AN: I like writing fluff. Sometimes I need to. I try to write every day, and I try do it in a variety of styles. If I keep doing it long enough I might actually get good at it. :P
There's a light drizzle in the sky this morning. Seems appropriate really, as we're talking to the dead right now. The cemetery is quiet, and the leaves of the few forlorn trees are barely audible rustling in the wind. I feel bad, because the last time we were all up here was something like five years ago. Five years at least, maybe more. I've moved on and accepted the deaths of my parents; but that never meant I should have forgotten them, so I'm ashamed when I see fresh flowers on a few of the graves, and nothing but an empty—and very dirty—glass jar set between my parents' headstones.
There's nothing buried down there. They were lost on flight 447—it fell into the ocean after its pitot tubes froze over, giving incorrect readings to the pilots. It took two years to find that out from the time the plane crashed. My parents' bodies still lie somewhere beneath the waves, along with 70 odd other people that flew with them. I shake my head to clear it, a sudden weight settling across my shoulders. I sit, folding my legs, shuffling my jacket around so I don't get too wet. Kristoff sits next to me. Joan kneels behind us.
"Hi mom. Hi dad. It's been too long." It really has. Five years? Seven? Ten? Elsa's crypt is here, and I pay my respects once a year. My parents' graves are on the far side of the cemetery—a fair walk, but it isn't truly out of my way. There was a long gap before Joan was born too. After Elsa died I didn't know where to turn at first, so Kristoff found me here, just sitting in the rain. Behind me Joan's talking.
"Grannie, Grandad, I really wish I could've met you. We sho—I should visit more often. Maybe it's silly, but it would still be nice if I could talk to you even once. I can hardly remember the last time we were here."
Kristoff didn't say anything, just put a hand on my shoulder and bowed slightly towards each of the headstones. He's not much for words in this place, but his actions always speak louder anyway. I really can't think of anything else to say. I think it's actually a time for quiet reflection, and that suits me just fine. Would've suited you just fine too, hovering up there, watching over my shoulder. But if I need it, I can always see your smile now. I've accepted what happened, and the past is the past, but you weren't my parents. You I can't quite let go; not even after all these years—or maybe it's telling Joan about you that's bringing you back to me. But I don't regret it.
I turn to Joan. "We'll wait in the car for you, but try not to get too wet."
She laughs, but her voice is serious. "You–you trust me; like this?"
I kneel down, taking her shoulders in my arms, and kiss her hair. "You've got things to say to them I shouldn't hear. Plus, I know where you live." I stick my tongue out as she turns to look at me. "We'll be in the car, okay?"
"Okay mom."
Kristoff's in the car, waiting patiently. He's wearing a wry smile. "You know I have parents too?"
"And Bulda's great, if a little overbearing and inappropriate. But she's more like an aunt to Joan than a grandparent—wait, that's a good thing, I meant like the kind of aunt that always spoils her nieces and nephews. Anyway, you know as well as I do who she meant when she was talking last night—and coming here was your suggestion."
"It was. I think it was the right thing to do. And Bulda's not always so great with worldly advice—you remember Sven and Olaf?"
We promised never to speak of it again. Not after that summer barbecue debacle that I might have been proud of were it my fault. I think even you might have found it funny. This was a few years after you died, when I was nearly feeling normal again. Just after Joan was born, I think. Anyway, in the end we needed three firetrucks and a monsoon bucket. Quiet barbecue and bonfire night my ass. And if you even think that joke, I will find a way to slap you. Somehow.
Joan's back, looking lighter, if wetter, and she slips into the car, wringing water from her braid. We head home for lunch, not saying much. There's no real tension, just a lack of common ground right now. It's weird, even for us. I have to close my eyes, taking deep breaths. Beginning to focus and meditate—the way you showed me. And in my mind's eye I see you, me, Kristoff, and Joan. We're happy. The way we should be. I'm not sure how Joan will feel about the ending to our story, but that's still a long ways off. I just know it's going to hurt. Both of us—and maybe you, because you never liked seeing me hurt.
The rain stopped, but there's more clouds in the sky. The ground at the park is hardly even damp, the grass just wet enough to make the ankles of my jeans annoyingly damp. Not that that didn't happen this morning, but it's the principle of the thing. We brought the bat and a few balls to hit, just for something to do. Belle and Adam are here, just walking over to us. She waves and he looks up and whoa—
"Nice shiner. You do that Belle—get a little too energetic?"
"Well… no," she's turning an interesting shade of pink.
"Showers," Adam intones cryptically, and Belle's blush intensifies. Well, I'm pretty sure I can now put two and two together here. At least, I think so. Mostly because of how embarrassed they are by the whole thing, and the black eye, and the mention of showers. What they don't know is I've been there too. Soap or bodywash running over the shower floor, feet slipping around, and the only thing to grab onto is another slippery, soapy body.
What?
"Handrails," and I wink, giving the pair an equally cryptic reply and a suggestive wink.
"So, Adam, any luck on the job front?" Kristoff asks, slinging the bat over his shoulder and smiling.
"No, nothing out there right now. I'm considering a special dispensation because it might not be safe for me to work around others." I shake my head sadly at his forlorn tone. What else can I do? He's strong, but unpredictable. Smart, but callous—and the only thing he really loves is Belle. Well, maybe he's not callous, but he can be cold and distant, but that might be the PTSD. I don't know what he did or saw in Kyrgyzstan, but I do know he was injured there, and didn't come back quite right, either because of that, or something that happened there. I've never had the courage to ask him—and part of me really doesn't want to know. I just hope his story back home has a better ending than most.
"We playing or what?" Joan asks, pulling me from my reverie, trying and failing to juggle the tennis balls we brought.
"I'll play," Belle answered, taking one of the balls. "Ball tiggy. You get hit, you're it. Start running."
We scattered throughout the tree-lined paths, ducking and weaving. Belle followed, wielding the ball with some menace—an effect ruined somewhat by her light sundress and happy smile. Adam wasn't far from me, and neither was Belle.
"Hey, big guy." Adam turned to me, blocking the incoming ball.
"Cheat." He was laughing, bending to retrieve the ball.
"I didn't hear any rules," and then I shriek because that throw bounced off a tree trunk and sailed within an inch of my nose. It was time to move, and I'm not sure if a trail of leaves was getting kicked up behind me like in a cartoon, but it certainly would have made sense. I tried hiding behind some roots, but I never was that patient. A tennis ball zipping past told me I probably shouldn't stay in one place too long anyway. The chase was on.
I hit the grass, slipping and overbalancing, the dampness just enough to make me slide sideways a few inches.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Good," and then Adam drops the ball on my head. Yay. "You're it." And he's gone. But now I have the ball, and it's time to go on the offensive. I shouldn't be it for too long.
Everyone's hiding, sprinting from cover to cover in the distance. I see Adam stumble, grabbing a branch to stay upright, and then I hear the branch itself cracking before snapping back up when he lets it go. I see a flash of platinum in the distance, and the ball bounces behind Joan as she tucks and rolls, slipping behind a tree. I jog over to collect the ball, and she's already gone. Someone whistles behind me, and I see Kristoff sticking out from behind another tree. The ball hits a branch, bounces down onto a root, then shoots off into the distance. I run after it, hearing Kristoff laughing behind me; then heavy footsteps as he beats a hasty retreat.
I can hear someone trying to sneak past behind me, so I turn and throw. Belle lets out a little gasp of pain, sitting quickly on the path. She's rubbing her stomach and I think I might have hit her a bit hard.
"Ow," she winces. "That was kind of hard, Anna."
"Sorry," I wince, helping her up. "Sometimes I don't know my own strength." It's true, but I think a good part of that is I take it for granted that I can do these things, and expect others to be similar in ability. I should have learned that that was not the case decades ago.
"That's probably going to leave another bruise," she sighed, blushing slightly. "When we… slipped, I fell half across the bath and he landed on top of me and the faucet. So that really did hurt, but I'll be okay if you promise to stop abusing me."
"Maybe we should just play catch for a while."
"I'll find Adam. You find your lot."
As I'm walking away something hits me from behind, on the cheek. Massaging my backside I shoot Belle a dirty look. She's the picture of innocence. Of course she would be, but we know better. I find Joan and Kristoff, and we end up just sitting and lounging around on park benches under the shade of the trees, talking with Adam and Belle. It's nice, and it's funny the way they skirt around questions of when and how they acquired their most recent injuries. We all know, of course—well, Joan might not have picked up that subtlety yet—which is what makes it so much funnier to tease them about. They're good sports at least.
We leave, late in the afternoon, shadows lengthening and a cool breeze taking the final bite from the sunlight overhead. Overall I think it's been a good day. It has been. I'm happy, relaxed, and my mind is no longer trying to cook up worst case scenarios involving Hans. Instead I'm just idly wondering what we'll do for dinner, and what time we'll see Belle and Adam again. In the distance I see a crop of red hair—but it can't be Hans, and actually, she looks really nice but I don't think I could do dreads.
"Just remember we're married now," Kristoff whispers in my ear before kissing me.
I have the good grace to blush for being so transparent.
