(Tangled) Babysteps
Title: Baby steps
Prompt/Theme: “The Challenges of Rapunzel’s socialization”
Fandom: Tangled
For: Swollenfoot
Characters/Pairing: Rapunzel, Flynn
A/N: I can’t believe I forgot to write in Pascal. I can’t believe I forgot him. I deserve to be burned by this fandom.
Summary: When moving from an isolated tower to a populated city, some things are lost in translation.
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They broach the topic after breakfast. It’s a bright morning, the sun filtering in through the wall-length windows. On the large wooden table, they dine on eggs and oranges, the citrus juices spilling down her mouth as she takes a bite.
“Hun...Darl...” The king pauses after each one, not sure of what to call her. She is his daughter but not really his. It’s more of a fact than a truth and they’re still walking on glass with each other, even four months later. “Rapunzel,” he settles on, “We were wondering if you could tell us where your tower is.”
“Huh?” Her head shoots up, surprised, the orange peel in her mouth falling out. Looking down at it, she gives a nervous smile as she picks it off the white table cloth and puts it back on the plate. There’s still an orange stain, a bright smile that taunts her, and she grabs a napkin to wipe it off. “My tower? It’s not that far-well, it is far when you consider-actually, I don’t know how far it is. I haven’t really looked at a map before. Should I look at one now?” She glances down, the orange barely faded, and she dabs the spot furiously. “But I wouldn’t know...maybe Flynn...”
Scrubbing the cloth, she stops when she starts to tear a hole in it. “Uh. Should I lead you there?” She smiles sheepishly as she tries to discretely cover the mess with her plate. “Why do you want to know?”
“Well,” the king starts, stops. He looks over to his wife, sitting on his right. The large table is going to waste, with the three of them huddled in a corner. It’s going to waste but she likes their morning conversations, the small stitches that are rebuilding their family.
The queen speaks now, filling in where her husband could not. “We were thinking of tearing it down.”
-x-
“The market again?” Flynn questions as she leads him down the paved street to the town’s square. It’s an almost daily excursion, these days, her mind in the clouds as she pulls him with her.
“Yes!” She exclaims, cheerfully looking over her shoulder at him. “I just love it. There are so many things to do and to see and the people here and the smells and did I mention the things to do? Like this pie I had-”
Her mouth could go on forever if he let it. She’s smaller and quicker than him, easily weaving through the crowds as she traipses to the stalls. Before she can slip away entirely, he grips her hand tightly, keeping his connection to her strong.
She suddenly pauses, the stream parting around them as he regains his breath. Inhaling deeply, she gives a soft moan of pleasure. “Like this tart I had-oh, if you tasted it...”
“Yes, I’m sure I’d love it too.” Under his breath, he mutters, “You’re like a chipmunk.” Small and full of energy and always stuffing its cheeks.
“Hmm?”
And dangerous. He couldn’t forget that. He still half-fears she’s hiding a frying pan under those layers of ruffles and cloth that make her skirt. At the very least she can’t tie him up with her hair again, he muses as he watches the breeze run through her short locks.
She can’t, but there is that glint in her eyes again, the one that whispers of danger and warns him to run away. He swallows nervously now, loving and hating the mystery it implies, the mirth that hides in them.
“Nothing.” There’s a crunch and he finds an apple in her hand. Bright red but where she took a bite, her hands are sticky from holding it.
She takes another bite before his suspicions are aroused. “You did remember to buy that, didn’t you?”
Mid-chew her mouth freezes, a small ‘o’ forming on her lips. She stares up at him with wide eyes, her face flushed as her eyes dart from her hand to the stall. “Oh. Right. Paying. Money.” Her hands fumble in her pockets, reaching for the small purse she knew was hidden in there. Coins clink as she pours them in her hand, some spilling out onto the ground.
“Coins. Right. Um...” she stares at the coins in her hand, the money Flynn is quickly picking off the ground before someone else does. “Could you help me with them? I still don’t remember which is worth what.”
-x-
“What is that?” Rapunzel peers over the fence, her hands hooked on the metal vines that decorate it. It’s cool to the touch as winter approaches and the days grow shorter. Her head turns over her shoulder as she waits for a response.
“That is a grave-” The baker’s daughter behind her stands awkwardly in the wind, her fingers curled in her woollen dress.
“A grave? Oh, it’s a marker.” She turns forward once more, excitedly chattering as she stared at the wreaths piled against the tablets. Isolated and solemn, each looked like an island in the green grass. “So that’s what those look like. I always wondered-and...”
She lets go of the trellis, dusting herself off as she faces the girl once more. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me, princess. If you don’t require my services anymore, I need to attend the bread.” The girl drops into a curtsey as she speaks, and Rapunzel can only watch, flustered, as she departs.
“You don’t need to-I know I’m the princess, and what-but you don’t need to bow...” her voice trails off and she covers her red face with her hands.
-x-
“You need to stop stealing things.”
“It’s not like I try!”
He looks down at her, amused. “I should hope not. You’re not very good at it.”
They’re sitting near a large oak tree. Rapunzel’s head is in her hands at the moment, but in a second she’s already off her feet and climbing the tree.
Or, at least, attempting to. It’s taking her a while to learn how to do these things without her hair. There is no longer the option of sampling swinging a tangle up and pulling herself up with it. “I don’t want to be good at it!” Grunting with each word, she attempts to shimmy up the trunk.
“Not that I couldn’t if I tried.” She’s back beside him, giving up on the tree. “Not that I want to be good, but just so you know.”
“Right.”
“But he didn’t get even get angry! HE APOLOGIZED.” She’s reaching up for a branch now, trying to pull herself up using it. It snaps in her hands and Flynn winces as he watches. Psychologist or not, he didn’t really want to be near her when she had her bipolar moments. “I did something wrong.”
Her face is in front of his, earnest and open. She’s chewing her bottom lip again, her hands nervously tugging hair that no longer exists. “It’s because I’m a princess, isn’t it?”
-x-
She almost couldn’t sleep in the overly soft bed, down feathers making her pillow. The morning after finds her sprawled haphazardly on the bed, her feet dangling off the edge.
“Awerf?” she mumbles, dazed in the morning sun. Blinking, she stirs, staring at the white ceiling. The roof above her is too high, the room too bright, and she can hear someone talking to her in the background.
It’s late then. She jolts out of bed with that thought, stumbling onto the floor. She hasn’t made breakfast yet or cleaned her corner or any of her morning routine. Her mot-
Ah. She jerks her head at that realization, turning to face the maid who is setting her tray on the corner table. Mother was not mother, never was mother. And she was-
“Princess, the basin is ready with warm water.” A genial smile. Rapunzel gives a nervous one in return. “Shall I brush your hair now or after?”
“It takes a while, so-” Hesitant, her hands run through her hair. This is a little harder to remember, this missing weight. She’s lost her third hand and all that’s left are tufts of brown. “It’s fine. I can do it.”
-x-
“This is your bedroom,” the queen-her mother. Her mother. Mother. The one who gave birth to her. The one who searched for her. Her real mother.
It always takes a while to remember that. It comes with not seeing one another in sixteen or so years.
“Mine?” There is a small border between them, a border of hesitancy and worries. The qu-her mother is holding her hand now, her palms sweaty as she stops in front of a door.
“Yes, yours.” She opens the door now, the oak swinging open without a creak.
And that’s what it boils down to, these questions and answers. Is this allowed? Is that? Each sentence comes out tinged with this flavour, asking for permission.
(Is this real?)
She tries to swallow the feeling down, the urge to ask again when she sees the room. Shades of pink and red dominate the landscape, small stuffed animals clumped on the bed. There is love in this room, in every corner, and it soaks her as she steps in.
“We have not changed the room much. I was not sure what to get you.”
There is a nervous hope in this voice, in the hands that grip hers tightly.
-x-
It took her nine steps to cross her bedroom in the tower. Nine steps for her bedroom, ten steps down to the main floor. Twenty-five steps and she could reach the kitchen, the reading room, her cranny for paints. A hair toss and a ladder and she could reach every corner of her home.
The world she finds herself in now is a lot larger than that. She counts up to a thirty-three before she stops following the wall, her hands touching the bright cloths draped against it. Pinks and reds are the monochrome she finds herself in and with a pang she thinks of the scenes she painted all those years.
Pushing aside the silk, she can reach the white walls behind, unpainted and waiting for her touch. As her fingers skim the smooth surface, she thinks it won’t be long before it has new images to decorate her room with.
-x-
“This is something else,” Flynn says, lying down on the grass. Worn out from her worries, Rapunzel plops down beside him, staring up at the sky.
“What is?”
“Staying still.”
Confused, she looks down at him. “Huh?”
He chuckles at her reaction before continuing. “I haven’t stayed in one town longer than a week in years. I never even got to meet the neighbours, let alone know them. And now nearly everyone in town knows my name.” A pause and he adds dryly, “Which is bad for a thief. I can never steal here again.”
Ignoring his jab, she pulls the grass as she considers his words. Rapunzel knows of waiting, of the hours spent staring out a window. It’s something she knows all too well but she never hated it. The witch-it’s a little painful to call her that-would always bring back something from her travels; a set of paints, a new book, a small doll.
Here she doesn’t have to stay still. This is a city she can live in. It breathes and for her it still is all too brand-new, waiting to be explored.
“It’s not bad.” He gets up now, turning to face the dock, the ships waiting to leave. “Though my feet will be itchy soon enough.”
She looks down at the hustle and bustle on the wooden planks, supplies carried onto the ships as they prepare for their voyage. There is a wide world out there she has yet to explore, just beyond the horizon.
“We can go everywhere,” she replies. “You’ll have to guide me.”
“There’s not a single person who knows these lands like me.”
“We just have to make sure they don’t recognize you. You’re still wanted, I hear.”
“Oh. Right.”
It’s silent and she imagines the borders she has yet to cross. What lays beyond them, what adventures they’ll have-she’ll have to learn a new skill to make up for the one she lost.
She turns to face him now. “But it’s nice to have a place to come home, isn’t it?”
He grasps her hand. “Yeah, it is.”
-x-
Destroy the tower.
Their words echo in her ear. She stares at them, flabbergasted, not sure what to say or do. It’s never been an issue she’s thought about before.
“Destroy?” she repeats weakly, her mouth finally moving as she wants.
There is kindness in that voice as the queen replies. “Yes. You were imprisoned there for so long. We thought it would be better this way.”
Imprisoned. Such a cold word.
“Ah...yes...hmm...” her motor functions are still unstable and she drops the orange peel once more. The tower was going to be destroyed.
The witch was gone and she’d escaped the tower and...
Her smile wavered before it fell. “I...I...”
“Yes?”
What did she want? Rapunzel knew before, knew it very clearly. She had wanted to see the lights. And now she had seen the lights and found her family and true love.
But she had lost her ‘mother’. The witch. The witch who kidnapped her and put her in a cage, the witch who almost killed Flynn and broke her family.
But still her mother. That was something she couldn’t deny, even with how it played out in the end. Her mother. She had taught her how to walk and cook, grumpily stayed with her when she was sick. Her paints, her books, each bought every now and then when the boredom grew too much.
“I don’t want it destroyed.” It was the simple truth and for once her words failed her. “I don’t.”
She could still see the painted walls, the small window. Her feet could still count the room length and her fingers could feel the cool granite beneath her hands. Sixteen years of memories linger still in that grove, sixteen years of laughter and tears and the frames of a home. It is the grave of her mother, her ashes scattered on the grassy sea below.
Her father looks at her, trying to understand. “Why?”
“I...” She pauses, closes her eyes, and for once thinks her words before she speaks. This is important. Reaching forward, she grips their hands in her own. “I need to remember where I came from.” She smiles at her father, squeeze’s her mother’s slim hand.
She is home. “I already know where I’m going.”