NOW
He doesn't get therapy. How's a total stranger supposed to fix months of cold shoulder and snide in an hour? Alas, couples therapy is his beloved wife's newfound way of torturing him, and there's no escaping this hellhole while he still breathes. The love of his life, the sunshine on a cloudy day, his girl for all intents and purposes, is a goddamn hypocrite who only advocates for mental health and all that positivity jazz when it's convenient to her.
God, he hates everything about this place. From the condescending posh accent of the hack sitting behind his fancy wooden desk to the imposing appearance of his overpriced space of practice. The ugly brown leather chairs reserved for patients are stiff and uncomfortable, books cover an entire side of the room, and rows of framed stuck-up diplomas that probably matter to someone more gullible are lined up on the back wall. All part of the ambiance, all part of the sham.
The clock on the wall—because, of course, the old coot has an analog clock— ticks, echoing awkwardly in the mother of all silences.
Jack's not all that familiar with therapy, but shouldn't there be more talking in one of these stupid sessions? What about the part with the plush settees and the discussion of his dancing-carrots-centered dreams?
He clears his throat, eyes staring blankly at the spot right next to the good doctor's head. "So how much exactly are we paying you again?"
"How much I am paying, you mean." The lovely declaration comes from his even lovelier wife.
Jack rolls his eyes.
"And if you must know, Dr. Black was highly recommended to me."
"Translation: far too much."
"Well, at least I am trying to address our issues. You, on the other hand, have a tendency to ignore your problems hoping that they will miraculously go away if you don't think about them for long enough."
Jack smirks, kicking his charm up a few notches. Elsa's digs are getting repetitive. So repetitive that they are starting to lose impact. "If only it was that easy," he mumbles with a sigh.
"Now that is an interesting point," cuts in the therapists. "You stressed that you, Mrs. Arendelle, are the one paying for our sessions. Why did you find that observation worthy of note?"
"Because she loves letting people know she's the breadwinner," Jack answers for her, the flippant edge in his voice hinting at the real level of sourness buried beneath the surface.
Her neck twists toward him so she can hit him with a glare. She looks about ready to tear him a new one, though honestly, that has practically been her natural state lately, so he should be used to it by now. "That is untrue. I was basically stating a fact. Not everything is an attack on you, Jackson."
"Far from me being that arrogant," he snorts. There was a time when their back and forth was flirty. Well, not anymore. Now, every word is an opportunity for a barb. An accusation. An excuse to toss the fault in the other's court. "A meager eighty-seven percent of your words being a jab at this humble servant of yours' expense would suffice."
"Can't you show some commitment for once?"
"I'm here, aren't I?" he deadpans.
Elsa crosses her arms, a challenge in the smug arch of her eyebrow and the way her lower lip juts out ever so slightly. "Is that where you want to set the bar?"
Jack laughs a tired puff of air that expels what little hope of this therapy thing ever working he was naively grasping onto. How fucking pointless. Whatever they're doing now, it's just avoiding the inevitable. This train has a single destination: divorce.
Not that he will be the one to say it first. Hinting at it would be admitting defeat, even if they are both secretly thinking it. Because, let's face it, Elsa with her controlling tendencies is always five steps ahead of him. If the idea has been dancing around inside his head for weeks, it's hard to imagine where her mind is at. Probably crafting a papier-mache pinata of his head for her glamorous divorce party. So no, he's not gonna be the one to show his hand first. It would be putting a target on his chest and letting her take aim at point-blank range. It would be opening the floodgates of blame-pointing for the downfall of their relationship. And there is no way in hell he will give her that satisfaction.
Instead, he turns back to the man behind the desk. If he's going to be made a fool of, he may as well pull some entertainment out of it. Putting on his most punchable smirk, he says, "Look. Doc. This is clearly not working. How about you just… wiggle your fingers and do your magic so we can all go our merry way?"
The man folds his hands in front of him, golden eyes studying Jack in an unnerving state of professional detachment. "You seem to misunderstand what my job is, Mr. Overland. I am here merely to mediate a conversation."
"You sure are rising to your role."
Dr. Black's lips curl into an unamused smile. "And I may be of even greater service if you and your wife actually talk to one another."
"Haven't we talked enough?" Jack sneers, gesturing with one arm between Elsa and himself.
The doctor glances from him to her, then back. His eyes are full of pity like he's a middle school teacher calling Jack and Elsa to the blackboard just to realize his sad and not-very-bright little students are unable to solve on their own the basic math equation put in front of them.
"In my experience, Mr Overland, I have found that most marital issues come from the things that are not said."
THEN
Elsa sat on the steps to their backyard with her legs crossed. She leaned back on her hands, letting a gentle breeze brush the loose strands of hair framing her face. Absently, she tapped her fingers on the floor, her wedding band clinking against the wooden board. It would have been a nice and relaxing afternoon were it not for the strangled grunts disrupting her tranquility. Peeking with one eye, she had to hold back a chuckle at the sight of her husband strenuously working on his hole. His literal hole. On the ground. Which he dug with a rusted shovel. And topped off with his caveman grunts every time the shovel met the resistance of dry and hard soil.
"Please try not to sprain a muscle," said the wife when noticing the beads of sweat on the husband's forehead.
Jack barked out a laugh, sparing a moment to glance her way and grin. "I'm almost done."
Elsa hummed, unconvinced, but let him work and went back to curiously eyeing the apple tree sapling Jack had brought back from his weekly trip to the farmers market. His explanation for the purchase had been that he knew how she loved baking her family's apple cake and wouldn't it taste oh so much better with pesticide-free fruits nurtured only by the purest forms of dedication and love? In truth, Elsa was never a big baking aficionado; the cake was just one of those passed-down recipes she had managed to adequately master, but that he didn't seem able to get enough of. And despite being a professional cook with exceptional talent, Jack always ate it like a starved man finding food for the first time in months. The hassles of baking felt like an acceptable trade-off for simply making him that happy.
"Bring me that tree, won't you?" Jack's voice cut through her thoughts.
Elsa obliged, carefully helping set the sapling in the dirt. She brought the watering can as he finished covering the tree's base. "It'll take a decade for that tree to bear any fruit, you know."
"Oh no." Jack, the epitome of rugged masculinity with dirty clothes, tousled hair, and trails of sweat, wiped his forehead with his threadbare T-shirt and looked at her. From this close, Elsa noticed how the physical exertion made his already bright blue eyes glisten with specks of light. Even then, having been married for months, heat prickled her cheeks. "Whatever shall we do in the meantime, huh?"
"You tell me, it was your idea," she teased, crossing her arms.
"Hmmm." Jack's face was pensive as an arm curled around her waist and pulled her to him. Her hands landed on his shoulders, the heat from his body setting everywhere they touched ablaze. Her head instinctively tilted up, bringing their lips close enough for his breath to tickle her skin. "I can think of a few things…"
"You're clammy," Elsa mumbled with furrowed eyebrows. The back of her hand touched his cheek, and the difference in their temperatures alarmed her. "You're sure you're not having a heatstroke?"
His grip tightened around her waist; thumbs stroked her hips. He pouted. "Woman, I am in the middle of romancing you."
Sliding his hand into hers, she spun on her heels to lead him back inside the house. "The romancing can wait. We should get you in the shade. And rehydrated."
Jack hooked two fingers into one of her belt loops and pressed himself against her back as he followed her, ensuring that their bodies were touching as much as possible as they clumsily stumbled onto the porch together. "We should keep hydrated alright," he breathly whispered in her ear.
Elsa licked her lips, fighting the urge to lean back into him. "I don't know what that means."
As soon as they passed the threshold, Jack was spinning them around and she found herself pinned against the door frame. One arm on the wooden pane above her head for support, and the free hand tracing lazy circles on her lower back, he had her shaking at his mercy in no time. His eyes darkened, desire bringing an intensity so different from the playfulness he presented outside. His mouth trailed a path along her neck, the lightness of his lips on her skin making her shiver. When he spoke next, his voice made her back arch in anticipation. "It means hydration will be very important for what I've got planned."
Elsa swallowed, her throat felt swollen, pulse throbbed painfully. "I think… your intentions could benefit from some more clarification."
"How about this for clarification?" he finally kissed her, a frantic and searing clash of mouths that had the world around her spinning out of control, and when he bit on her lower lip, an involuntary moan slipped through her mouth. Taking advantage of the opening, Jack's hands went to her thighs to effortlessly hoist her up. Her legs wound up around his waist. He grinded against her and a whimper exited her throat. She brought him closer, dizzy, aching and wanting more.
When he pulled away, his lips were swollen and his breaths were uneven, not that Elsa was faring any better. His voice had gone completely hoarse. "So, does the lady require more clarity—"
Elsa, having lost patience for his arrogance, tangled her fingers through his hair and pulled him back so his eyes were level with hers.
"Shut up and kiss me, idiot."
NOW
Couple's therapy was… an experience. She can't bring herself to call it a waste of money, because even the fact that the session hasn't helped them at all should be a valid data point for something, right? Honestly, she had her hopes set too high. It would be too much to ask for a conflict-free hour when quarreling seemed to be their mutual language of choice lately. Why hide behind empty niceties when pettiness was so much more rewarding? Oh, if only her parents could see her. Mother and Father are probably rolling over in their graves. May their souls rest in peace.
Elsa looks through the window into the dark outside, fingers tapping on the kitchen island for nothing else to do. She's alone in a drafty house answering some emails from home while devouring a popsicle. Few things are more efficient in controlling her normally high stress levels than chewing a soft block of flavored ice. It's tangy and sweet and she likes the crunching sound taking center stage in the quiet of her abode.
She checks the time on the corner of her laptop screen. It'll be a few hours before Jack returns. She tries to remember the last time they had dinner together. Even after he opened his restaurant, she'd sometimes drop by for a quick bite and if the kitchen wasn't too busy, he would sit with her for a few minutes, maybe steal a bite from her plate and saunter off after a sloppy kiss on her cheek that always embarrassed her but in an endearing way. That was a long time ago. Nowadays, she knows better than to show up unannounced. No point in ruining his mood in his place of work also. Like any other presentable dysfunctional couple, that is an act reserved for the confinement of their four walls.
Attention going back to her email, she sifts through her spam folder to make sure that nothing important ended up accidentally mixed in with the junk. An email from the realtor to the house catches her eye. Hope this email finds you well… you and your husband are happy in your new home… yadda yadda… opportunities on the market… She clicks on a link that sends her to the real estate agency's website and out of pure boredom, she decides to look around. A shabby midcentury house makes her wonder who in their right mind would be stupid enough to buy a structure that is barely vertical even in the blurry photos provided. She then finds a condo, one bedroom, one bathroom. A balcony and lots of natural light. It's close enough to her office that she wouldn't need to drive every day. That is the thing that sticks with her. Not having to deal with morning traffic feels like a dream. And the tiny space only adds to its charm—she chokes on her tea. That… is not an apartment for a married couple. It's the kind of place she could see herself living in when she was single. If Jack wasn't in the picture.
She drops her glasses on the island and buries her face in her hands. She knows things are bad, she's no fool. But being generally aware of a concept is very different from looking for places to live if she is no longer married. What… does that mean? Is their marriage really doomed? Has she given up but refuses to admit it even to herself? She shoves her computer away; she can't look at those pictures anymore. Her planner falls, scattering loose papers on the floor. That broken something inside her cracks even more. Bad memories come to the surface. Control is slipping away. Her vision blurs. She's spiraling.
Elsa abruptly gets up, knuckles white, ragged breaths, and forces herself to find stability. This isn't good. She needs to be somewhere else. Maybe a bath will calm her down. Yes, that is what she will do. Draw a nice bath, light up a candle, put on a face mask. Empty her mind. And forget whatever realization she thinks she has reached just now.
The spa treatment works. She's calmer. Detached. More like her usual self. Dressed in an old t-shirt from college and oversized sweatpants, she heads back to the kitchen, combing her fingers through still-damp hair. To her surprise, Jack is there, gathering her scattered papers into a tidy pile. She didn't even notice he was back.
He gives her a head nod. "Hey."
"How was work?" she asks mechanically.
"Same old same old," he answers with a shrug then steps back to lean against the fridge, arms lazily crossed over his chest. "So we're looking for apartments now?" The casual note in his voice does little to cover his disdain.
Elsa's eyes immediately dart to her still brightly lit computer screen. She goes into self-protection mode, her strategy of choice being to gear into offense. No better defense, is there? Hands on her hips, Elsa rises to her full height. "You went through my computer?"
"It's not like I was snooping, it was just there," he retorts, gesturing to the kitchen island. "You're thinking about moving?"
Something tells her he's specifically referring to the last condo Elsa saw. And the likely conclusions he reached from there. Her nails dig into her palms. She could lie, of course; tell him it was research for her job. But she doesn't. Awful as they are to each other, there are limits to what they do. "I was just thinking about how nice it would be to shorten my daily commute." She shakes her head as if the topic bores her and heeds not another ounce of her attention. "Pipe dream."
He watches her in silence for a while, God only knows what sort of distorted information he's reading on her face. "Looked kinda cramped."
"Like I said, pipe dream. Do not concern yourself over it."
"Sure thing, Elsa," Jack sneers. "Who am I to question your judgment, right?" He lets out a snort as he pushes himself upright.
"Hold on—"
"Don't forget to let me know when your dreams become less pipe-y."
He crosses the kitchen, making a point of walking around her, avoiding direct contact as he passes. Yet, his parting words cling to her skin like a thick layer of tar. And not even the longest bath in the world would be capable of ridding herself of that one.
THEN
"Okay, we are not getting anywhere," Andy, the head manager of their current project said, dropping back on his chair as he loosened the tie around his neck.
Elsa glanced at her phone. Their meeting was reaching the two-hour mark and all they'd accomplished so far was tangentially agreeing on a concept for the Mode Manor proposal.
"We would be if someone had done their homework like they were supposed to," another architect grumbled from her seat across the table.
"I'm sorry, is there anything you wanna say, DunBroch?"
"Is this really the time?" Elsa murmured, rubbing circles on her temples.
"No, it is not," Andy decided for the group as a whole. He got up with a heavy exhale. "Let's all cool our heads for a sec. Regroup in the afternoon. Four o'clock?"
Nods and short words of agreement echoed across the conference room.
"Meeting adjourned."
Elsa collected her notes and her empty mug and dragged herself after the rest of the team out of the dreadful acoustic-glass aquarium and back to her cramped little desk, heels clicking on the marble floor in a rhythm that matched the pounding in her skull. She flipped through her meeting notes as her computer came back to life. Considering all the scratched-off ideas, they ended up being very scant notes.
"So that was fun," a voice said, and Elsa looked up to find Isabela perched on the edge of her desk, ankles crossed and smirk playing on her perfectly painted lips.
"If you're a fan of ego battles and recursive arguments that lead nowhere."
"Isn't everyone?" the other woman teased with a raised eyebrow. "So how was your weekend? You had bridesmaid duties, right?"
Elsa hummed, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "It was a bachelorette party with typical bachelorette party antics," she explained. "It went as one would expect it to go."
Which in her case meant two days of accompanying a gallivanting Rapunzel in possession of a bedazzled bag filled with bucket list items written on tiny strips of paper. The bride-to-be's list went from harmless (like learning to line dance), making a turn on 'we'll laugh about it someday' (bottle service at the hip and fancy nightclub downtown), and riding all the way to committing a felony (nothing too crime-y, Elsa! Don't look at me like that), and getting away with it. What Elsa didn't anticipate was her being forced to participate in a darts match with 300 bucks on the line. And also the part where she accidentally hit an innocent bystander and almost poked his eye out. She wanted to ensure he was given proper medical care, but her attention was divided, what with trying to stop Anna and Rapunzel from drinking a group of men triple their sizes down the table, and had to settle with handing him her business card and pleading him to let her pay the medical bill for any injury she might have been responsible for causing.
Isabela leaned on one hand, her glossy curtain of dark hair partially covering Elsa's monitor. Isa waited until Elsa met her eyes. "That's your 'I have a secret but I'm pretending nothing is out of the ordinary so no one will notice' voice."
"I don't have a… whatever-you-called-it voice," Elsa protested, ignoring the blood rushing to her face. She blamed her blushing on the heat. Did no one bother to turn on the AC today?
"Of course you do, darling." Isabela pinches her cheeks, the epitome of condescension. "The only reason no one said anything yet is because you're too adorable when you fumble."
"Don't you have a landscape to figure out?"
Her friend's smirk widened into a grin. "You know my hands are tied until the house's base situation is sorted. Also, you're deflecting."
"Please go catalog seasonal bushes or whatever it is that you do."
Isa gasped, exaggeratedly offended. "For your information—" The landline on the desk rang, cutting her off, and without missing a beat, she picked up the phone, switching to her flawless customer service voice. "Luxo Design Solutions. Elsa's desk, how may I be of assistance?"
Taking her hands away from the keyboard, Elsa swiveled her chair and watched Isabela's expression change as she listened to whoever was on the other side of the call. From fake polite smile to surprise to utter satisfaction.
"Really? At Hopper's, you said?"
Recognizing the name of the pub from last Saturday's misadventures, Elsa dove for the phone, but Isabela was faster. She jumped out of range, grinning while she twirled the stupid plastic chord around her finger.
"And then she gave you her number?" The conversation on the phone continued like nothing happened. "Oh, I'm happy to hear that." Covering the transmitter, she tells Elsa, "Your new buddy is fine, by the way. In case you're wondering. He says the swelling is all gone now."
"Isabela. Give me the phone."
"Uh-huh, she's here. Dying to talk to you, if I'm reading her body language right." Isabela laughed at something he said and Elsa took another threatening step in her direction.
"I believe she would like that, yes." Isabela held up a finger as she listened to the other side of the line. "Sounds good. I'll let her know. Alright. It was a pleasure talking to you, Jack." So the guy in the bar was named Jack? Elsa was so distracted by that new information that she lost the chance to steal the phone before the call ended.
"Who said you could hang up my call?!" She glowered at Isabela.
Unfazed, the insufferable wrongdoer flippantly threw her hair over her shoulder. "I just scored you a coffee date with your cute guy from the bar."
"How on earth would you even know he's cute—" Elsa's mouth snapped shut as she realized her slip-up, but it was too late.
Isabela beamed. "You're welcome," she sang. "Also, next time, if you want the guy to call you, don't give him your work number!"
NOW
Goddammit, his wife is a stunning woman. Jack somehow abstracts that fact from his brain in daily life because anger and resentment are excellent buffers, but no dancing bear could distract him from the smoky makeup that makes her eyes look bigger and brighter, or the dark red lipstick that makes him want to kiss her until the color is smeared all over her face and her lips are fucking raw. Or how the silky material of her dress clings to her slender frame like a second skin and make his dick twitch inside his trousers.
And apparently, he's not the only one to notice her beauty. Those sales douches have been ogling Elsa from the moment the two of them stepped foot in this shindig, never mind that her hand has been candidly tucked into her husband's arm for just as long.
Elsa works the room, gliding through the guests with a level of poise befitting royalty, smooth-talking old clients, and eccentric tech billionaires alike. A few selected words, a well-timed compliment and she has the crowd eating out of her hand in no time—the painstaking art of networking, yet another skill in her professional arsenal. And for every handshake, every empty preposterous interaction, he's right next to her, fulfilling his arm candy duties, smiling and looking pretty.
Less than an hour in, Jack is already bored out of his damn mind. This 'in memory of a very important person' gala or 'obscure cancer research' fundraiser looks exactly the same as any other stuffy event he has ever been forced to attend in support of Elsa's flourishing career, and despite his wife's half-assed attempts to include him, he has little in common with these people. His lack of interest is so much so that whenever the ball lands on his side of the court, he mostly forces a smile on and redirects the conversation to whoever looks the braggiest and calls it a mission accomplished.
At some point, Elsa excuses herself to the powder room, and no one seems interested in his solo presence in the slightest. As if he's invisible without Elsa and her halo of success and demure elegance. Which is fine by him; the less time he spends listening to the Graysons and Carters and their golf anecdotes, the better.
By the time his wife comes back, he's made himself at home on a bar stool, overpriced suit wrinkled, obnoxious tie undone, nursing a half-consumed second (or maybe third?) glass of scotch with loose fingers. She's frowning but alcohol makes it hard to pinpoint the reason for her displeasure. Could be him, or it could be the gaudy chandelier in the center of the ballroom. Both equally valid options.
"What are you doing all the way here in the corner?" she asks.
Jack winks, raising his glass in a toast and making the amber liquid inside slosh precariously. "Taking advantage of your party commission's impeccable taste in aged whisky, what does it look like I'm doing?"
"Looks like you're sulking." Her tone is deadpan.
He chuckled into his tumbler. "I'll have you know, I'm having the greatest of times."
Elsa shifts on her heels, her eyes boring into the darkest and dankiest corners of his soul. The intensity of her glare makes his skin itch and his throat close. His fingers twitch around his drink but he maintains eye contact if nothing else. At last, she lets out a dejected sigh. "I'd rather you're not in public when that much alcohol hits you and you decide to make a fool of yourself. Give me another half an hour and we can go."
Her stilettos click and clack in an uptight little melody as she leaves him to his musings and he waves until he can't hear them anymore. Surreptitiously, he eyes the bottle of scotch behind the bar. If he commits himself, he's sure thirty minutes is enough to drain the whole thing. He waves at his new bestie with the cocktail shaker and grins.
Bottoms up.
THEN
Jack was surprised to find that Elsa had a major secret sweet tooth. Which was funny, considering her obsession with dental health (though in her case, it was an obsession with all things health-related, not just the buccal region). It gave him shivers to picture the damage she and Tooth could do if put in the same room together. But whilst that dreadful encounter didn't happen, he enjoyed the undignified face she made every time he stole a chunk of her precious cotton candy.
A traveling carnival was in town for a couple of weeks and they had agreed to make it the location for their next date. He gave her his most angelic smile as they continued their hand-in-hand walk through the game booths. "Processed sugar is not good for you, Elsa."
"You'll experience firsthand what's not good for you if you keep stealing my food." The sternness of her words was broken by the mischievous glint in her eyes. He mentally patted himself on the back whenever he managed a crack through her resolute composure.
With a stupid grin on his face, Jack stepped closer to her. The back of his index finger traced a line from her jaw to her chin. He noticed her breath hitch at his touch, and he angled his lips closer. "Have I mentioned how adorable you look when you're grumpy?"
Elsa rolled her eyes, but no matter how grumpy she pretended to be, there was no hiding the humor in her voice as she mumbled, "Just what every girl wants to hear."
He laughed, chancing a peck on her lips. They resumed their walk and when an attraction caught his eyes, he gestured at it with their intertwined hands. "Hey, look: shooting game," Jack said, pointing at the booth with the colorful balloons.
"Hmmm…" She clicked her tongue as they approached the man in charge of the booth. "Not a fan of guns."
"Right, your weapon of choice is more of the pointy variety," he teased, grinning at her from over his shoulder. "Wanna play a round?"
"Not particularly."
"Come on, it'll be fun!"
"These games are generally rigged in the house's favor," her haughty ass found necessary to inform, though the words unfortunately ended up striking a different target.
Having overheard her, the booth master let out a disgruntled snort. "Ya ain't playing, give room for someone who is," he grumbled, customer service be damned.
"See, you just offended the good sir. Now we have to play!"
"I don't like partaking in games I know I can't win," she said while also tossing the finished cotton candy stick on the trash can and then marching toward him, which he took as a big win.
"Aw, have some faith, girl," he said, bumping shoulders with her. As they lined up with their toy guns, a crease of concentration formed between Elsa's eyebrows, and Jack had to stifle a chuckle at the sight of it. That woman poured one hundred and ten percent of herself into everything she did, which was both intimidating and endearing at once. "Just imagine one of those balloons as a handsome young lad's head and try to gouge his eye out like you almost did to me and we'll be golden."
NOW
It's pouring cats and dogs—suboptimal climatic conditions for a hike, Elsa thinks as she sinks lower into the passenger seat with her arms crossed and feet rooted to the car's floor mat.
When Jack asked her to go hiking with her, she wrongly assumed he was trying to make amends for his ridiculous behavior at her company's party. Networking was imperative in her field of work; he should've known better than to humiliate her in front of her coworkers like he did. But no. In reality, his invitation had been nothing but born of simple happenstance, an afterthought to his plans of burning extra calories after his hungover carbo-loading.
Elsa huffs, glowering at the rain wipers on their Sisyphean task of relieving the windshield of all that water like they deserve the blame for her conundrum. Through the foggy glass, she identifies Jack's blurry frame. He's trying to beat spotty phone reception to call for mechanic assistance, for not only is God laughing at their misfortune but technology is too. The car's engine won't start, even though it had been fine when they drove to the park less than forty minutes ago.
What feels like an eternity later, the door to the driver's side opens, bringing in cold air and the deafening sound of the storm. Jack hops inside with a grunt. "They're sending someone." He tosses his phone on the center console cup holder. "Fucking Murphy's law."
Murphy's law is an excuse lazy people use when they're inadequately prepared, she thinks. She hands him the towel she used to dry herself earlier. "I told you it was about time to do an overhaul."
"Yeah, well. I didn't."
Elsa rubs her arms as she stares out her window. The chill is settling onto her skin through the thin layers of her workout attire. From the corner of her eyes, she notices Jack fiddling with the heater dials and the temperature inside the car goes up a few degrees.
She should thank him. But pride speaks louder. "This feels like an opportune scenario for a serial killer to prey on their victims."
He throws the wet towel on the back and combs his fingers through his hair. The combination of static and humidity makes him look stupidly goofy. "I'm not sure. Too slippery," he counters. "Any evidence would get washed away though, so it could go either way."
Cheek resting on her knuckles, her vision goes misty as she watches the motionless gray blobs outside. "Terrific."
Her apathy seems to rub him the wrong way for not a moment later, Jack lets out a groan and slams his fists on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry I don't control the weather, okay?"
Slowly, with calculated calm, she turns from the window to meet his eyes. "Excuse me?"
He crosses his arms. The gesture, paired with the fed-up expression on his face, makes him look bigger and the car's interior by comparison, smaller. "That's why you're mad at me, isn't it?"
Elsa mirrors his stance, but her exterior appearance remains eerily serene. "That's not why I'm mad at you."
Satisfaction flashes in his eyes for a second. "So you are mad at me."
Her eyes narrow. "Last night, I left you alone for five minutes and you wasted no time getting wasted at the bar. I didn't ask you to come with me so I could babysit a spoilt child all night—"
"You didn't ask me at all!" Jack nearly yells, eyes wide and chest heaving with pent-up rage. "You bought me a suit and said I was going to your bullshit party and that was it, period!"
Her mind starts whirling. Suddenly too hot, she yanks her hair into a knot to give her burning skin more area to breathe. Surely, he's lying. Or at least, misremembering things. Yes, she did buy him that gray suit, but because she genuinely thought it would look good on him. She didn't put a chain around his neck and force him to go!
"Well, you could still have said no!" Now, it's her voice that echoes in the cramped space.
He snorts, arms still crossed, nails digging into his shirt, and turns to the front of the car again with finality, as if he can't stand to look at her anymore. Steam rises from his skin.
"Yeah, next time, maybe I will."
THEN
Jack decided to teach her some meal-prepping techniques—not the boring 'cook fifteen servings of the same meal' kind of thing and more of an 'assortment of building blocks that can be mixed and matched to make easy yet still nutritious meals throughout the week'. He was going to teach her to pickle some onions, to properly pack her fruits, to make salsa verde with wilted herbs… There was a lot to do. And the work part would have been fine hadn't he failed to anticipate what kind of cook Elsa was and how much her style would clash with his own.
Elsa was a planner; she liked to be on top of things. She was skilled in the handful of recipes in her culinary repertoire, such skills the result of diligent practice. Method and precision led to perfection. Elsa dedicated time to finding the answers that were right for her, but once she had them, she struggled to divert from what she deemed the correct path. Her recipes were carved in stone. Jack's? Not so much. Jack experimented, improvised. He peeked inside her fridge and used leftover broccoli four different ways; saw a can of tomatoes and imagined it being used in a thousand dishes. He was good at adapting.
And adapting at the moment meant circumventing Elsa's slow albeit millimetrically precise veggies dicing. He lowered the heat on the sauteing onions and garlic and leaned back against the counter, body fully turned to her station. "When I told you to dice that carrot into half-inch cubes, it was mostly meant as a suggestion, not one of the Ten Commandments."
"Recipe instructions are not suggestions," she argued, eyes never drifting from the cutting board, though her brows did seem to furrow ever so slightly. "Suggestions are the things at the bottom of the page, after memories of the childhood dinner lovingly prepared by the cook's mother and the spiritually awakening trip to Tibet but before the recipe itself."
He chuckled, head tilting to the side in curiosity. "I'm sensing some misplaced frustration."
Elsa finally looked up from her task and sheepishly smiled at him. "Food blogs and I go way back."
Jack nodded. "Ah. That makes you a kitchen veteran then. Basically a chef yourself."
She blinked slowly. "You don't really believe that."
He grinned, not sure how else to evade accidentally offending her. People could get really touchy when it came to cooking. But to his relief, Elsa didn't press him. Instead, she gestured to his chopping board and all the ingredients he's diced, sliced, or grated while she worked on her single carrot and asked, "So you do this kind of thing at the restaurant every day?"
"Pretty much," said Jack, motioning for her to bring him the carrot.
"Do you like it?"
He hummed, turning to the burner for a moment. "Yes and no. You can't make good food without a good starting point. And prepping is like sixty percent of it." He kept stirring and adding other items one by one to the pot, the aromas wafting through the kitchen intensifying and growing in complexity as he worked. "But if I had to say something bad about it, it would be that it can get kinda boring sometimes. Repetitive."
It was Elsa's turn to hum. She popped one cherry tomato inside her mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. "What would it look like if you had your own kitchen?"
"I don't know," he chuckled. "Probably a smaller, homier place," he said casually, wording out loud shapeless ideas that never existed anywhere outside of his brain before. It surprised him how effortlessly the picture of his dream kitchen came. "With a chalkboard special I could experiment with whenever I felt like it. Locally grown produce, of course, partner with some other place for desserts, oh and a bar area for cocktails."
He caught movement from the corner of her eyes. Elsa had rounded the island, stopping next to him with a glass of red wine in each hand. He had been so focused on his ramblings that he heard neither the wine being poured nor her crossing the kitchen toward him.
"Sounds perfect," she said, handing him one of the drinks.
"Well, dreams are free in this world." Jack clinked his glass with hers and took a long swig before setting the glass down on the counter.
Elsa took one step closer until their knees brushed, making him raise an eyebrow in question. Hair from her braid had come loose around her face; her cheeks looked flushed from the wine… or something else. She touched him, thumb stroking the most sensitive spot on the inner side of his arm, sending a shiver down his spine. Elsa dragged her tongue over her bottom lip, smiling a knowing smile that made his heart race. "You can achieve anything you set your mind on, Jack. And I look forward to seeing all you accomplish."
He leaned over, hands landing on the counter on both sides of her hips, trapping her between his arms. His eyes went to her parted lips. "Tall order from such a tiny girl."
"I have faith in you."
God, the effect this girl had on him was pathetic. The way she believed in him made him want to do better, to be better. It made him want to be the best version of the man reflected in her eyes. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing painfully. "May take a while. I have big dreams."
Her hands locked on the back of his neck and she pushed herself on the tip of her toes. Her breath smelled of wine. Sweet and tangy, with just a hint of danger around the edges. Just like he liked.
Her lips brushed his as she whispered, "Well, I'm not going anywhere."
Greetings, fandom! I'm back with a new story whoop whoop! I've mentioned before that whenever Jack and Elsa get together in one of my stories, they all start to feel the same... well not this time. This time, they are both going to suck but it will be worth it. Maybe. Probably not.
Anyhoo.
Flapping between the cutesy love-dovey scenes and the angsty scenes was chaotic, how did I do? If I manage to post one chapter per week, we can have the whole story done before 2025. Fingers crossed?