#also this being a modern au is just my excuse to put Eugene in a leather jacket

[seashoreshell]

Lucilla and Liberta's family diary- 1/?

[ravenwritesstuff]

Best Laid Plans (6/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Stop looking at me.

The multi-function table is loaded with pastries, fruit, and more bagels than Elsa remembers being in existence. Kristoff, Eugene, and Rapunzel all have their plates in front of them - Rapunzel's somehow the most full - and are conversing amicably with him.

The space is not large but it was designed to give an open, inviting feel. She had created it to make everyone feel welcome the second they entered the room and it seems her design has done just exactly that. She never once considered that could be a detriment until now.

“Elsa!” Rapunzel jumps up like she hadn't talked to her just moments before in the atrium. The rest of the eyes in the room track to her immediately. She does her best to ignore him. 

“I don't recall having a meeting scheduled this morning.” She feels that she is dripping on the stone-tile floor. “You will have to excuse my tardiness.” 

She doesn’t flinch meeting his gaze even as mascara stings her eyes. She bets it is running down her cheeks, too. To his credit he keeps his composure despite her rain-soaked appearance. Except not to his credit, because shouldn’t even be here. Of all the entitled bullshit she has ever encountered… 

She crosses her arms and looks at her employees.

“Thank you all for entertaining our guest at the expense of your other tasks, but you may go now. I will take it from here.” 

They get the point.

The trio are all gracious as they take their plates and leave (all of them grabbing a bit more from the generous spread before ducking out sheepishly). Elsa gives them her best facsimile of a smile as they exit. She shuts the door behind them with a definitive thud (though she knows that will do little to keep them from eavesdropping) before turning back to the root of this entire problem. The idea of her staff listening in makes her even more irritable. She hates being the center of attention. 

Still, she turns and meets his gaze. “Mister Westergaard.” 

He smiles. “Hans.”

He is seated on a cushioned bench that was custom built for the space. She half expects him to rest his elbows on the table and cradle his chin in his hands with his patronizing tone. She stiffens a bit, but tries not to acknowledge it.

She is a professional. She will at least see what he wants.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You wouldn't let me take you to dinner so I brought you breakfast.”

She remembers their conversation after the dance, the granola bar she grabbed on the run, but also remembers her most ultimate truth and speaks the lie that must come from it: “I don't eat breakfast.”

“Everyone eats breakfast.”

“Well I don't.”

He scoffs, smile tugging at his wide mouth. 

“Doesn't take bubble baths. Doesn’t dance. Doesn't date. Doesn't eat breakfast.” He rattles off the list and she feels her ears turning pink. Had he really listened that closely? “I know for a fact that at least twenty five percent of those statements is patently untrue. It makes me wonder about the other seventy-five percent." He dangles the bait but she doesn't take it. He shifts. "So if you don't do all of those things, what do you do?”

“I run this company.”

He nods his head slowly, keeping his clever eyes trained on hers. “And you are in charge of planning all of the events put together by this company?”

It is a leading question. She knows it. Doesn't want to feed into it, but is uncertain how exactly to skate around it. 

“Anna and I are partners. Which of us take the lead on projects depends on what best fit our client's needs.” 

He leans forward then, just enough that she can smell ulterior intent even as he assumes a professional posture. 

“So your clients pick their point of contact. Interesting.”

She can feel him circling, and realization snaps his intent into place. She knows where this is leading, and a chill runs down her spine. If she had known he would be this persistent…

She presses forward, trying to correct her misstep. 

“In part. The team at E & A Events all have a say as well. It is a team operation. We all have different, but equally important, roles.” She doesn’t like where this conversation is going, but she won’t surrender even as she drips on the floor. Even if she wants to shove him out the door and force him out of her mind and life.

“Equal but different roles, fascinating. I’d love to know more.”

She had practically gift wrapped that segue for him. Instead of getting him out the door she was helping him dig trenches. She could kick herself for it.

“The inner workings really aren’t that important or interesting to most.”

“Try me. Let's start with the big blonde guy. Christopher.”

“Kristoff,” she is just a little too quick, enjoying correcting him just a bit too much, and his eyebrow flicks in amusement. “Just Kristoff.”

“My sincerest apologies. Kristoff. What does he do?”

“He supervises and creates special builds for our events. Stages, tables, altars, set pieces… he also coordinates event set-up and tear down logistics and coordinates all parties involved in that.”

“Fascinating,” he says and she believes him. He seems to hang off of her every word and that makes her nervous. “What else? What about that Rapunzel girl?”

“IT, admin, and graphic design. She can build you an event website with sign up funnels all customized around a graphics suite she creates from your concepts as well as facilitate any paper needs you may have from invitations to menus.”

He hardly lets her breathe: “And Eugene?” 

“Vendor liaison and customer service. He is excellent at negotiating with vendors to get you exactly what you want at a price that is fair for everyone as well as day-of coordinating.” 

He had already gotten a front row seat of Eugene’s flair for customer service two days ago at Eric and Ariel’s wedding. She is certain he will pick up how far she is underselling each team member and the extent of what they do just because of that, but he doesn’t mention it. He keeps right on with his line of questioning.

“Anna?” He keeps it short, like not letting her pause for even a moment, like he is quizzing her.

Two can play that game. “As Creative Director she does whatever I don't do.”

He smiles then like he knows something she doesn't, “and you. What is it that you do?”

She has given these answers ten thousand times, has recited them all from rote already, knows exactly how to answer his questions but the words catch in her throat. She cannot help but feel she is walking into some sort of trap and she does not want to be caught. She cannot afford to, for either of their sakes. 

She takes a breath. “I am Director of Operations and work closely with the designated point of contact to an event that is both seamless and completely authentic to the person or organization putting it on as well as manage several day-to-day operations.”

He leans back and rubs a hand across his chin. He smiles: “I like listening to you talk.”

Her brain scrambles. She does not understand what any of that has to do with anything. She stays professional.

“Thank you.”

“Tell me something else. Anything. Anything at all...”

The sensation of just being a specimen, like a bug under a microscope, makes her anxious. His eyes skate the length of her body and she is suddenly hyper aware of how her once shapeless dress now clings to each curve, how her eyes sting with the mascara leaking into them, how each inch of her body is still dripping on the floor. He seems to notice her discomfort with a sardonic glee, the fight she is waging to not tighten her arms over her chest and hide, to seem relaxed.

“I have told you all I can possibly think to tell you, Mister Westergaard. Why don’t you enlighten me about the specifics of what brought you here this morning?” She turns the table, done beating around the bush. She won’t be made to stand trial, barefoot, with clammy skin, in her own office. "Because if conversation is why you are here I can guarantee you there are much easier and better places you can find it."

His smile falls a bit, but he catches himself. That all too human crack bleeds through and she thinks she has hurt him. She steels her insides against remorse as his cool and controlled exterior snaps back in place.

His smile now wolfish.

“I am launching an initiative," he makes a broad sweeping gesture with his arms. "And I wasn't going to make too much of a fuss, but you all changed my mind.” 

She expects him to continue but he doesn't. Instead he just watches her. She frowns.

"Mister Westergaard I don't know if I quite understand. We plan events - not initiatives. Perhaps you would be better served with a Public Relations firm or -"

"Those pieces are already in place." He smiles, just a bit crooked as if he has anticipated this rejection and has a counter prepared. “What I need is a party, and a good one, to draw the proper attention.” 

She cannot help but wonder just what a man like this considered to be proper attention, but pushing against him isn’t getting her what she wants. So she leans in. 

“Do you have a prospective date for this event?” 

Normally these questions would be answered before she ever saw the client in person. Normally there would be boards and sketches and swatches of color and timelines and menus all laid out in coordinating binders for the initial presentation - drawn up from the initial phone consult. Her clients didn’t like wasting time. Neither does she, but here she is.

He tells her and it is all she can do not to choke on her own disbelief. 

“That is only five weeks from now!” 

“Thirty nine days to be exact.” 

“Mister Westergaard - we have other clients, other events, that is hardly enough time to properly plan something of any size or scale. 

“Please. It’s Hans,” he stands, smoothing the front of his tailored slacks as he goes and her mouth goes dry. "And you're starting to make me think you aren't interested in taking this on." 

There is something a little too casual about how he stands, too relaxed, the drift of his eyes too lazy to be anything but sharply calculated. She can see it. She may not know him well, but she knows he isn’t one to leave something to chance. She didn’t bow to his charm so now he will prod her pride. It irks her to admit that it is working. 

“It isn’t that at all.”

“Then what is it?” 

She meets his gaze. The crisp lavender button down he wears brings out the green of his eyes and she knows if she was closer she would see the gold ring around his iris. Even with several feet between them she knows just how warm he would feel if she touched him, probably even warmer than she remembers with her rain chilled skin. She knows how he smells. The memory alone is enough to make her heart pound so hard that she is sure he can see her pulse in her throat.

He steps around the decadence-covered table and her calf cramps as she steels herself to not retreat. 

“This is my job, Mister Westergaard.” 

He comes closer, hands tucked into pockets. She stays, chin lifting.

“I’m aware.”

He stops a few feet in front of her, close enough now that all he would have to do is reach out and suddenly 

Her words come out on a gust of breath. “I am not a challenge. This is not some sort of game.”

He cocks his head. “I’m not playing any game.”

She searches his face, warning bells screaming that there must be a lie, but all she finds is that blindingly sincere humanity that scrambles her thoughts.

“I have other events, other clients -”

“So is it a ‘no’”? 

She swears he doesn’t move but he feels closer. The light in his eyes shifts and she cannot think. She cannot breathe. 

She remembers what Anna said.

This is bigger than what she wants.

A client like Hans Westergaard could establish their company for life - and even if she has disconnected from the length of that concept she knows what it means for others. She knows the firm needs this as impossible and inconceivable as it seems. 

“There will be some ground rules.” The fact she keeps the shake out of her voice is a moral victory. 

His brow quirks. “You want to set rules for something that isn’t a game? Interesting.”

She feels his humor like a contagious warmth spreading through her chest and nearly chokes at the weight. This was not what she wanted, what she expected from today...

“Any relationship we have will be business only. I cannot take you on as a client if you do not agree to that.”

His wide mouth pulls to the side enough to be just shy of a smile: “Are you implying that I would engage your services for anything other than professional reasons?”

His words sends heat flooding up her neck despite her soggy state. 

The same heat she sees in his cunning eyes, the same she knows she will feel if she touches him.

He is trying to fluster her and she knows it.

He is succeeding and he knows it. 

She forces her calm: a skill she has mastered over the years. 

"I am not implying anything. If we are to work together it is important we both handle ourselves in the appropriate manner." 

“Of course. Absolutely.” He smiles, shifting his weight into a casual posture. 

She knows she should ask about budget, about the theme, about the twenty five thousand things she clarifies with clients before even thinking about accepting them for their services - but she knows that this point none of that matters. At this point - all that matters is getting him out of her offices so she can think, work, breathe. 

So she agrees, “absolutely.” 

She takes the lead and extends a hand and he glances at it with a dark twinkle in his eye. He takes it is his and just as she expects his touch burns. 

It is all she can do to not catch her breath as they shake on an agreement she can hardly understand. 

She releases his hand as soon as she can, letting it sink back to her side as naturally as possible when all she wants is to yank it back and rub her palm on the cool damp fabric of her thigh. 

But they need this.

This is something bigger than herself and her own comfort. 

She has said ‘no’ to men before, has built those walls she has contrived to protect them from herself, but still those warning bells ring. Anna knows. She knows. This one is different.

But it is only thirty-nine days. What could happen?

The way he smiles at her across the space between them answers that question even if she chooses to ignore it.

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