Chapter 5
Flynn felt much more human again after a set of fresh bandages, a bath, a shave, and a change of clothes. His side looked remarkably good considering that it had been ripped open a few days previously. Rapunzel even removed the stitches, talking the whole time about how difficult it had been to pick a good color of thread that wouldn't look gross. Red? Orange? Green? Gah!
"Isn't it healing kind of fast?" he asked, inspecting the long, ragged scar that was starting to itch.
"Nope," she said. "According to the book you're right on schedule."
He thought that maybe she should read that chapter again. Or maybe she was lying about how long he was out of commission. She was certainly lying about something.
She volunteered Pascal to assist him with his bathing needs, then admitted when he rolled his eyes that Pascal was going to monitor him and not let him out until he smelled better.
Did the chameleon even have a sense of smell?
"You're just hoping he'll film me. Aren't you?"
She shoved him into the wash room, completely ignoring his injuries.
The shirt she'd made mostly fit him. The only problem was that she got frustrated when he rolled up the sleeves, which wasn't really that much of a problem because it was pretty funny watching her try to roll them back down.
They sat once more on the bed, watching a film of a calliope. Having explained what it was and how it worked, Flynn held his own as Rapunzel sang along to the film, attempting to bother him until he corrected her tune.
"Is that right?"
"Yeah, Blondie. That sounds just right."
"What about like this?"
"That's perfect too. You've got a gift."
"Come on, Flynn! Sing me the song."
"I don't remember it."
"Yes, you do."
"I don't sing."
"You're so-"
Whatever he was was cut off by a shrill whistle like the scream of a tea kettle, causing Rapunzel to gasp and scramble to her feet.
"What's that?"
She blew out the candle in the projector, threw several switches to let it roar and sputter to a stop, and hefted it into her hidden closet without putting away the film properly like she usually did.
"Early warning system. Pascal helped me set it up. Mother's home." Her eyes darted about the room, checking for anything else that shouldn't be seen.
She rushed from the room before he could ask another question and returned a moment later with a basket that she deposited on the bed next to him.
"This is the mother that's going to kill me?"
"Yes. So stay put and be quiet."
She climbed up on the bed and reached up into the ceiling, pulling down a set of spring loaded, purple drapes with swirling silver figures painted on them. Flynn reached out and took hold of her ankle to keep her from toppling over as she fought with them until they lowered just a few feet from the ceiling.
"What are those? Drapes?"
"Proper beds have drapes," she snapped. "Mother's bed has drapes. Why shouldn't mine?"
He held up a hand and bowed his head in surrender, as she mumbled about how he should be more grateful and secured the screens into the correct place with one final tug.
Hopping off the bed, she took hold of a crank in the wall, winding it to slowly raise the bed towards the ceiling.
She continued ranting at him even as she disappeared little by little behind the curtain. "I'm not folding you all the way up this time. Do you have enough space to slip out if you have to? Oh, it doesn't matter. Don't come out. It's only so you can have a bit more light and feel less claustrophobic. Or for an emergency. Like a fire."
The curtain snapped open abruptly and she glared up at him, pointing an accusatory finger in his face. "If you come out for anything less than a fire, you'll be sorry!"
"Fire. Got it."
"A big one. Not a dinner-gone-wrong fire. It has to be all consuming."
"I'm touched that you don't want me to die in a fire."
Her scowl only deepened, then the curtains snapped back into place with a distinct mutter of, "be easier if you did."
A moment later, her hand appeared from under the screen, easing Pascal onto the bed with whispered instructions to keep him company. Or to watch him and drug him if he got any ideas, Flynn didn't exactly hear her.
Light feet slapped the floor as she dashed from the room, and the whistling alarm soon faded to a hiss.
Flynn exchanged a look with the chameleon, fighting off the urge to snort at how seriously Rapunzel took all this. Her face as she glared at him was just too funny. Honestly, her mom sounded more and more like a witch all the time, but would she really murder an injured man who just needed help?
Maybe she would if she kept her daughter locked in a tower forever. But that couldn't be true either, could it? No one actually did that. Rapunzel must be mistaken or over reacting or pulling his leg or something. It couldn't be as bad as she hinted it was.
The alternative was too horrendous to contemplate.
The chameleon looked unamused, but then again, it didn't look like it had any other emotions either. Flynn slipped down onto his stomach, deciding to make himself comfortable if he was going to be there a while, and propped himself on an elbow, rubbing the chameleon's head with a finger.
It seemed to enjoy that.
A call from outside grabbed his attention, "Rapunzel! Let down your hair!" Or something. That's what it sounded like, but that didn't make sense so he probably misheard. Or maybe it was a password or some kind of signal. Whatever it was, it required a great deal of heaving and a long passage of time before her mother made it into the safety of the tower.
"Hello, Mother. Welcome home," Rapunzel said, her voice sounding strained.
Her mother ignored her greeting, just as she ignored anything suspicious about Rapunzel's behavior.
"I have big news, darling. We got three new orders while I was out, so I hope you've been working hard on the watch for Lord Capras."
There was a lilting quality to her mother's voice that Flynn immediately decided to dislike. It was patronizing, chiding, and selfish all at the same time.
Despite her mother's excitement, Rapunzel sounded horrorstruck. "Three?"
"Oh, yes," her mother said absently, moving to a different room where their discussion became softer and more muffled. "One for Mr. Droven, who was very generous, while I was in town." There was a purr in the words that nearly made Flynn gag. "That's unusual behavior in people, dear, and I'm sure his kindness will only last until he gets his clock. But that's the way it is. Even well bred brutes are still brutes. But you'll make him something extra special, won't you?
"Then one for Lady Amelia. Ugh! I have never been treated so rudely. She had me wait an hour before seeing me. Can you believe it?"
"No, Mother."
"You don't have to work very hard on her order. She doesn't even deserve one of your little trinkets."
The chameleon made the softest of rude noises, and Flynn held back gloating over the fact that now Pascal was being the loud one. The chameleon was right to be annoyed. Flynn was annoyed. Rapunzel ought to be annoyed too, but didn't sound as though she was.
"And the third watch?"
"Oh, don't even worry about that one. I'm sure they'll be canceling their order any day now. So inconsiderate."
"Why would they do that?"
"Dear, take those ridiculous glasses off your head. They're going to become permanently attached."
"Sorry, Mother."
Her mom sighed. "The third order – if you must know – is to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the captain of the guards' promotion next month. But I doubt he'll last until then."
"Why not? Is he sick?"
"No, of course not."
"But if he's lasted ten years, what's another month?"
"The empire is run by criminals. It has been for years. Even the queen is a thief. Crime runs rampant. And it's finally catching up with them."
Flynn tried to trade a look with the chameleon, but it had returned to the blissful distraction of having its head rubbed, and couldn't bother to be concerned with this first news of the empire's collapse. A collapse that Pascal had partially caused.
Because it was totally the chameleon's fault. Not Flynn's. Not the thugs that had threatened him into doing it. Not that snotty foreign guy.
It was the chameleon's fault, and Flynn did not feel guilty about it.
At all.
Let the captain get fired. He was pompous and bad at his job anyway.
After a while, Flynn got really tired of hearing Rapunzel's mom talk. "Rapunzel, did you do laundry, like I asked? You know I need to look my best, and I can't do that if I have to wear one of these - ugh - dresses." "I'm afraid you've had quite enough sugar, dear. Your complexion is getting a bit blotchy. Hmm?" "Honestly, Rapunzel, I ask so little from you. Is it really so hard for you to accomplish a few simple tasks? I work so hard to make you happy, selling your silly watches and braving all the horrors outside the tower. I don't know why I even bother!"
Every word the woman said grated against his ear drums until he wanted to climb out of the bed, stomp into the room and tell the old bat to beat it. Or stuff something in her mouth to block out her incessant complaining.
A fantasy involving sweeping Rapunzel away from here, rescuing her from her nutty mother, showing her the world, and then-
Pascal bit him. It chose to go for his burnt hand.
Biting down a pained noise of surprise, he glared at the little thing, who glared back up at him. He moved to flick it in the forehead, but it raised its tail and hissed.
And they used to be such good friends.
They shot each other glares until they both got bored, then they moved on to inspect the basket Rapunzel had left them. It was mostly full of snacks, as if she expected him to be stuck there for days. That was not going to happen. If he was still there tomorrow at lunch, he was just going to leave, injuries or no. He'd walk out in the middle of their meal, say "See ya!" and leave. They'd both be too shocked to do anything.
No murdering him. No drugging him. No crazed woman shouting at Rapunzel after he left.
…Or worse.
The chameleon bit him again, giving him a warning look with one eye while the other inspected the ceiling.
You may have a death wish, but don't drag Rapunzel down with your stupidity.
Flynn blinked at it, then shook his head, wondering how he had derived that warning from the chameleon's unchanging face plate.
He opted to save the food for later.
Also in the basket was a pad of paper, a pen, and an ink well. It looked as though several pages had been torn off the front (Rapunzel had probably already used them), and the first page had a note in her neat handwriting. "Dear Flynn, In case you get bored you can write or draw or read. But you really should rest more. I never get bored when I'm dreaming. Love, Rapunzel."
One of the books crammed in the basket was a botany text book. The other was advanced math.
Rapunzel was nuts.
For a while he tried to read the botany book, but it was dry and every third word was a technical term whose meaning he could only guess. The illustrations were nice if you liked looking at leaf picture after leaf picture after leaf picture.
He played tic-tac-toe with the chameleon, a game with which they were both familiar.
Then he inspected the spines along Pascal's back. They unfurled with a whisk and Flynn used one to slice sheets of paper in half, which amused the chameleon to no end.
He made a tally mark every time Rapunzel's mom said something obnoxious, then got too irritated and took another stab at the botany book.
He had just pieced together what a petiole was, when Rapunzel's mom announced that Rapunzel was giving her a headache and she'd had a long day of providing for her ungrateful family and being unappreciated, so she was going to go take a nap. She got a five minute head start before the soft patter of feet announced Rapunzel's presence.
Her hands slipped under the drapes, followed by her head and shoulders as she hoisted herself upwards. Straightening her skirt, she gave Flynn a grateful smile and slipped into place next to him. She propped the notepad against her knee and wrote, -How are you doing?-
-Best day ever,- he wrote.
She smiled in relief, her shoulders relaxing and her eyes slipping closed as if she was just as tired as her mother claimed to be.
Probably because she had stayed up most of the night caring for him while he looked pathetic. It struck him as completely unfair that she should have to worry about him in addition to all the other stressors in her life. In the moment, she looked so fragile and vulnerable… It made things clench in his chest.
When her eyes opened again, they landed on the botany book and lit up with glee. She snatched her pen out of his hand and scribbled eagerly, -Did you read it?-
-A bit.-
She stretched across him to grab it, flipped to the front cover, and turned two or three pages to land on the dedication. She pointed at it and held it out for him to read.
"To my lovely wife. Without your assistance this book - and my life – would be nothing."
-What about it?- he asked.
She thought for a moment, as if she wasn't quite sure how to put her question into words, as if he should know what she meant without having to say it. Then she took the pen and started to write.
- It sounds so sweet. Like he really loves her. Like he's a nice man. And his book is so lovely and useful. I don't see how someone who wrote this could be bad. -
-Who said he's bad?-
-Mother says everyone outside is cruel and wicked.-
Flynn rolled his eyes. –Not everyone is like that. You think I'm cruel and wicked?-
It was a stupid question. He was a terrible person, always had been. He'd cheated and stolen and used people. He was selfish and unfeeling. He'd just committed the worst form of treason imaginable.
But for some reason, he wanted her to say otherwise. He wanted her to think better of him.
She blinked at him a moment, really thinking it over, studying his face in the purple tinged shadows, wrestling with something she didn't want to share with him.
-No,- she said. –You're kind.-
She ducked her head and averted her eyes, and Flynn stared awestruck at the words she'd written.
He moved to clear his throat, but stopped himself as it would have made too much noise. He shifted awkwardly instead, and she saved them both by writing again. –Are you really alright up here? How are you?-
-I don't like the way she talks to you.-
He scribbled it so quickly that it took him a bit by surprise. Who knew that you could blurt things out on paper just as easily as you can while speaking?
She blinked, frowning down at the words, then frowning up at him. He swallowed, realizing he'd thrown them right back into the realm of discomfort.
-What do you mean?-
-Your mother. She doesn't treat you right.-
Her frown grew more pronounced as her handwriting grew more stern and agitated. –She treats me very well. She feeds me and clothes me and keeps me safe. She brings me things that I need.-
-She treats you like crap.-
She gave his words that look that was now painfully, comfortingly familiar. It was her look when she didn't understand a word and he was speaking nonsense.
-Like trash. Like you're not a full person. She doesn't respect you.-
-I'm a child and she's my mother. She knows what happens outside and she's older and wiser and she knows best. She doesn't have to respect me.-
He gave her a look of complete bewilderment, shaking his head in a way he couldn't really control. –Yes, she does!-
She frowned down at the paper as if she didn't quite understand, then squared her shoulders and shifted her expression to one of determination. –You don't know what you're talking about.-
That hurt, but he ignored it, pushing his point.
-She's always putting you down. Never gives you compliments. Doesn't it drive you crazy?-
-You don't give me compliments.-
He narrowed his eyes and scowled at her. -I told you that you made good toast. I told you I liked your singing voice. You're quick and sweet and funny. You work hard. You healed me up so well it's like magic and you bent over backwards to let me stay here. You really deserve to hear some nice things every now and then.-
A blush crept over her face and she refused to meet his eyes. Finally she said, -I make good toast, but not good broth.-
He shrugged, smirking at her when she tentatively met his eyes.
-But seriously, your mom sucks.-
She flipped the paper over for a fresh sheet. -Don't talk about her like that. She gives me compliments sometimes.-
-When?-
She couldn't answer, pulling her lower lip into her mouth.
-She called your watches "trinkets."-
-They are trinkets.-
He looked at her as though she'd grown a second head. –Are you serious?-
Apparently she was.
-Those are the most sought after watches in the empire. Everyone wants one. They cost a fortune. I don't know shit about watches, and even I'd heard of them.-
She looked confused, and blinked at him several times, waiting for him to laugh silently and write "just kidding! I don't know what I'm talking about!"
When his expression didn't change she wrote, –What?-
He nodded.
She underlined the question.
-You're kind of a big deal.-
Still not believing him, she turned to Pascal, who hadn't been following the conversation and couldn't provide her with an answer anyway.
-That's a lot to take in,- she said.
He gave her his most apologetic and pitying look.
-If it's true, she must have a reason for not telling me.-
-Like the same kind of reason she has for not telling you about everything else?-
-Yes.-
-How's that working out for you?-
-Quit being such a know it all.-
-I thought that's why I'm here. I know all.-
-You're here because you're broken.-
-I'm feeling much better now that I have such attractive company.-
-You're trying to flatter me.-
-Maybe.-
-I'm not that pretty.-
-Who says?-
She cringed and didn't answer.
-Ah,- he wrote. –Her. What, pray tell, does she say is wrong with you?-
She fidgeted with her cuff for a moment and sighed. –You can see my faults already. I don't have to spell them out.-
He didn't really know what to say to that. Yeah, she did have some faults –having too much hair was at the top of the list – but that didn't stop her from being pretty.
It took him too long to figure it out and with a huff she decided to spell it out for him anyway. –I'm clumsy and awkward and chubby-
She was about to write more, but Flynn took the pen away from her to give her an incredulous look. –You're kidding, right?-
She shifted uncomfortably, then bit down a squeak as he reached out and wrapped his hands around her waist. His middle fingers pressed together against her spine and he stretched his hands until his thumbs brushed against either side of the buckle on her stomach. He pulled his hands back and recreated the circumference of her waist in the air.
-Not chubby.-
-Your hands are big-
-Your waist is tiny. Where do you keep your liver?-
-The corset makes me look smaller than I really am.-
He raised an eyebrow at her, and she defiantly raised one back.
His skepticism slid into something more mischievous, and she only had a moment for her eyes to widen in realization before he dove forward and caught her around the waist again.
She tried to wriggle free without making any noise, without fighting back hard enough to hurt him, slapping at his good hand as it darted forward and dodged her attacks, holding the wrist of his burnt hand to keep it clear of both her stomach and her miffed flailing. He pulled her closer, snug against his side and she squirmed against him, arching her back, then curling in on herself, sinking lower in her seat, clasping her elbows to her sides to protect herself from tickling.
The clasps at the front of her corset were like nothing he'd ever seen before, four brass fixtures under her bust with inlaid pieces that pried out and twisted and… Beyond that he couldn't figure it out.
He fought with one for far too long, and she stopped squirming so much, craning her neck to watch him with interest and amusement. Her breath came in deep, distracting pants, and he couldn't help but spread his hand against her side, feeling the worn leather and the warm girl beneath.
She looked up at him an smirked, her head resting against his shoulder, her face so close he could feel her breath against his neck. He pouted at her, which only made her look more smug, and he rolled his eyes and threw himself back into his battle with the clasp with renewed vigor.
There had never been a fastening Flynn Rider couldn't undo. It was a matter of pride. It was about proving that he was right and she was wrong through the use of visual aids.
It was about her lithe fingers circling his wrist, relaxing as if she wanted him to keep going.
Her hands eased forward to cover his own and he tensed for another wrestling session, only to have her interlace her fingers with his, lightly brushing between his knuckles, sending a shiver through his arm.
She pressed down on the clasp, and with a click the fabric eased apart.
They stared at each other, her mussed hair framing her face, her deep green eyes drawing him in, growing heavier, her lips parted.
His hand eased up to the next clasp.
Pull, twist, and press. It was easy once he knew what he was doing, easy once the muscles tightened in him arms, once her eyes slid closed.
Pull, twist, press. The fabric beneath her corset was soft enough to hint at skin.
Pull, twist, press, and her corset came loose, and his hands encircled her waist.
She was wrong. Without the stiff shell of her corset, she was actually thinner. His hands pressed into her flesh in a way that was less scientific and more an excuse to touch as much of her as possible. With every exhale his fingers brushed one another, completing the circle of his hands.
It was sad and it was frightening, and he could hold her in his hands and protect her or claim her. Her pulse quickened against the tips of his fingers.
His thumbs eased up her spine, and she arched, gasping, her face pressing into his neck. His fingers ran unconscious circles against her sides, sparking a fire just below her navel.
He could smell her hair and feel her grow warmer with each passing heartbeat, the feel of her washing over him, wrapping him up and consuming him.
His hands ran down to settle against the swell of her hips, his fingers fanning out across her abdomen, stirring the fire in her belly. Her lips brushed against the skin of his collar bone, not quite a kiss, but the beginnings of an idea. One of her hands griped his arm so he would hold her tighter, the other tangled in his hair to pull him closer, to draw more from him - not quite sure how.
His lips met hers and it was slow and chaste, soft and hesitant, the passion building in his chest and clouding his head without passing into the kiss through tongue or moans or-
"Rapunzel?"
She gasped and jerked away, snatching up her corset and snapping three clasps back into place faster than he would have thought possible. One strap of her suspenders had slipped down her shoulder, and she shrugged them off quickly to hang about her waist, before scooting under the drapes and dropping weak-kneed to the floor, without a backwards glance at Flynn.
"Yes, Mother?" she panted
"Rapunzel?" The curiosity in her mother's voice changed quickly to something stern and biting. "You're flushed."
"Am I?" She shifted uncomfortably and ran a hand through her hair in an unconscious move to comfort herself as the tension pressed unbearably down on her.
"If this is how you spend your time when you're left alone for five minutes it's no wonder you haven't-"
"I was just napping."
"Go make dinner," her mother snapped, "and don't even think about being so vile ever again."
Flynn didn't breathe again until he distinctly heard the sounds of cooking in a different part of the tower.