Bonus Scene: Withdrawal

Prompted by my own thoughts. NEW, never-before-seen chapter!

Notes: In chapters 8, 9, and 10, Rapunzel develops a bit of an alcohol problem, using hard liquor as a crutch to deal with depression. This is unfortunately autobiographical, and as a Type A personality, it's not something in my past that I'm particularly proud of, so I didn't do anything else with that plot thread after I had her and Flynn talk again. However, after even a month, I expect there would be some minor withdrawal symptoms. This chapter is a h/c scene in which she has some symptoms the evening after Flynn comes to get her, and there's not much he can do but comfort her. Meanwhile, he has a flashback of something in his own past (and that is not autobiographical, for the record).

I should warn about that flashback scene: Younger Flynn is a pretty unpleasant character there. Obviously he doesn't remain so, and in fact, the scene is—in my mind—a wake-up call and the true beginning of his turn. But it may not be enjoyable reading.

This occurs between chapter 10 and chapter 11. Rated soft M for language, mature references, and drug-related content.

Flynn had just emerged from his office, a smile spreading across his face. He had purchased two tickets to Fairbanks for the very next day. The flights were not full; he supposed that even on a holiday weekend, not many people would be going there, only those who had family or friends in the area. There were two layovers, but that was probably unavoidable for such a long trip. Flynn was feeling good. He knew that once Rapunzel could go back to her childhood home and say goodbye to her mother, she would be ready to accept everything he wanted to give her. She did want it, after all. She still wanted it deep inside, since she had brought it up last night while tipsy. He had little doubt in his mind that they would become an item at last soon after they returned from the trip, and the thought made him truly happy.

As he walked down the short hall and into the living room, the blue couch came into focus. She was seated on it, the top of her head and her fluffy brown hair visible from behind the sofa. And she was...

Flynn felt his heart sink as he realized that she was trembling. What can it be now? he thought as he darted into the room. Had she made herself upset thinking about her mother's death?

Her eyes were watery, but there were no tears, he realized as her face came into his view. He sat down beside her and gazed sympathetically at her, wanting to hold her and comfort her. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Her hands were shaking. "I just feel really bad," she said in a small voice. "I've felt kind of weird for about an hour, really weak and trembly, but I've got this headache now, and my hands just started shaking—I don't understand why—"

A horrible idea occurred to Flynn as she described her symptoms, but he wanted to consider other possibilities first. "Do you think it's because of anxiety over this trip, or from thinking about your mother?"

"I feel good about the trip," she said. "I want to go. This feels like I'm just sick, rather than making myself feel bad."

There it was. Anxiety may have worsened it, but Flynn now had little doubt about what had set this off. "Rapunzel, how many drinks a day did you say you were used to having?" he asked uneasily.

"At least three shots at night... but I had more at the club last night."

"And this was every night for... how long?"

"Not every night," she said. "I didn't have any during exams, and for the past nine days I've been living with Max and Pascal... they haven't let me have any at night, so I've been sneaking it during the day when they were at work, just two or two and a half—"

Flynn sighed. "Rapunzel, this is withdrawal sickness."

The tears that had been threatening to fall from her eyes finally did. "I'm so weak," she moped. "I'm weak, and I'm a burden on you—"

"You are not," he said at once. "I'm glad that you're here. And you're not weak either. You're stronger than that chemical..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. He had rarely had much difficulty coming up with the right words; it was a critical part of his former profession, and he had long known he had a gift for it, but this was different from anything he had ever had to do. "You haven't been drinking for that long and it hasn't been that heavy, so this shouldn't last too long. You aren't seeing things, are you? Or hearing them? Things that aren't real?"

She shook her head limply.

"It'll pass, Rapunzel," he said. "It'll pass because you are stronger than it." He reached out and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He didn't worry about what she might think of it; he just had to hold her. She let out a sob of gratitude, allowing him. That brought a tiny smile to his face. And as he hugged her, Flynn's thoughts suddenly flashed back to another time and place...

He had just awakened in a strange room. Nothing looked familiar, and panic began to set in, sending his pulse into a rapid palpitation that somehow seemed vaguely familiar and yet intensified the panic even more. Where was he, and how did he get here? And how come he didn't remember these things?

He gazed around as it slowly came into focus. He was in a bed, at any rate. The pillows were very fluffy, even annoyingly so. His head was sunk into one of them. The next thing he noticed was that the pillow was damp with sweat... as were the sheets, as he realized.

Bits and pieces came back. This was a hotel room in Manhattan, he recalled, and he was here because the Stabbingtons' firm had thrown a party in their firm banquet/conference room for themselves and their lobbyists. And—oh. Flynn suddenly remembered what had happened.

What the bloody hell was in that coke? he thought, anger now taking over his mind. He remembered now. The cocaine acquired by the partners had had something wrong with it. Or at least, he assumed it did. The insanely fast palpitations, sweating, and general sense of panic that he now recalled feeling last night—all of those things might be attributable to a bad reaction to the drug itself, or the drug mixed with alcohol, he supposed, but it had never happened before. After refusing to let them call an ambulance and being sent in a firm limo back to his hotel room, he must have come inside and simply passed out. He was still wearing the clothes from last night, he noticed, even the belt, which now dug painfully into his waistline. Yes, he must have simply come in and collapsed on the bed. He wondered how on earth he had managed to find the correct room.

He blinked again, noticing for the first time the blonde woman who sat stiffly in the armchair across from the bed, arms crossed, glaring at him with a thin-lipped scowl. He was sure he had not seen her before. He had no memory of being accompanied to his room.

"Who the fuck are you?" he snarled rudely, still feeling angry about the whole situation—though whether it was anger at the stockbrokers for having the stuff or at himself for doing it, he could not say—and not liking the look she was giving him. What right had she to look pissed off at him? This was his hotel room.

She looked extremely affronted at this question. "I'm Vera," she said.

She was dressed scantily, wearing some kind of black pleather miniskirt and a glittery gold cami top that seemed almost to blend in with her hair. He supposed that she might be somewhat pretty, but at the moment, he didn't care. "Okay, Vera. How did you get into my room?" he snapped.

"I was sent here by the senior partners, the black guy and one of those redheads, to 'take care of you' because of the state you were in. I rode in that same limo with you, but I suppose you were too out of it to notice. You rushed in here and crawled on that bed sobbing about how you were going to die."

"Yeah sorry," he drawled sarcastically as he sat up in bed. His head was pounding, and he could not believe he was being lectured by a prostitute. "Sorry for not paying attention to your tits, because I really did think I might be dying. You were at the party, you say. Did you do any of that coke? There was something wrong with it."

"No one else had the problem you did."

Flynn chose to ignore this observation for the time being. "As you can see, though, I obviously didn't die, so your work is done. Now why don't you get the hell out of here and go wherever you're supposed to go?"

She huffed in anger as she stood up. "Fortunately, I have already been paid by those other men. And that's a good thing for you, because I would have lost a night of work otherwise, and you would be paying me for the trouble even though you didn't enjoy my services." She headed toward the door, striding past the unmade bed with contempt in her eyes. She paused and turned to him again. "I loathe working for people like you. The worst clients of all, you smug, rich Wall Street types."

"I don't work on Wall Street," he corrected with a smirk. "They've just hired my firm. I work in DC—on K Street."

"Same difference," she sneered. "Entitled, arrogant, obnoxious. The only good thing about it is that your kind do pay well."

He smirked again. "I understand your thinking quite well, actually. It was lovely meeting you, Vera, simply lovely." The sarcasm dripped from his voice.

"Likewise," she snarled as she opened the hotel door. She stormed out, and it slammed with a loud bang.

Now that the room was empty and a target for his anger was no longer present, Flynn found that he had no choice but to turn the anger toward himself. He collapsed on the bed again, his head still throbbing in pain. He wondered if she had been telling the truth—had he been the only one to react badly to the drug? Could he simply not tolerate it now? It was hardly his first time to take it, but drugs could suddenly do weird things for no apparent reason...

He sighed. How could he have let this happen? He could have been robbed blind, his identity stolen, or even worse. He actually could have died of a heart attack. He knew better, he really did... there was just something about these firm parties that sent all his better judgment right out the window. Being around these people caused it, though not from insecurity—quite the opposite. He was pretty well-off now, with almost a million bucks in assets, but when he was surrounded by these people who were mostly many times wealthier than that, he felt that he was one of them. It was as if their wealth and their years of experience somehow rubbed off on him when he was there, and so he took on the cocky confidence to do what they did. He didn't ever buy the stuff or do lines in private. It was only at these monthly firm parties.

Not again, he thought. This cannot happen again.

Back in the present day, Flynn squeezed Rapunzel with his arm still around her shoulders as a fresh sob wracked her body. "It'll be all right," he said as gently as he could. "It won't last forever, Rapunzel."

"My head," she sobbed. "It hurts so much. And my hands won't stop shaking."

"They will, though." Flynn wondered what one was supposed to do for this. Was there anything he could do other than wait for it to pass? He hadn't had a hangover in ages, but this wasn't a hangover anyway. "Rapunzel, could you sit tight while I look something up? I'm just going to go to my computer and see if I can find out if there's any way to ease the pain."

She nodded at him, shifting her hands to her sides, clutching her body, and pinning the shaking hands beneath her arms to try to stop the trembling. Flynn got up, giving her a very sympathetic look as he headed back to the office. He really wanted to kiss her... but he had to restrain himself.

Shortly he found what he was looking for. "The only thing I can do is feed you vitamins and get some more food into you," he called from the office. Fortunately, he had a bottle of multivitamins somewhere... he hoped they were still in date... He went into the bedroom, into his bathroom, and rummaged through the medicine cabinet until he found it. Yes, they were still all right to take. He got one out, broke it in half, and brought it out to Rapunzel along with a glass of water.

She took the vitamin, wincing as the large halves of the tablet went down. "Thanks," she said in a whisper. "Thanks so much for putting up with this."

He smiled and hugged her again. "It's an honor," he said.

"You must think I'm so pathetic."

"Not even remotely," he said. "I had a problem myself back in the day, about two years before I met you. I know how tough it can be."

"You did?"

"Mm-hmm." It wasn't a lie... even though he hadn't taken it often enough to have an addiction, the binging that he did was bad too, and then there was that morning from hell that he had just remembered.

She managed a muffled sob and then smiled weakly. "You really don't judge me?"

"Not a bit. I just want to help you get through it and move on to better things." And that, he thought, was true for a great deal more than just the withdrawal sickness. He gave her another squeeze. "Now how about some dinner?"

After that first remark, she looked up at him, eyes wide, seeming to understand the deeper meaning perfectly well—but the moment passed as he asked his question. "Sure," she said, keeping one hand around his waist for support as they stood up.

End Notes: Replies to reviews. Wolfram-and-Hart, gotcha! I'm not sure when I'll post your prompt... I have quite a few more older pieces to edit and upload, even though this chapter was new material... but I'm trying to post one thing a day now, so it shouldn't take too long to get through the queue of existing material. This chapter was already in the works, which is why I put it up now. It wasn't a snub.

Noa30: Thanks! It is lovely. Your use of montages is always interesting. :) And the Flynn of that drawing/chapter 1 was pretty close, temporally, to the one in the flashback scene here.