know? I will. I'm going to tell her our story. And if you happen to offer input, well, I won't turn it away. It sucks you never do, you know that, right? All those threats about haunting me if I kissed you that last time—because dammit, your lips still smelled like strawberry, and I'm totally not sorry for weirding out all those people in the church. I think one or two of them were jealous actually. God knows you looked good enough.

But here we are, I'm sitting on the couch, legs crossed, doing nothing in particular with my thirty-nine year—okay, fine—forty-one year old body. I've got a bowl of popcorn and a box of maltesers. Umm, yeah, they're maltesers this time. Joan got back from high school about an hour ago, and thankfully it's Kristoff's turn to cook, so we can both talk as long as we want. Could turn out to be a while. Joan actually looks a little pale. Apprehensive. Perhaps even afraid. So I move over to her, wrap my arms around her shoulders. She doesn't try and break away like she used to. Like you used to, stinker. So I've got my arms around her shoulders, and she just leans into my chest, lets her braid fall past me. I can hear some sniffling coming from my daughter. I don't like it. I don't like it when anyone is sad—even though sometimes we have to be.

"Mom?" it's tentative, unsure, like she's sounding me out. I have an idea where this might be going.

"Yes, Joan?"

"Can you—can you tell me about auntie Elsa?" which really was not what I had been expecting. I mean sure, someday I expected she would want to hear it. But not today, just some random Tuesday. I guess life is just messy like that. I told you it was, and you never wanted to believe me—until our first night together. God that was hilarious. And sexy. And fun. And I wish we'd had more like it, the passion, the fumbling, the desire. I guess we did. Less fumbling though. That's not what Joan means though—maybe when she's a little older she can hear that part, though I did give her the talk a couple years back now.

"It's a long story, Joan. Sad, too," it's not an excuse, I'm just making sure she knows what she's in for. "So I guess I should probably start at the beginning, when I hit her with my bike."

"You what!" Oh, right, I haven't actually told her this part of the story properly yet—I just said I was visiting you in hospital, an old friend. Well, time to put a few little lies to bed then.

"It all started eighteen years ago, I was a young twenty-something wannabe with a bike, my riding gear, and not a whole lot else. Thank Kristoff for keeping me going there too."

"You hit auntie Elsa with your bike?" She seems to be a little stuck there right now.

"I did."

"Your. Bike." Clearly she's having some sort of trouble processing this revelation. Makes sense, really. It's not every day you find out your surrogate parent nearly killed your biological mother in a high speed collision. At the time, of course, I had no way of knowing it was a deliberate act. Truck in front of me swerved to avoid something, so I swung wide, throttling down. That's when the blonde in the middle of the road jumped at me. I hit the brakes, turned broadside and slid fifty feet. I could actually feel something breaking under the rear wheel of my bike. I take my time to explain all this to Joan, and her eyes, when she turns to look up at me, are full of fire.

"You nearly killed auntie Elsa?!"

"She—" it's hard to say, even now. Even after sixteen and a half years. I know why you did it, and there's part of me that hated you for it, for the longest time, and you knew it. I made sure you did so you never did anything that stupid ever again. But there's another part of me, small, and alone, but it can't help but love your actions. Because if you hadn't jumped out then, maybe the car behind me would have hit you, and you'd've been dead—and I would live my life never knowing what true love was, or how to treat myself properly. Shit… Hans might have killed me, in the end, if you hadn't thrown yourself at me in your stupid suicide attempt. "—She wanted to die, Joan, baby. She just found out."

"About the cancer?"

"Yes." And now, this is where our story really starts, doesn't it? A literal 'crash into hello'. So now all I've got to do is take a deep breath, and then I'll be able to tell our daughter everything.

—∞—

It was my first Ninja, a beautiful Kawasaki bike, and I'd just picked it up from the shop after getting the engine tuned for better mid-range. More useful around the city. I was on my way back from work, Lzzy Hale singing in my ear about tired mechanical hearts, and Lindsey Stirling starting up with that amazing violin work she always does. Shatter Me—that was the song. It's a good one, and that's what it felt like when I saw the blonde goddess step out into the street—shattered, I mean. She wasn't looking, and a truck had just swerved across the other lane to avoid her, narrowly missing an oncoming SUV. I could hear the brakes screeching as she turned to the left, staring at me. I already knew it was too late.

She moved towards me, not trying to avoid my bike. I'd already slammed on the brakes, but there was just enough water from the afternoon rains to make my bike fishtail. I was already horrified and paralyzed, frozen with one hand on the brakes, and one leg desperately trying to push the bike aside. It was too late, and I felt the crash as my rear wheel encountered something less durable than the asphalt. I could feel the crack through the frame of my bike. I actually heard the crack as my music cut out. The scream. She screamed as the tail of my bike slammed into her leg and I slid into the kerb. I could hear the squeal of brakes behind me as I was half-thrown from the seat of the Ninja, landing hard, skidding several feet on the sidewalk.

Somehow—I don't know how, really—I found myself quite close to the woman. I was kind of dazed by the impact, but I threw my helmet off and ran back to the blonde. It was bad. I think she must have blacked out, because the screaming had stopped—but I could tell her leg was a mess. Her right leg, white fragments of bone sticking out of her shin, her knee swollen, and blood pooling through her jeans and onto the road. Her thigh was worse, a spear of bone sticking out two inches from her torn and bloodied jeans. I'm not sure I had the presence of mind to call an ambulance, but I did manage to wrap my jacket around her. That was when I saw the car, stopped just short of us, bumper only inches from the young woman I'd hit.

I was sitting behind her, sort of cradling her in my arms. That's what the jacket was for, to keep her warm to prevent shock. I'll admit now I hadn't done much first aid, but I remember watching scenes like this in a lot of movies, and everyone always got a jacket or a blanket. So she got mine. It was the least I could do. I brushed her hair aside, out of her face, because some of it had gotten tangled.

I really got a good look at her face then. If I wasn't already down on my knees I would've doubled over in shock. It felt like I'd tried to kill an angel—except, this one was already broken. Her skin was sallow, pale, almost lacking any colour at all. Her jawline was sharp, and she had cheekbones I could kill for, but the gauntness of her face was enough to destroy that beauty. But I saw deeper, not what she was, but what she could have been—and I'd nearly killed her. I was terrified of what I'd done, and it was all I could do just to sit there, cradling her in my arms. She woke up, or regained consciousness, or whatever the proper term is after passing out from shock. But her first words weren't to blame me, or to try and force everyone back. They didn't even sound pained, though they were distant.

"You're hurt."

I felt her delicate fingers tracing a line down my cheek, and her fingertips came away red and bloody. That was my blood. I couldn't feel anything. I noticed then that my wrist was sore, and my left ankle felt like it was on fire. Probably broken, or at the least very badly sprained. It wasn't long before an ambulance arrived, and for expediency's sake, I guess, we were both loaded on to the same vehicle. She never pressed charges—I only figured out why later though. Still had my license temporarily suspended while the cops investigated the accident. Hans told me he pulled some strings to make sure I wouldn't be convicted. Back then I was naive and desperate enough to believe him.

—∞—

Looking over at Joan, I know I can't tell her what Hans was really like, what he did to me, nearly every day. How illegal it was, and how scared I was. He abused his power as an officer of the law, and it took Kristoff and Elsa together to give me the courage to finally leave him. That was also the night I got stabbed—and the night I nearly let the world go on without me. So I turn to Joan, and ask what is, for me, a hard question—because it feels like I'm betraying something, even though it's nonsense.

"Is it okay if I don't tell you about Hans?"

"It's fine mom," here Joan reaches out to reassure me, her hands over mine. It's a gentle warmth, acceptance. She's smart, too. "I know they're bad memories—and that's why I never ask about them. And… and I know it hurts to talk about auntie Elsa, but you loved her so much, and I really want to know why."

Sometimes I think she's too good for me. Too good for us, really. If you're up there, I hope you're smiling down on her, because she deserves all your love and encouragement. Don't let her go. Watch over her—she's your daughter too, and maybe more yours than mine, you stinker. She's got your stubborn streak, your eyes, and Kristoff's nose—which might be considered unlucky in certain circles. She did get my sense of humour though, so I think we're even.

"You'll learn why soon enough baby," I wink at our daughter. "And it wasn't just the tongue thing either."

"Eww, mom, gross!" Now I have to dodge a cushion, and I'm not quite as fast as I used to be, so I get a face full of dusty fabric. Which reminds me, it's Joan's turn to do the dusting and the vacuuming again. I've got laundry, and Kristoff's got kitchen duties. And while I'm thinking this, she's still wailing on me with the pillow, so I grab it and hold firm.

"Like you never kissed a girl," I can't resist teasing her sometimes. Especially because I'd just come around to pick her up from a party and caught her in the act. Apparently it was humiliating, because a) she got caught, b) she got caught kissing a girl, c) she got caught kissing a girl by her mom, and finally, d) she got caught kissing a girl by her mom while leaving a party. I never judged her for it—but I did need to edit the version of the talk I gave her to make sure she knew it was okay; it didn't matter who she loved, as long as they loved her back. At least, that's the way I've always felt it should be.

"One time, mom. One freaking time." But I can see the smile she's trying desperately to hide. Her name is Tina, and she's adorably tiny compared to Joan. Everyone calls her Tink, after Tinkerbell, because of the short hair and manic energy—and because her best friend is Peter. She comes over every now and then, and Joan claims they're 'just good friends', but I have my suspicions.

"You've got some chores you need to do, and you've got fencing tonight."

"I know," maybe I sound like a broken record to her, but I swear she also inherited my organizational skills, rather less fun than my sense of humour.

"I'll continue the story at bedtime… how's that?"

"Mo–om."

I shrug, and sigh. I know she'll listen anyway, and once I'm gone, she'll be out of the covers and on her computer again. I know what I was like at that age. It's hard for her to appreciate that I was there too, once; so I can actually sympathize. Probably just a rebellious phase, testing out the boundaries we've established for her. Me and Kristoff, that is; both physical and mental. Places she shouldn't go, things she shouldn't do, things she should never have to learn. Is it so bad we want to protect her? And is it wrong that I want you to protect her too, Elsa? Am I just losing my mind, or am I properly paying my respects? I don't know anymore. Sixteen years and that line has faded so much I have no idea where it is now. I have to talk to Kristoff when he gets home—he'll be able to steer me safely through the chaos, like he always has.