AN: I know I've been going on about an AMA for all my stories (due Monday), but it has been pointed out to me that as my main story is some 300,000 words, it might be best to discuss it in a dedicated thread. So, apologies that this story will not be up for that AMA—but fear not, there will be another AMA later, perhaps December/January, where all of my shorter works can be discussed; and there's always PMs for the very curious.

That said, here's your update. Enjoy.


Joan took that last part of the story about as well as can be expected, I guess. She knows Hans put me in pretty bad place, and she knows he abused me—at least, parts of it—but I'd generally given her the sanitized version. The big fight, yes, but not what I'd done before, or how badly Hans had injured me. Suddenly she's hugging me, and then she's sitting against the far end of the couch, looking a little… sheepish, I think. I hold out my left wrist, tracing the scar there for her to see. It's not that visible anymore, but if it catches the light just right. Or if she runs her finger down it like she's doing, she can feel it.

I can feel the slight shiver as she traces that scar, and a slight chill runs down my spine. Sometimes the truth can be a hard and dangerous thing, even if it has to be known. She's hugging me again, whispering in my ear. I wrap my arms around her and tell her that everything will be okay. Maybe not now, but in time, it'll all be alright. Kristoff walks in, tousling Joan's hair as she tries to shy away, then he wraps his arms around my shoulders from behind.

"I see you two have made up at least," then he looks over at Joan, fixing her with a stare. "Ready to forgive your dad for doing the right thing yet, Snowflake?"

Joan shakes her head and he shrugs, walking off. He parts with the phrase: "Worth a shot."

It's not always easy doing the right thing, and people can get hurt. I should know, the truth has hurt me quite a lot in the past, but I like to think it's made me a better person—like I'm hoping it'll do for Joan. Speaking of which, now story time is over, she's got some work to do. Laundry. Dishes. Then if the weather holds—which it should if you're looking out for us up there—she can help Kristoff clean the yard. Me—I'm gonna find some chocolate, and try to get over telling our daughter that I once tried to kill myself. Tried to kill myself just to hurt someone else. The absolute worst thing I can think of. Chocolate. I need that chocolate…


Sunday morning, and the phone's ringing—actually, my phone. It's Adam, with a video call. I accept the call, and in the background I can see Belle nursing a cut on her cheek and what looks to be a black eye. I have to hold my tongue, especially seeing the look on Adam's face. It's so uncertain, even more than when I usually see him. It almost looks defeated. It's a sort of vague expression, I can't quite place it, and I have to wonder if he's taking his meds again.

"I–I—We need help, miss Bergman," there's a slight pause as Belle moves a little closer, placing a hand on Adam's shoulder. He reaches up to take it before continuing. "You and… Kristoff? I hurt Belle; made myself take meds; feel so empty. Belle has a good idea." He turned to face her, looking slightly confused. "Do you?"

The flatness of his voice was unsettling, and I tried my best to ignore it. "You want us to sound out the idea?"

"We do," Belle leans in closer to the phone. "I hate seeing him like this, Anna."

"So what is this big idea?"

Belle smiles briefly, and then she's all business. "It's… unorthodox, but I think it might work better for all of us. Well, me and Adam, and you'll have less reason to worry about me getting hurt so much."

"Not hurting you," Adam smiles—tries to smile—up at Belle before turning back to face me. "Good when Belle isn't hurting."

Belle reaches down to end the call. The screen goes black, and it occurs to me I hadn't seen Adam like that before today. I don't know what drugs he's on to control his various psychoses, but they clearly leave him quite spaced out, and not in the best place mentally. But for some reason treating a damaged mind is still far more difficult than treating an injured body. A few minutes later I realize that we didn't actually arrange a meeting. Oops.

A few texts later—to Belle rather than Adam—and that little hiccup has been smoothed over. Later this afternoon, at the park. All four of us, plus Joan. She might still be grounded, but I don't want to leave her alone with such temptation. I know very well what I could be like at that age and for some reason I feel like I owe my mother a profound apology. I hope one day Joan knows exactly that kind of feeling. Or maybe not, because if I have grandkids—wait, I'm way too young to be even thinking about that, right? Anyway, they should be well behaved. At least enough that I'd still be able to keep up with them.

At the park there's five of us, the sun's warm, but a gentle breeze takes away any bite. I still think I'm gonna get sunburned though. Belle and Adam have just finished explaining their rationale behind this new idea of theirs. She's asking me if it's a good idea.

"I don't know, is it?" I'm teasing her; I know it's a very serious issue, and I shouldn't be making light of it, but… coping mechanism. I'm sorry.

"Maybe. I'm learning self-defense. I'm not very good—"

"You held me back," Adam took Belle's hand as he spoke. "I could see you."

"That's your plan?" I have to admit, it seemed very, very simple from where I was standing.

"The start of it," Belle smiled. "The lounge looks like we had a cage match in there."

"What?" that actually came from Joan.

"We've actually talked about this before, me and Adam. If he has a violent flashback, I have to fight him. I think we gave his psychologist nightmares when we said it worked."

"If she fights, I see her, not them."

"Then we fight naked." Everyone turns to stare at Belle. "Not really." She laughs at us, but I'm not sure it's that much of a joke. "But we've made rules at least—bare hands only; no furniture; that kind of thing."

"What is this, some kind of bad wrestling parody?" from the Reindeer King. Yes, I married him. No, I don't regret it.

"No that would be us," I say softly, whispering something very naughty in his ear. He spanks me for it, which may or may not be what I actually wanted him to do.

"If you two are quite through trying to mortify the younger generation…" Belle fixes me with a dangerous stare as she finishes. "We're fighting, and not just during Adam's flashbacks. It's good fitness, and him learning how to evade around the apartment might actually make him a better dancer—we're hoping to make it to the masquerade ball in early December."

There's a strange pause, and no one can think of anything to say.

"You two are weird," Joan baby, a little sensitivity might—oh, yes, okay, if you're going to hug them like that. "My kind of weird."

"Would you like to come over for dinner?" Kristoff, playing his trump card. "I'm cooking."

"God yes. Should we bring anything?"

"An appetite." I can only roll my eyes. Alright, that was a good one, I shouldn't be so hard on him.

It's not that late in the afternoon, and we did bring some sporting goods with us. A softball bat, some tennis balls, and a catcher's mitt. I hold the bat over my shoulder and have a ball in my left hand. "Anyone up for a game?"

It's not softball, or catch, or anything really. Just ball. Someone throws, someone's at bat, and someone's out in the field to catch. It's fun, and watching Belle and Adam laugh and play it's almost enough to forget the darker side to their relationship. Almost. I can still see the bruises, but Belle's not that self-conscious about them. I catch a ball with my stomach for getting distracted. Good God Adam can swing that bat. Prosthetics. Limiters. I rub my stomach, throwing the ball back towards Belle, who's now moving to be at bat while Joan pitches.

Let's face it, Belle never was the sporty type. I'm surprised about the self-defense lessons too, but it makes sense. You know, in that crazy way, it's so crazy it might just work. Yeah, that way. Okay, so Belle might not be into sports, but she hit the ball pretty hard there. I'm watching it sail well past overhead. I follow at a slow jog, watching it bounce in the grass before coming to a stop just short of the path. I bend down to pick up the ball, and when I look up again, something by the bandstand catches my attention.

It can't be. It's impossible. But the sideburns. That leering smile. That look that says he's better than you and you should accept it. I turn to walk away, and looking over my shoulder, if it was him, he's gone. For some reason that makes it worse. I can't just brush this off. If it's true, I'm scared of the lengths he'd go to to get back in my life. To prove he can still control me. My hands ball into fists. I'm not letting him ruin our day at the park. And you, up there, watching us, go kick him in the balls while no one's looking.

I make my way back to the others. I don't think I'm that shaken up, but obviously it shows. My hands are shaking slightly. Kristoff is jogging over, and Belle looks pretty concerned. Why now?

"I think I just saw Hans," it's an urgent whisper. I don't want anyone else to hear. "There, by the bandstand." I point in the general direction I think he went. That I have literally no idea where he went, if it was actually him, is beside the point.

"If you think you saw him, you saw him," Kristoff puts his hands on my shoulders, squaring me up, looking me in the eye. "I can't see him now, but that doesn't mean he wasn't there. Do you want me to ring the police about it?"

"No." I'm not losing my mind, but I'm also not 100% sure it was him. I'd rather be sure. "But what was he doing here?"

"Maybe he got out on good behaviour?" It's hard to hold in a derisive snort, but I manage. Hans was a master manipulator. Of course he could have played the part of the perfect little prisoner. I don't even know if he saw me; if he recognized me. But damn it, he knows where we live. The house was technically his—ours, joint title, but you know what he was like—even if I paid off most of the mortgage myself. Well, me and Kristoff did. So he's got no leg to stand on, but I'm still afraid of what he might try to do.

"Mom, you okay?" It's Joan, and I guess she's right to be concerned. This might be my past, but it could hurt all of us, and I don't want that to happen.

"She saw Hans," Kristoff helpfully supplies, covering for me. To him it's a fact, and for some reason I'm heartened by his certitude. I watch as Joan spreads her feet slightly further apart, lowering her hips, hands in a fencing guard. I've seen her do that one so many times, unarmed vs armed. Adam tenses up when he sees Joan like that, hands curling into fists, a hardness shining behind his eyes. Belle wraps a hand around his wrist, but he shrugs it off, looking for the danger. Maybe he's still a little spaced out. Belle whispers something in his ear, and he relaxes slightly but remains alert.

This Hans thing has suddenly got me all tangled up inside, and I do not like it. I thought—well I guess I thought I was safe. I thought I wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. I wouldn't have to worry about any of that ugly stuff from my past. I locked it all up and put it away. Like stuffing everything in the closet and closing the door as it tries to burst back out. And maybe one or two things fell out while talking to Joan about you, Elsa… but this… God, it's everything. It's like the entire door broke and splintered and everything came crashing out and why is everyone just looking at me what did I… oh.

"Come on feistypants, I think it's time we took you home." Kristoff holds out his hand, helping me up from where I fell. "Belle, Adam, nice to see you two again. Joan, help me get your mother to the car."

"I'm fine." I take a couple of shaky steps to prove my point. Delayed reaction, finally figuring out what it really means if Hans is loose. Maybe I should have dealt with these feelings properly seventeen—eighteen—years ago. I thought I had. Guess I was just repressing them, like the idiot I am. Looks like you were right again, Elsa. Stinker. But really, can you blame me for just wanting to forget all of that? All I ever wanted was to keep the good memories of those times—the memories we made. We were safe, and even if you had to go; it wasn't from any external dangers.

I'm walking back to the car, along the path. Kristoff's holding a hand against my shoulder, gently guiding me to safety. Joan's pacing ahead of us, her braid twisting as she whirls every now and then, trying to surprise a non-existent danger. The path is shaded by a few trees, but it's not dark. The light is… dappled? is that the right word? Huh, my thoughts are getting pretty damn scattered. It's like I'm in my own little bubble at the moment, just waiting for something to burst it. Not being a pessimist, but I'm scared, okay, and only after looking back did I see how much of a hell my life had become under Hans's domineering rule. How much I had let happen because I was afraid of being alone.

The car door slams, and the bubble falls apart, but somehow, it feels like I'm armoured now. This steel chariot to be my safety. Joan's just putting her seatbelt on, in the back seat, behind me.

"Don't worry mom, we won't let him hurt you."

"It'll be okay feistypants. I'm going to call the station later, and let them deal with it. Lieutenant Erikson knows what he's doing."