AN: Writing in different styles and tenses helps keep the mind fresh. On the other hand, some things become much harder to articulate than others. Anyway, delays, handwavium excuses, etc. Have some more story for your troubles.
We're home, and I sprawl out across the entire couch. Elsa's couch, which we never replaced. We never needed to, it's just so durable. Joan flops down on top of me in what may be the least ladylike manner ever. She's getting heavy, but it's all muscle. I wrap one arm around her, fumbling for the remote with my other hand. I channel surf, finding a music channel, turning the volume down. Just a little background noise. I give my daughter a pat on the back, trying to reassure her.
"Tina will be fine."
"I–I know, mom. It's just… ugh." Well, frustrated sighs never did sound pretty. But, there is a lesson here. Well, actually, I'll be giving her one, the same one Lefou gave me. With a few carefully chosen words he managed to change the way I saw Gaston completely. They're called revelations for a reason. Joan rests her head against my shoulder, and its at this point I realize how hard it is for both of us to actually fit on the couch—mostly because half of me is now hanging precariously over the edge of the seats and Joan is slowly sinking into the gap between the cushions and the backrest.
"Mom?"
"Yes?" I manage to ask before slipping sideways onto the floor.
"I think the couch is trying to eat me."
"Well, I'm sure it's gotten more than its fair share of popcorn and maltesers. Feel around down there, you might find some." I grin as she screws up her face at the thought. I know better, of course. Every few months I'll give the couch a thorough cleaning. Part of the reason it's lasted so long. She sits up a little straighter, lounging against the armrest the way I used to do. Yes, we share certain mannerisms. I take a seat against the other armrest.
"Joan," I begin, using my sternest voice. "You know you shouldn't be fighting with the other kids at school"—I hold up a hand to forestall any possible protest—"I'm not saying what you did is wrong—No, wait, actually I might be. Why you did it is more important. Protecting Tina was noble, and the right thing to do—but we both know you didn't have to fight back. I've seen you training defense with Phil a few times, dagger and unarmed, I know you could've done it."
"They already hit Tink," Joan protested, hands balling into fists. "I couldn't defend her from both of them—I had to attack."
"You could have walked away. Gone to one of your teachers, or just somewhere more open, where they couldn't corner you and Tina." She's too much like me, and I know even as I say the words they would never have been followed. I wouldn't have either. We protect our friends, sometimes with violence, sometimes all we need is a few words. And sometimes we need distance and perspective before we do something stupid.
"Mom, they would have followed us—and they were insulting everyone, especially auntie Elsa. I… I couldn't stand it."
"I know, baby, I know." I do, because Elsa's memory is something we all protect. For a long time after she passed even the smallest slight against her would get me fired up. More than once Kristoff had to hold me back. Then there were the few times he wasn't there to stop me. So yeah, there may be an assault charge still on my record. I regret that—I wish I'd known how to be a bigger person back then. Well, I had, I was just… overcome. It's not easy to get over the death of your best friend, lover, soul mate, and wife. Maybe I still haven't completely come to grips with it, but I live a relatively normal life now. Well, about as normal as anything in this crazy world gets.
"Mom?" There's a hand in front of my eyes. "You kinda just zoned out for a minute."
I blink, lowering Joan's hand with my own. "I was just thinking about the trouble I got into, fighting people that disrespected Elsa. I just don't want to see you making my mistakes."
"Then how can I make them understand?" there's a plaintive note to her voice. "How do I show them all the good you shared?"
"I don't know; but I know if you choose your words right, they'll know. It's how Lefou got me to respect lieutenant Gaston."
"He… he died, right?" Joan asks tentatively. "That night after you went to see auntie Elsa in the hospital."
—∞—
I went to see Lefou first. Being on crutches was actually a first too. It had been a startling week of firsts. Inspector Lefou was at home, on bereavement leave. Gaston had, after all, been his closest friend. Lefou's apartment was nice, if a little small. Cosy, he would always say. The décor and furniture had always seemed large for him though, but most items came only in set sizes, and he didn't normally fit into any one of those 'normal' categories. He was sitting at the table when I stepped inside, nursing a dangerously strong coffee. The disheveled hair and red rings under his eyes told me he hadn't slept a wink last night. I'd had problems sleeping too—but the reasons were much darker.
"Roland," I called out softly, hoping to catch his attention.
"Anna?" he turned, somewhat surprised. Maybe he wanted to be left alone. His voice was heavy, and edged with something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
"I, uh… hi?" I gave him a shy little wave. I wasn't really sure what to do. I knew that cops sometimes died in the line of duty, but it was something that happened in other places, never so close to home. I didn't have much experience comforting grieving friends anyway. I just didn't have that many friends. Not then. Lefou looked at me—past me—and I turned, trying to see what he saw in the empty doorway behind me.
Nothing.
I closed the door softly, hobbling over to the table. "Umm… can I help?"
"Can you bring back the dead?"
"You want him back?" there was an edge of disbelief in my voice. "After everything that bastard put you through?"
"Anna, I loved him. Dearly. I just want him back for a moment—just long enough to say goodbye." Lefou stared into his coffee for what seemed to be hours. "God… I miss him."
Well, I could understand missing him, even if he had been an ass to almost everyone he met. Everything was a competition. And he always had to win it, too. He was sure he could—too damn sure. He was vain, and arrogant. If he ever noticed me it was only to hit on me like I was some object that existed solely at his sufferance. I hated it. And, me being me, I told Lefou as much. I sometimes have problems with the whole brain-mouth filter thing. He looked up at me, a look of betrayal and disappointment etched across his face. I wanted to run, but that would only make things worse. I just hung my head in shame, waiting for someone to hit me for being so tactless.
"Anna, sit," it wasn't a command, but I hobbled over to the couch anyway. It was getting uncomfortable just standing there.
"Roland, I'm—" he cut me off with a wave of his hand, sitting down heavily next to me.
"You didn't know him like I did. He… he was only like that in public."
"Really?" I raised an eyebrow. I'd honestly thought Gaston would be like that all the time. It hadn't occurred to me he might show different faces to different people. Like I eventually learned Hans did. Lefou set his drink down on the coffee table and wrung his hands.
"Anna, you know that I'm—"
"Yes, I know. There's nothing wrong with men loving other men," I'd known for a while that Lefou was gay; I was one of the few people he could confide in. "I mean, assuming he's nice to you, and you like him, and no one gets hurt like last time…"
Lefou reached for his coffee, taking a sip and grimacing. "He always was nice to me."
"I must be missing something here, because I've never seen this boyfriend of yours."
Lefou smiled sadly, taking my hand. He looked me straight in the eye, and until he spoke I had no idea what he had been trying to tell me without saying it outright. "You could always see him, you just never looked."
One hand wasn't enough to cover my shocked gasp. I fell forwards, burying my face in my hands. How had I been so blind? Lefou was right, I'd never looked, because I'd never expected it… not from either of them. His sadness made sense—he'd lost more than a friend, apparently, much more. I wanted to ask how long they'd been together, but that just seemed rude. I held my tongue, brushing away a few stray tears.
"Roland… I'm… just tell me… I want to help."
"Will you just sit here with me, for a while?"
He fumbled around under the magazines on his coffee table, finding the remote for his sound system. I recognized the song after the first few bars. Chasing Cars, by Snow Patrol. Grey's Anatomy—Lefou had many times professed his love for that show, and the characters' tumultuous lives. Maybe Gaston had liked it as well. Maybe Gaston had watched it just to be friends with Lefou. It was a strange thought, that Gaston might have done anything for the benefit of someone else. Lefou was sobbing quietly, so I slid over and wrapped my arm around his shoulders. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed right. He hiccoughed, smiling at me for half a second before the tears began again. Who was I to judge?
—∞—
At the time I had no idea what Lefou was going through. I only learned when I felt it myself, later, when I lost Elsa. I offer her a mental wave, and I like to imagine her waving back, wherever she is. I know now what Lefou felt, and how much my insensitive comments had shocked him.
"Inspector Lefou likes men?" Joan's first question, completely missing the point.
"Yes, he does. You've seen him out walking with Christian, haven't you?"
"Oh, so he's… and they…" Joan's doing that thing where she points in opposite directions with each hand. It's a sign she's putting things together in her head. "Oh…" That was when the penny dropped.
"You asked me something before I started telling you this story; you remember what it was baby?"
"I—Yes!" She smiles triumphantly. "So when Lefou told you Gaston was his boyfriend, that's when you actually respected Gaston?"
"Not really. I sort of did, but I didn't really get it. I figured it was just for Lefou; that I only had to be nice about Gaston around him."
"So if I tell those girls about Elsa, they'll only be nice about her around me and Tink?" Joan shakes her head, unable to accept such a limited victory. "It's not enough."
"No, it's not," I agree. "Lefou told me something just before I left: 'Being dead doesn't mean you stop respecting someone. Other people cared about him too. Imagine if that was you—what would they say?'." That was what stopped me back then. Forced me to take a fresh look at how I saw the world. If I died the next day, what would people have said? Well, I have an idea what you might have said, given where we were at the time. Stinker. Anyway.
Joan's sitting cross-legged on the end of the couch now. I can tell she's processing all of this. It should help. I check the time on my watch, and somehow it's later than I thought. I flick Kristoff a text, telling him I'll be back at the workshop shortly; Joan's protesting, asking for more of the story. She wants to know if I saw Elsa that afternoon. Of course I did, but that's a story for later. Right now I have some responsibilities to take care of—and as punishment for fighting, Joan gets to do the dishes and the laundry. At least one of them needs to be done by the time I get home.
And later I can tell her about why Elsa was mad about my jacket.
