"Hmmm…"

Elsa stands with her hands on her hips, index tapping, head tilted, staring at the giant tree in the backyard. Its higher branches are starting to tangle with the power lines, becoming a bit of a fire hazard. Which is slightly dark, considering she lives in a restored firehouse that was deactivated because of a fire.

Obviously, some measure has to be taken in regards to the tree, but she's not quite sure what the right procedure is in this situation. Also, she has never even touched a power tool in her life, let alone used one to chop down fifteen feet of rotten wood.

"Those worry lines are gonna become permanent if you keep frowning like that."

Elsa jumps, startled. At first, his voice seems to eerily come from everywhere, but then she looks up to find Jack hunched over his window, grinning at her.

"What you up to?" he asks.

"That tree needs to go down."

"Why, what did it do to you?"

"It's grown too big, and I think it's been sick for a while. Better to act preemptively than to be blindsided later on."

He hums, looking back at the tree. "I can help you if you want."

She purses her lips. "Not making little of your profession, but don't you need a permit, or some qualifications slightly above a tattoo artist's pay grade to do it?"

"Maybe if it was a bigger tree." He shrugs. "Let me get changed first."

"You don't have to—" But before she's finished, he's already disappearing inside his room.

And just like that, Jack comes outside a while later and poses, inspecting the tree up close with a chainsaw straight out of Nicholas' garage flung over his shoulder like a stupidly stereotypical handyman. He even wears overalls and leather boots for the occasion. All he needs now is a tool belt.

He smooths a palm over the bark, an intent look of concentration on his face as if he's listening to the tree's heart.

She bites back a smile. "Ever done anything like this before?"

"Tons," he replies. Elsa is not convinced. "Call me lumber-Jack."

"I'm not doing that," she snorts. "And aren't lumberjacks supposed to use an ax?"

"Axes got nothing on this bad boy." He taps the saw's motor case twice. "Can you shut down the power to be safe? Dying electrocuted is not on my to-do list today."

She nods. "Give me one second."

The power is cut off, and the tree is chopped with no big hitch. The whole time, Elsa prays for nothing bad to happen, and for the most part, nothing does. But when they're cleaning up the pieces of wood, there's a growl and a sudden drop of the branch Jack is carrying.

"Ah, shit," he hisses.

"What's wrong?"

"I think I got a splinter."

"You should've worn gloves, lumberjack Jackson." She wiggles her fingers to show her own pair.

He glowers at her. "Yeah, really useful now, lady."

"Let me see it." With her gloves off, she holds his hand in hers, keeping him still and carefully inspecting his palm. She lightly trails her fingers through his rough skin, over his heart line, looking for anything that shouldn't be there. His hand is an artist's hand—dry skin, short nails, calluses where he usually holds his pens. It's oddly fascinating, tracing the little bumps and ridges along his fingers, almost as if she's reading a book on a very specific part of his life…

"What's the diagnosis, doc?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Her posture stiffens. Something tells her he was able to see right through what she had hoped was concealed fascination, or at least comprehend to some extent the direction her thoughts unconsciously have taken. "I'm not a doctor."

"Closest thing we've got."

Not bothering to refute his flawed logic any longer, her attention goes back to his hand. The splinter is minuscule but there. After a bit of struggling, she manages to squeeze it out with her nails and a little pressure. "I think you'll live," she declares once she's done. "But you should still get it disinfected."

"Oh, thank the Lord," he sighs, relieved.

"So much drama…"

Hand on his hip, he tilts his body to one side. "You say that, but you'd be totally lost without me."

She counters his lean to the opposite side, breaking into his personal space. She smirks. "Right. Who would take care of my tree-cutting emergencies with you gone?"

"Is that what I am to you?" He clucks his tongue, but the usual smirk plays on his lips, and he leans forward. His body heat reaches her skin. "A convenient pretty face?"

"You're not that convenient." Each word is calculatedly slowly spoken. "And I really couldn't care less about the pretty face part."

"Excuse me?!" Jack roars.

"That offends you?"

"I mean, narcissistic as it may be, I'm kinda confident in my looks."

"I see."

"Real craftsmanship with your words, lady," he grumbles, kicking bits of wood with his heavy-duty working man boots.

Elsa chuckles behind a hand and shakes her head. "I'm not saying you're not attractive, Jackson. I'm saying I find more value in qualities other than your appearance."

She watches as her words slowly sink in, Jack's expression slowly shifting from mild annoyance to confusion to boastful amusement. "Can you say that again, please?"

"Nice try," she snorts, bumping his arm when she decides it is time they go back to cleaning up the yard.

"And to think that a couple of months ago, you were plotting my death in the most torturous ways possible," he teases, stupid grin splayed on his face.

When their eyes meet again, something sparks between them. An unsettling surge of electricity that gives her goosebumps and makes her heart race. Elsa bites her lip. "Who said I ever stopped?"

"... One of these days, we're gonna have a very long lecture about what makes a joke funny, lady."