Chapter 10
For a moment, all he could hear in the dark was Rapunzel's heavy breathing and the distant, pattering clinks of the chameleons. They seemed much further away now.
Her hiss of pain as she released the lever cut through the room, refocusing his attention back to reality.
"You alright?" he asked.
"Don't move," she said, brushing past him and hurrying away. "You might fall down the stairs."
Of course her years alone in such a confined place meant she could navigate in the dark. She'd probably practiced, blindfolding herself and turning it into a game. He stood still on the landing, feeling foolish for doing nothing after such a strong adrenaline dump in his system.
Twitchy and anxious without an outlet, he was just considering following her, taking the stairs slowly and feeling his way in the dark, when she appeared again, holding an oil lamp and looking pale. The light didn't reach the rafters, and without a visible ceiling, the room felt taller, emptier. The shadows seemed to churn above them, playing tricks on his eyes.
He looked away and joined her at the bottom of the stairs, looking her over more carefully. "Are you alright?"
She shifted, gripping the ruffle of her sleeve more tightly before folding her arm behind her back and turning to march to a different part of the tower as if he wouldn't notice. "I'm fine. But I need help with-"
He grabbed her wrist, pulling her to a stop. Her eyes widened as he carefully turned her wrist in his hands, peeling away the ruffle to reveal a bright, sticky slash across her palm.
He stared at it as a new layer of dread settled in his chest. Amongst the many horrors in a chameleon's arsenal, the most notorious was poison. Every sharp edge on every machine was laced with the stuff.
But then she hadn't collapsed immediately the way all of Pascal's victims had, so maybe she had escaped unscathed.
Or maybe different chameleons had different toxins. Slower acting, but more deadly.
She was looking pale.
"They cut you," he said numbly.
"It's nothing. It happens." She tried to pull her hand away, but he held firm, inspecting it closely before making a decision and dragging her and the light into her room despite her objections. "It's not that bad."
"It's not," he said as he guided her to sit. "Mine's much worse."
Offering her a smile he didn't feel in the slightest, he held up his bandaged hand and waved it a bit.
"You really don't have to."
He shrugged, picking the antiseptic from the mess on her workbench and kneeling in front of her. She stilled her protests as he spread the goop across her palm, massaging it in as gently as he could. It was as if she was holding her breath, staring at him, her fingers twitching from the sting and his nearness and the stress that wouldn't fade.
"How'd you manage this?" he asked, keeping his voice even.
She swallowed. "One slipped in before I could close the window. It was coming at me. It-"
He reached for the dwindling roll of bandage and let her find her voice again.
"Pascal killed it," she said. "He saved me."
"He's a good pet." Flynn reached over to the work bench absently to rub Pascal's eyebrow.
"He's very good," she agreed, her attention wandering back to her hand as he wrapped it in careful, determined movements. He wrapped it the way she had wrapped his own injury, strict and caring and worried yet hiding all the worry in his heart. He let his fingers linger against hers, before he looked up and smiled in reassurance that she'd be fine.
She'd be fine.
She'd be fine even if she looked at him as if no one had ever shown her kindness before, as if she were threatening to explode.
Her fingers gripped the front of his shirt, dragging him forward as her eyes clouded and closed, and fierce, closed lips pressed against his, looking for release from the dark imprisonment and the fear and the loneliness. For a moment he could give that to her. He could distract her. He could give her attention the likes of which she'd never known. He could pull her close and pretend for a moment that they were both normal and safe.
He could give her the illusion of security when she trusted him.
Her hands ran down his arms, squeezing and pressing, as if trying to wring the comfort out of his muscles, until it sunk into her. When she grew too distracted with the process of interlacing their fingers, he had to guide her back, wrapping her arms around his neck. She made a small noise of protest, pitiful and wonderful, before she realized she could cling to him with more vigor, she could grab onto him and the world would stop spinning, she could press herself tight to his chest and feel warm. One hand roamed unashamedly over his back, mapping the musculature and the folds of his shirt, while the other stroked his hair with ever increasing levels of enthusiasm. He could get lost in the movements of her hands.
He drew her closer, leaning back on his heels and pulling her down, a splayed hand dragging up her spine to press between her delicate shoulder blades. Her lips puckered and pushed against his, soft and hinting at a warmth just outside his reach.
The pads of his fingers skated over her cheek, to tilt her head, to hold her and guide her and-
his thumb brushed a nick on her cheek, and she jerked back with a sharp breath, her fingers flying to cover it, her eyes wide.
Easily, he moved her hand away and took her chin between his fingers to inspect the side of her face and the cut high on her cheek bone. She let him do it, her shoulders sinking, easing into his touch.
"It got your face too."
"I think it wanted to take out my eye," she giggled. There was a breathless, hysterical quality to the sound, as if all she could do was laugh or cry.
He pretended not to notice and gathered some more antiseptic onto his fingertips.
"You want to take those off for a minute so I can reach this cut better?" he asked, nodding towards her goggles. He'd learned how much she didn't like it when he touched them.
Another tortured giggle escaped her as she reached up to untangle them from her hair, and hold them in her lap.
And she froze, her face locked in a look of horror and grief, as she stared at a shattered magnifying lens. Her fingers hovered over the glass, scared to touch it and find the sight was true and the loss was real.
She jerked her hand away and made a noise like a question and a whine and a sob.
"Hey, it's alright," he tried, covering her hands with his own. "They're just goggles."
She looked at him like he was crazy and making her cry.
"I mean, they might have saved your eye. That's good, right?"
She pursed her lips with a stubborn look that said she didn't care either way about her eye. Then she looked over his shoulder towards where the glass shards might be scattered on the floor in the other room, as if she thought if she got to the pieces fast enough, she could glue them back together.
Her distress made him sick to his stomach and he focused on her cheek again, spreading a thin layer of salve over the cut, mumbling an apology when she winced.
"I'll never be able to replace the lens," she murmured.
"Why not? You need it for your watches. Your mom will get you a new one."
"No," she sniffed. "I was clumsy and that's why I can't have nice things."
Oh, look at that. It was nearly 4:00 and her mom still sucked.
"Maybe Pascal can get you a new one. Like how he got you that paint."
Despite the fact that the tower was basically under siege, so Pascal couldn't leave, and they would probably die before she had a chance to work on another watch, the thought caused her to brighten marginally. Not much, but enough where she no longer looked as though she would start sobbing. Her bottom lip trembled as she held in all the emotions.
It wasn't really about the goggles. He knew that. They were just a spark that threatened to ignite an entire powder keg when the reality of their situation finally dawned on her.
He passed his thumb along her cheek, tracing the path of the royal chameleon's blade just below her cut and into her hair in some sort of silent reassurance that would surely be a lie if spoken out loud.
"It gave you a bit of a trim," he said.
"Hmm?"
He smiled at her and tugged on a lock of hair that had been cropped at her ear in the attack. It looked a bit odd, but when her goggles were back on no one would notice. Who was there to notice anyway?
He squinted at it for a moment. Had her hair gotten darker? No, that was crazy. It was probably just the poor light.
He shook his head slightly and repeated himself. "It cut your hair."
She snapped back, pulling the shortened strands from his fingers, eyes wide with horror, any cheerfulness on her face vanishing instantly.
"What?"
Snatching at her hair, she tugged it in front of her face to gape at the shortened ends.
"No. No no no no no nonononononono."
"Hey, it's just a hair cut."
"Oh God. OhGodOhGodOhGod." She pulled more of her hair forward, checking the extent of the damage, frantically running her fingers through it as if she could pull it into growing again.
He reached to still her hands, only to have her jerk away.
"Look, I know you're attached to it and everything-"
She pulled away from him entirely, pushing herself to her feet, clawing at the bandage on her hand.
"Wait. What are you doing?"
The bandage dropped forgotten to the floor as she grabbed at her hair again, wrapping it around her palm.
And that was too much crazy for Flynn. She was already unbalanced to a dangerous level, what with never leaving the tower and having no social skills and holding him hostage. But her new level of hysteria and her disturbingly long hair sopping up her blood was too much.
He grabbed for her again more forcefully, fighting against the way she squirmed to get away.
"Stop."
"What if it doesn't work? What if the magic's gone? What will I do? Oh God, I've killed her. She tried so hard to keep me safe and now I've ruined everything."
She tried to pull free, to clutch at her hair, to pace around the room, to move away from him and her distress, but he held her arms too tightly.
"What are you talking about?"
She couldn't listen, too frantic with terror and shaking in his hands as her eyes squeezed closed to blot out the world and she bowed her head to press her forehead to his chest.
And was she singing now? A hurried, hushed song, cracking just below her gasping breath.
"FlowerGleamAndGlow LetYourPowerShine-"
"Rapunzel-"
Then her hair started to glow.
Glowing.
Light coming down from her head and running down around her face and hand and across the floor.
He shrunk away from where it brushed against him, but he couldn't let go of her arms. Like she was electrocuting him.
"BringBackWhatOnceWasMine WhatOnceWasMine."
The muttering tune fizzled out, the light fading with her voice, and she pulled back, shaking her hair from her injured hand to inspect the gash. A gasping laugh burst from her, high pitched and hysterical.
The wound had disappeared.
So had the one on her face. She rubbed at the antiseptic with the back of her hand as she wiped away tears of stress and relief.
"Okay," she breathed. "Okay."
It was not okay.
Not at all.
"Wha-"
He couldn't form words, numbly hoping that if he gaped at her long enough the world would make sense. Insanity must be contagious.
She bit her lip and looked up at him cautiously, easing her hands through her hair to smooth it down and try to tuck the short piece behind her ear and out of sight.
"Please don't freak out."
"Your hand-" He pointed accusingly, still not as articulate as he would like.
She cringed. "I kind of... umm... healed it?"
"Healed it."
"Yeah."
He blinked at her.
She tried and failed to smile.
"Why'd you let me bandage it?"
"I told you, you didn't have to."
His voice cracked as he said a very pathetic, "oh."
She hesitated, taking a half step toward him. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"You could have told me."
"Mother says that it's a secret. I didn't know if I- if I could trust you."
"And now you can?"
"Umm. I guess so?"
He dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay... Okay. You have magic hair that lights up and heals you."
"And other people."
"Does it get rid of poison? Wait. Other people?"
"What poison?"
"You can heal other people?"
She shifted. "Maybe?"
"Maybe."
"I... Yes. I can heal other people."
"Other people with giant gashes in their sides?"
She shrunk back, hunching her shoulders and dropping her eyes.
"Other people who you drug and then leave them in misery!"
She took a half step away, trying to put the table between them.
"What were you playing at! Letting me suffer like that."
"I- It-"
"You what?"
"I..." Her voice cracked and trailed off as she stared up at him with wide, scared eyes. He realized that he had closed the distance between them, pinning her against her dresser, looming over her. "It was a secret," she whispered.
"So you would have let me die."
"No! I didn't! And- and you want to die! How could you want that? I won't let that happen to you."
He threw his arms up. "Oh, of course not! It's much better to be kept barely alive so I can be your helpful, little prisoner."
"That's not it."
"Yes, it is."
"I didn't know what to do."
He glared down at her, her eyes pleading and sparkling with tears in the half light. She fretted with the lace on her cuff, trying to stop her hands from trembling, trying to stay brave and not collapse into sobs or give into the fear.
It was fear of him now.
"How about I make the decision easier?"
He turned away, grabbed a grease smeared handkerchief from her desk and used it to lift the battery, shoving it back into his satchel. He flicked the handkerchief back into the mess of gears, sheet metal, and construction paper, and marched back into the main room.
"Where are you going?" she cried. He could hear her feet as she hurried after him, the thump and hiss as she ran into something in the gloom, then kept moving.
"I'm leaving. Now you don't have to kill me or wait for me to kick it. You don't have to keep me like some pet you have to hide from your mom."
"You can't! The chameleons-"
"Who cares?"
His shout brought her up short, and he paused a moment, seething through his teeth before reaching for the first of the bolts across the window.
"Please," she whispered, and he could hear the tears in her voice. "Please, Flynn. Don't leave me."
He hated himself for pausing. He didn't know why he did. But hating himself was becoming familiar. It felt better than hating her.
His jaw clenched and after a moment's pause he turned away from the window to push past her, back into the bedroom where he tossed his satchel on the floor and collapsed on the bed to brood.
"Don't talk to me for a while."