She'd never run full out before. She'd never run full speed, fully extended, fully exerting herself. Not once.

And she sucked at it.

Her limbs flailed awkwardly, one arm swung more than the other, and she thought her lungs were going to burst when she finally came to a skidding halt in the grass, half of her dress now stained with a lively shade of mossy green—but she couldn't be more thrilled in her dizzy breathlessness.

Pascal wisely remained at the creek, eating crunchy, six-legged delicacies and generally avoiding being near Rapunzel as she discovered her clumsiness, at no fault of her own.

As she leapt, twirled, bounded and danced, Rapunzel seemed to create an invisible threshold around the underground prison. She would only run so far, stop, shiver a bit in uncertainty, and then dart back from where she made that decision in the first place. She eventually made her comfort zone even more apparent by running laps, gluing herself to a now discernible perimeter that she was terrified of stepping over. Flynn watched this carefully.

He also noticed that Rapunzel often made sideways glances at the deep, beckoning forest, but she would gleefully hop, skip, or run onward, never making her curiosity overt. Flynn himself also remained within sight, her eyes playing on him more than anything else.

Eventually…finally, complete exhaustion took over, and she slid to the ground in the most elegant heap of human limbs Flynn had ever seen. She seemed to descend in the manner of autumn leaves, catching every ray of flattering sunlight, and illuminating her golden hair as she fell upon its lofty strands.
Flynn tried in vain to shake his head and keep the image from imprinting in his wretched mind, but it stamped itself permanently with every other life-changing, momentous event, with no permission from him, and no regard for his faux emotional detachment. He sighed, slow and long, continuing to succumb to his fate of servitude.

Rapunzel turned when she heard heavy footsteps approaching.

Still not wanting to betray any trust, Flynn drew near slowly and quietly, a slight smile on his face as she clamored to all fours and looked at him.

"I'm sorry," she quickly beamed, "I don't mean to be so jumpy, it's just…"

Flynn steadied her silently with just the movement of a single hand, and Rapunzel seemed hypnotized by it. Now that it got her full attention, she studied it unabashedly. She'd never comprehended such big, rough, calloused, beautiful hands. They dwarfed her own. She made an obvious effort to compare them visually, looking back and forth.

Without a word, Flynn understood her curiosity, and slowly knelt beside her. Rapunzel leaned away, and Flynn watched her face, seeing every internal struggle to either indulge in answer-seeking, or leaping up and backing away. The fight seemed acute and overbearing. Finally, her inquisitiveness and determination to keep trusting him prevailed. She took a deep breath, and looked down at the hand offered to her.
"Let me see the other one."

Flynn was reluctant. The other one wasn't perfect like this one anymore; it was blemished—deeply. It oozed a vibrant red liquid cluttered with soil and pebbles and torn skin. He didn't want to share.

She eyed him firmly, her hand offered with insistence. A not so subtle hint of a hidden, headstrong nature peered through her eyes with ironic sheepishness, as if testing the waters. This was yet another look Flynn added to the list of things she needed to do again. The list was getting longer. He was all right with that.

"Please let me see it. I know it's injured…"

He would listen. Of course he would. He held it out, palm up.

Rapunzel took in the sight of his hands. And she stared.

And stared.

And stared.

The staring was still a little unsettling, but Flynn was surprised by how fast he was growing accustomed to it. A greater worry was that she might be afraid of the sight of mild gore, and that she was going to have a very unpleasant, very disgusting reaction to it. But as he watched her, he noticed her looking very torn and confused, as if she couldn't make up her mind about something.

"You…should get that dressed up…" she stole a glance at him that utterly perplexed Flynn, because it almost looked like she were afraid to tell him something; like she was hiding a secret that, for whatever reason, had to do with his wounds.

"I'll be right back," she said, blonde hair trailing behind her as she ran past him and down the stairs to the house/prison.

Flynn barely had a chance to turn around before she came running back up the stairs again, a basket entwined in her arms.

She sat before him and swiftly grabbed his hand with every intention of mending it— but everything from her breath, her sight, to her thoughts stopped short. Warmth of foreign skin layered into her fingertips. Large knuckles pressed firmly into her palm. Flynn's eyes danced across her face, absorbing every tense jaw movement, every eye twitch, every intake of air and throat contraction.

"It's okay…" he felt the need to whisper, and with that another batted breath escaped, and nails dug into hardened tendons. Flynn didn't budge. So… now he was suffering for her… he knew it wouldn't be the last time.

"S—sorry," she whispered back. And with strained, bleary-eyed vision and a surprising amount of doctoral expertise, she cleaned and dressed the wound. She never faltered but there were several moments when she stagnated. Her fingers went from diligently working the gauze to suddenly playing hooky with his fingers. Flynn smirked guiltily. For Rapunzel, it took all of her might to ignore the fact that she was indeed touching, turning and dressing…a man's hand. And it took all of Flynn's might not to close his hand on hers and draw her closer, and meet the eyes that study him so frantically.

When Rapunzel was finished, she immediately released, leaving tact behind and turning away. There was only so much of the thrill she could handle, and she wasn't exactly aware that Flynn offered a double dosage of thrill compared to most men. Flynn would have beamed with pride if he didn't catch the strange look of tired remorse that seemed to wash over her again.

"Thanks, Blondie…" he offered, after she said nothing for a time and curiously stared off into space.

"I…I think…"

Flynn waited. He was needy to every response she had from a new experience.

"I think…I should go inside for a while…"

Flynn wasn't surprised. Freedom choked many a hapless, practiced prisoner. She was yearning for the comfort of restriction; a friendship by force and habit.

"Want me to leave the doors open? You're always going to be able to come out here— as far as I'm concerned…" (For ten more days) he tossed the problematic truth by the wayside for now. Just for now. Today. Not tomorrow.

Maybe…

Rapunzel's lungs filled slowly, as did her eyes with budding tears. The desire to flail her arms around her "hero" ached in her outstretched hands, but years of firmly instilled fear won the battle before it started, and Rapunzel remained in pose like a tear-stained stature, wind and sunlight draped across her.

"Really?" she choked; Flynn's handsome figure skewed by tears.

He just nodded. And even the distortion of tears could not hide that subtle assurance he gave to her.

Before doing anything she thought she might regret, or anything that might excite her into a fit, Rapunzel turned on her heels. And like veteran drilled marching soldiers, well worn habits lined up in her mind and guided her back to the bunker.

Now Flynn felt the hairs on his neck bristle.

He was in a rather awkward spot. Did he have the fragile jurisdiction to enter in after her? Should he wait outside till she was brave enough bolt up the stairs again? Would she be? Or maybe she would cocoon herself in the fear and sorrow that's so familiar to her by tyrannical guilt. Flynn might have to waltz down those stairs and invite himself in again, no matter how awkward. He gave her some time; a few minutes…no—he must behave himself—a good half hour of his own exploring commenced before he decided to tentatively sneak down and peak across the threshold. An amazing aroma rose to meet him as he descended. He peeked in quietly.

There he saw that she was not sulking or hiding or bundled in fear—but baking…quite furiously in fact. It seemed to be a reaction to stress. And it might explain why she was so incredibly good at it.

"Uh…hey Blondie. Can I come in?"

She stopped everything and faced him.

"Please…!" she said with more eagerness that she meant to show. "I mean, uh…of course. I just—look!" she showed off a sample of her sweet smelling handiwork. "

"Frankly, I'm always looking for a reason to celebrate," she laughed guiltily, and Flynn's heart broke for the millionth time that day.

"I like how you think, Blondie. Don't let me distract you," he pointed at the oven, which Rapunzel tended to immediately.

Flynn entered as carefully as he did the first time he arrived. With Rapunzel clearly dedicated to making the perfect batch of cookies, Flynn took this moment to examine the living space she spent most of her life in. No learning materials here. There were objects of her affection she created. And a lot of candles. It was actually creepy. An evil witch could really make use of these candles. If Rapunzel had any sense of finances, which he was certain she had extremely little of, she could make a killing selling them to a local witch populous.

He went on examining. There was no desk or any kind of home schooling set up. Aside from this room and the nook with the divider, there were only two other rooms(he figured) based on the two doors facing him. One for Rapunzel, and one for this mysterious mother.

Perhaps she was taught lessons in her room. She had to. She was too smart. And while he knew not to equate knowledge to intelligence, he noticed that there were very specific things she was good at, certain things that she could teach him a thing or two about. These specific things seemed to be the limit of her knowledge.
Flynn rounded the divider enough to peek at her. She was precise and tactful, finessing actions here, and professionally tossing certain things there. It seemed that since there was a barrier to further knowledge, she simply studied the hell out of whatever she knew. A stranger may mistake her for a savant until he carried a conversation with her.

She was eloquent, charming, and had a sense of timing. She was witty, humorous, passionate of her loves, apathetic and sullen about her dislikes and had a peculiar submissiveness that didn't seem natural for her. She was fiery and active, persistent in her wants and stubborn in her refusals.

This submissiveness she displayed seemed like more of a conditioned response, an unnatural attribute— a forced characteristic rather than an inborn trait.

Flynn looked over to the door that was undoubtedly hers, what with its swirled flowers, fat happy bluebirds and saturated fields.

"I hope you're not making a big batch," he said, keeping his head turned in her direction as he stepped toward her door.

"Well, enough for tomorrow as well. Just a few more minutes and then I can relax while this batch bakes."

"Sure…" Flynn called, sneakily grabbing her door handle. He opened it enough to take a look inside.

He shut it soon after. There was no reason to keep looking. It was pitch black within.

My God, is that ceiling window in the kitchen the only 'window' she has in this place? Is that the only way she gets sun? Is that the only light she receives? No wonder she's there all the time…

He heard the shuffle of a chair and looked to see Rapunzel giving a happy sigh as she rested her chin on her hands. Her eyes were closed and she never heard Flynn approach.

"Hey…"

She looked up at him, the fleeting feeling of fear violently agitated her for a moment before her heart fluttered and triggered a smile on her face.

"Hi…" she said before looking away shyly.

Flynn stared down at her, partly amused, partly sad.

"You wanna give me the grand tour?"

Rapunzel tried to give a light hearted shrug without appearing discomforted by the request.

"Well, this is all there is. And you know more about the outside than me."

"Oh…I guess that means those two rooms are off limits then?"

"Oh, well…my mother's room is definitely off limits and my room is just…my room."

"Is it as prettily painted as the rest of this place?"

Rapunzel's hands seem to glide down the table while her head tilted upward in the same manner. There was a strange mixture of uncertainty, shock and unbridled excitement, and her eyes flicked up to him in a kind of distrust he hadn't seen since they first met. And it deeply unsettled him.

Flynn leaned back and adopted the least threatening position as he leaned away. "Eeeeasy, girl…" he whispered before she even opened her mouth. "Whatever impression you got from that, I didn't mean it in any bad way. I'm sorry, and I don't even know what the hell I'm sorry for…"

To Flynn's relief, a twitching smile caught her pretty mouth, and she took a breath through her nose. Apparently she could read emotions well, because Flynn was somewhat shocked that she found his feelings genuine.

"I'm sorry too…" Rapunzel said quietly.

Flynn sat across from her as she went on.

"It's just that…you're not what I expected…not at all. And it also makes me wonder…if there's others like you?"

"Flynn Rider's one of a kind, m'lady. But what do you mean I'm not what you expected?" he asked, realizing the peculiarity of her words.

"Men…" she trailed off.

Flynn's jaw tightened as he stared at her.

"Men?" he replied flatly, "What do you know about men?"

"My mother told me all about men. The way they are, the terrible things they do."

Flynn couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Is that part of why she keeps you here?" he probably said with more urgency than he intended.

"Partly," she murmured, eyeing him. Shimmers of unwanted, annually built up suspicion dashed through her eyes before quickly being replaced by guilt.

"And the other part is your hair for some weird ass reason? Look, you don't—uh—"

Rapunzel had leapt up from her chair with a pained breath and entered the living room. She paced while rubbing her face and looking back to, strangely enough, his hands.

She went back to pacing until she leaned against the wall, her back facing him.

Whatever she was working out to herself, Flynn decided it best to leave her at it. He knew how annoying forced help was, and this seemed more personal to her than he wanted to understand.

"I can trust you…?" suddenly came her small voice. " I mean…really trust you," Then she turned to face him. "Because it's not like I don't! I do. It's just…I…what I'm about to do, it's…"

Flynn was quiet as he listened, taking in the weight of her jostled words, and being careful to choose his own without sounding anxious.

"I think you know you can trust me, " He lied softly.

No, she couldn't trust him. He just desperately wanted her to trust him. This was an anomaly. This was insane. He didn't care who trusted him for longer than what he needed from them. Now he felt he wanted her trust more than the air he breathed. The Flynn Rider within him was laughing maniacally right now.

"I know it's been a short time…but I think you know very well that I have no intention of hurting you…"

Rapunzel studied him carefully, and Flynn allowed it, not knowing to what extent her distrust was, or how it was born, but knowing full well that it was depressing and unfair, for her and any person she'll ever encounter.

Rapunzel took one large breath, stood lopsided for a moment, and then closed her eyes.

"Come here."

Flynn obeyed immediately, all but panting like a dog. Rapunzel grabbed a bucket and set it by the living room table.

"Sit…"

He did as told. Rapunzel sat before him with only the bucket between them.

"Hold your hands out…"

He did.

She gently took his hands, and they both reacted similarly in shortness of breath and a flinch. She looked up at him and he smiled crookedly.

"You can't tell anyone about this…" she said quietly.

Now he was curious.

She started to undo the bandages and he cringed.

"I know, I'm sorry. Try not to move," she instructed gravely.

He waited in confusion as she dropped the wrappings into the bucket and took a breath. She gave him one last furtive look before she started wrapping her hair around his hands.

Flynn could only twitch in bafflement. Plus his thief instincts were fraught to kick in, not wanting his hands being bound in anyway, hair or otherwise.

But he digressed.

This day had already been worse than any drug inducement he'd ever encountered.

Rapunzel took a breath… and she started to sing.