Dr. Jones was wearing old fashioned stockings, the kind with the seam up the back. Flynn could see it when she recrossed her legs. Watching them made the hour go faster.
"Do you remember the first time you stole something?"
Flynn shrugged, his gaze drifting to the open window and the leafy branch scratching against the screen. "I remember the first time I was convicted."
"Yes, I think all of Corona remembers that. But I'm not talking about the crown right now. What's the first theft you can remember?"
Bits of memories flitted through his brain, circling and contradicting each other. He narrowed his eyebrows. "How do you know the crown wasn't my first?"
"Problems like yours don't just suddenly appear," Dr. Jones said. "During your five years at Bleach Street, you were reprimanded for over eighty instances of petty theft, and I'm guessing there were more that were unreported."
Flynn could never resist a chance to brag. "A lot more."
Dr. Jones opened his file, scanning one of the pages. "You stole pens, books, socks, iron filings, and even a fellow-inmate's gum wrapper collection."
Flynn smiled at the memory. "It came in a weird box, too. There were maybe three thousand wrappers in there. Some of them had jokes and comics."
"But you didn't read them, did you?"
"No, they were awful."
She tapped her pen against her chin. "I see here that you kept all of these things behind a loose brick in the wall under your bed."
"I had other hidings spots, too."
"Did you read any of the books? Wear the socks?"
Flynn shook his head.
"Then why did you steal them all?"
Enough with the why's! "I was bored. You said it yourself - five years. What do you want me to do in there?"
"But you didn't actually want any of those things."
"Sure, I wanted them."
"Why? What were you going to do with all of those gum wrappers?"
"Ask the weirdo who collected them. Wasn't my idea."
She quirked a smile. "But why did you take them?" She tilted her head, studying him.
This was a weird therapist trap, he knew it. She was looking for a specific answer, or perhaps she was trying to make the point that he didn't have an answer. The only way out of this trap was absurdity.
"Doc, the future of the gum wrappers market is looking mighty promising. There are some dedicated collectors out there who'd pay good money for those things."
She sighed, surveying her sheet like it was a test and he was failing. "Well, then, what started this trend of stealing items for their potential resale value? Do you remember the first time you did it?"
An itch crept up his spine. It wasn't really a chill. It was like a hairy caterpillar was marching right up the center of his back. He wanted out. He tossed his head, banking on the open window giving him a bonus multiplier to hair waft action. "I don't do back story."
She pursed her lips. "You do realize you're in psychotherapy, don't you?"
"And only ten sweet weeks to go. How will you cope without me?"
"Back story is the spine of psychotherapy."
Flynn smiled, kicking his feet up to rest on the coffee table. "That makes us a pair of flirting invertebrates, then."
She sighed, closing her file as she glanced at the all clock. "Well, do consider coming to sessions in more of a forthcoming spirit, Mr. Rider, or you're wasting your time. I'll see you next week."
It was a waste of time no matter what. Flynn knew from experience. On the way out he whipped around to catch her in the act of watching his ass, but she was putting his file back in her cabinet and shaking her head. She was a quick one.
After confirming his next session at the front desk, he noticed someone sitting in the waiting area – a familiar someone. A certain awkward vandal with freckles and green eyes.
She was still wearing the same dark hoodie, even though it was daytime and she was inside. The hood was pulled up and she had her arms crossed over her chest like she was cold. She was looking at her sneakers, turning her feet this way and that and examining them, and didn't notice him until he walked right up to her, the tips of his own shoes entering her vision.
She looked up, eyebrows lifted. "Oh," she said. Her eyes were so bright, it was almost unnatural, like she could stare right through his skull.
He shrugged off the feeling. "Yeah, 'oh.' Fancy seeing you here."
She looked left and right, then bit her lip. "Are you here to tell my therapist what I did?"
Jones was her therapist? "What you did?"
She nodded. "On the wall."
"Oh. No, it's your business where you mark your territory. Jones is my therapist, too."
Her eyes widened. "You're in therapy? Why? You seem normal."
Was that a compliment? "Seem being the operative word. But thanks. My parole officer is making me. A condition of my release." Why was he telling her that? Whatever, there was no shame in being an ex-con. Women love ex-cons.
Her eyes were as big as saucers now. "You were in prison? What did you do?" She blanched, and there was horror in her expression, as if she thought he might shank her at any moment.
"It's what I almost did. If I'd succeeded, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation right now. I'd be on an island somewhere."
She looked around again, so obviously conspiratorially he wanted to laugh. It's like she learned her mannerisms from cartoons. "Because you almost killed someone? You'd be exiled to an island? With cannibals?"
Where did she get this stuff? "What? No. Because I'd be rich enough to buy my own island and get away from all of this shit." And what was with all this talking he was doing? She already knew almost as much about him as his therapist did.
She looked him over thoughtfully, like his life story was written on his face. "Is that why you took the receptionist's stapler? Are you going to steal little things until you can buy your island?"
She saw that? It had been such a clean swipe. Even Sandra, the receptionist, didn't see it and he'd taken it from under her nose. "What stapler?"
"The one in your pocket. The purple mini one."
"I don't steal staplers," he said firmly. Only socks and gum wrappers. And crowns.
She frowned, eyes flickering down to his pocket where, indeed, there rested the purloined stapler. But he wasn't about to admit it, he never admitted anything.
She turned to her left, to the empty chair beside her. "What do you think, Pascal?" She nodded once, tilting her head as if considering. "That's true, he doesn't have very pointy teeth."
Flynn ran his tongue once over his incisors. Was she checking out his teeth? That was a first. Though of course they were as immaculate as the rest of him. He cleared his throat. "Who are you talking to?"
She looked irritated. "Who do you think I'm talking to?" She turned back to the chair, which was still entirely vacant. "I think we should trust him. He must have his reasons."
She must have been trying to creep him out, because there was seriously no one there. He'd heard plenty of people muttering to themselves in prison. It was her green eyes that gave him the willies.
The door opened behind them, and out stepped Dr. Jones. "Rapunzel, Dear, you can come on in."
"Rapunzel?" So that was her name, huh? No wonder she hadn't told him.
She got up, shoulders slouched. "It's probably not even my name," she mumbled, pushing past him. She glanced over her shoulder once and said "Come on, Pascal."
"Pascal's here today?" Doctor Jones asked gently, setting a hand on Rapunzel's shoulder. "That's lovely."
Rapunzel shrugged. "You told me to bring him. He doesn't like doctors very much so he's nervous."
"Well, no need for that," Dr. Jones said, ushering Rapunzel into her office and stopping to shoot Flynn a dirty look before following and closing the door behind her.
Of course, Flynn was the bad guy for talking to her, even though Rapunzel was clearly the one with issues. Flynn huffed and left the office. He was used to being blamed for everything, but he'd like to think he was above messing around with kids with identity issues and imaginary friends.
A few nights later, things were slow at the bar. There weren't any games on TV and it was raining, so everybody stayed home. Flynn was wiping down the counter and giving rounds to a few of the persistent regulars. A weepy middle-aged woman had been in earlier, but he tried to sell her a kiss for fifty bucks and she slapped him and left.
He'd gone to the roof for all his breaks since his run in with Rapunzel. He was always disappointed he when didn't see her, even though he wasn't sure what good would happen if he did. They'd just have an awkward conversation in which she'd accuse him of stealing office supplies and he'd say too much for his own good. Maybe he was just bored. There was something completely not boring about that girl.
Especially at that moment when she walked into the bar. Her face was set, like she was heading into battle, and she strode purposefully towards the bar and climbed up onto a stool. She took a deep breath, and said "Hi."
He put on a dashing grin, tossing the wipe rag aside. "Well, hello. Can't stay away, can you? I do have a certain magnetism."
She didn't hear him or she didn't care. "Dr. Jones told me not to talk to you."
"Did she?"
She nodded. "So I came here."
Of course? "You're going to have to explain that logic to me."
She frowned. "So far, better things have happened to me when I don't do what I'm told." She was sitting up perfectly straight, hands folded politely on the bar in front of her.
"Smart girl. Well, then I recommend you don't buy a drink and don't give me a tip."
"I'm not stupid," she scoffed, looking around the bar. "But you have to drink something to sit at a bar, don't you?"
"It's expected."
She nodded, pointing to the glass of a guy a few stools down. "Can I have that?"
Flynn raised an eyebrow. "Scotch?" he could give it to her, just to see her spit it out and look cute sputtering. But then again, he could get caught. "Can I see some ID?"
She hesitated, then fished around in her pocket for her wallet, finally handing over a federally issued photo ID. She looked miserable in the picture – extremely pale, with slightly sunken cheeks and dead eyes. It said her name was Rapunzel Smith, and she was eighteen. Legal for some things, not for others.
"Rapunzel Smith?" Flynn handed the ID back. "Quite a contrast in names, there."
She took a handful of bar nuts and was arranging them in different shapes on the counter. "They gave me my last name. It's not mine. First name's not mine, either."
Flynn raised an eyebrow, getting a big curvy glass and mixing some soda and grenadine. "Who's they?"
"The police."
This girl got worse and worse for him every minute. "The police named you Smith? And who named you Rapunzel?"
He put a syrupy cherry on top and handed over the drink, which Rapunzel inspected critically. "This is not what that guy has."
"You'll like it better."
She took a sip, waiting pensively for several moments before smiling and taking a few more. "I can't even taste the alcohol."
"You lush." He gestured towards the empty stool next to her. "Does Pascal want one, too?"
She looked at him like he was insane. "Pascal's not here." She pushed the peanuts into a sun shape.
"You really like that sun," he said, bringing another bowl of nuts over for her. "Just crazy about your country?"
"Just crazy," she said. "You know…" she stopped, staring at the bubbles in her drink. Then abruptly, she looked right at him. "What's your name?"
He leaned his elbows on the counter, not shying away from her gaze. "I'll tell you if you tell me where you got the name Rapunzel."
"The lady I used to live with gave it to me," she said easily.
"Not your mother?"
"That wasn't your question. What's your name?"
He opened his mouth to tell her in the dulcet tones required of a name as fine as his, and then… nothing would come out. The syllables wouldn't form on his tongue. He coughed. He took a sip of her disgustingly sweet Shirley temple. He coughed again. "It's uh… it's Flynn Rider," he said, his most anticlimactic introduction to date.
He looked for a way to change the subject. Usually he liked to repeat his name a few times both so that the ladies would not forget it and because it just sounded so nice. But he just couldn't, and he didn't want to think about why. "So… these suns, huh? Wanna tell me why you're so interested in them?"
She shrugged, making another, smaller sun out of nuts. "I'll tell you, if you tell me what you stole to put you in prison."
He was surprised she didn't already know. "Deal."
Without any aplomb she said "I used to think I was the Princess of Corona."
It was silly, really. But it only struck Flynn as sad, this girl in front of him, thinking she was a princess. "Corona hasn't had a monarch in a couple hundred years."
"Yeah well, I was wrong." She closed in on herself even more, pushing the nuts into a big pile. She didn't say anything for a long time, so maybe Flynn could have shirked his end of the deal, but her extreme slouch was messing with gravity and pulling him in. He had to lighten the mood.
"Well, Princess, I was thrown in jail for attempting to steal your crown."
"Don't call me princess," she mumbled, draining the last of her drink dramatically, as if it really were alcohol and she needed it. She had no idea.
"Alright, Rapunzel – or do you not like that either?"
She shrugged. "I'm used to it, at least."
He pointed to her choppy dark hair. "Should we go for irony, since you were a princess and I stole the crown? How about Blondie?"
Flynn had seen a lot of people turn green in his bar before, but none so quickly, and none so dramatically. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she shook a little as she climbed down from her stool. "No," she said softly. "Nothing like that. Here." She reached for her wallet, but Flynn waved her away.
"On the house. Are you okay?" He never gave away drinks. What was he doing? "Let me call you a cab, you don't look so good."
"I'm fine," she said with a wide, dimpled smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm going to go home. I think Dr. Jones was wrong, and I should hang out with you. I'm going to hang out with you again sometime. Bye." She turned and walked out, leaving Flynn waving a little in confusion. How did she come to those conclusions? He walked to the door to make sure she got to the subway steps alright, a terrible taste in his mouth.
