Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once upon a time and long, long ago, in an old storybook that was loved and tattered by many grubby hands looking for just a piece of hope to snatch onto, there lived a rich and dashing swashbuckler who found adventure wherever he turned.

This is not his story.

Also once upon a time, but a bit less long ago, a boy with little hope and fewer prospects made the swashbuckler's dream his own. He left the place of his childhood, learned the skills of battle and horsemanship, stealth and showmanship, and created adventure (and mayhem) wherever he turned, typically by taking things that didn't belong to him. He became dashing and daring (unable to trust), ambitious (lonely) the perfect picture of manhood, who always got the girl.

Err, just the one girl, really, just the one. Once he met her that was it, he was done, considered no others, definitely only her.

It just took awhile to get there.

But this is not that guy's story either, not exactly.

Let me tell you, falling in love with a lost princess is one of those things that life—normal or otherwise—just doesn't prepare you for. One day you're an absurdly handsome, happy-go-lucky thief working on building a name and a legend that match the cathedrals of glory in your head, with enough stolen loot to finance the building of said cathedrals, or at least a nice chateau or three. A few days later you're still absurdly handsome, except a bit more bruised and battered and probably concussed, and you find yourself nobly willing to die for the sake of some big green eyes and a freckled nose.

Oh man, the freckles are just too cute!

Ahem, yes, my friends, this is the story of a reformed man, changed by the love of the noblest, bravest, sweetest, and most ridiculously adorable of princesses!

...I am pathetic, and I don't care. I'm an ex-con who's head over heels for the first and only time in my life. I'm an ex-thief who's completely terrified because it's been about a year, which means she's got a birthday coming up again, and I have no idea what in the world to get a girl who already has everything.

Yes, she was raised in near total isolation and seriously deprived as a child, but she's got enough enthusiasm to power the sun (Princess of Corona, right down to her bones) and, from the moment her bare toes touched grass outside that tower, she's been making great headway making up for lost time.

You've heard the tale of how we met, right? Everybody in the kingdom has. A lot of people even saw pieces of it happen, what with all the hair and the dancing and the lanterns and the soldiers everywhere and the way I white-knighted myself at turbo-speed through the kingdom. (Max really is an amazing horse. Just don't tell him I said that.) There was a lot going on before that too; maybe you've heard and maybe you haven't. It isn't that important at the moment.

The gist of it all is that you have this amazing adventure, the likes of which you never could have imagined, and you've always had a pretty vivid imagination so that's really saying something. But then, what do you do when it's over? The wicked witch is destroyed, the princess is safely delivered back to the castle, the kingdom rejoices, and one Eugene Fitzherbert finds out that rib-crushing hugs may just be genetic. Happily ever after, right?

She's the new dream, end of story. (Beginning of new story.) You want her, and amazingly enough it looks like you have a legitimate shot at having her and keeping her, if only you can work up the nerve to ask. Again. Sincerely. In a way that lets her know that you are absolutely not joking about it this time.

The problem is that she's still a princess and you're still an orphan (and decidedly not an amnesiac long lost prince or heir to a duchy or even heir to a grist mill) who became a thief, and even if she doesn't care at all and her parents oddly don't seem to mind too much, there's still this feeling of being… off. Different. Lacking in appropriate manners and regal mores. Not quite good enough.

Ah, who am I kidding? I'm not good enough, really, but Rapunzel likes me—a lot, I hope, because I am a goner over her—so that's just going to have to be good enough. For now.

In the meantime, there's still that little matter of a birthday and what to get the girl who has everything—more importantly, really, what to get the girl who holds your heart. I know what I'd like to give her, more than anything.

It's round and has no beginning or end and should fit nicely on one of those lovely paint-stained fingers, if only I could find out what size said lovely finger is. (Believe me, there are few things as crushing to the ego as a massive, flawless diamond ring made for hands larger than yours falling into the gaping maw of a river otter while you hide suspended beneath a bridge.)

Yeah, I want to marry her.

Who wouldn't?

I don't have a fancy ring yet, but I want to go ahead and ask anyway. And I want to ask her on her birthday because this will be only the second year that she's really gotten anything nice. I am about the nicest present I could give her. No, really. I don't have much that I can call solely my own since going straight. Just me, myself, and I.

I'm going to propose on her birthday.

I am.

I'm just not sure how to make myself ready for that conversation.

Chapter Text

Now properly dressed, brushed, and shaven, and still feeling more than a little sick at heart and stomach, I take one last look at the handsome visage looking back at me (bloodshot, baggy eyes; flared nostrils; lower lip anxiously gnawed a bit too hard; clenched fingers) and breath in deeply.

"Alright, Eugene-Fitzherbert-Flynn-Rider-You-Fabulous-Man-You, enough talking to yourself in a mirror. Talking to yourself blindly in person is obviously perfectly okay though." Oh, haha, I am calm; I am centered. I absolutely am. Time to get to work.

Pacing the sun-drenched exterior corridors of the royal apartments is a great way to think, for the record. You can really get the blood moving through the legs, up through stomach and torso, and hope it hits the brain and that you'll actually be able to think and strategize like the high-functioning human you purport to be.

Now to figure out exactly how to begin. If I'm going to propose on her birthday, I'm going to do it grandly and memorably. I am going to do it right.

Oh man, I need someone to talk to about this! I've never tried to marry a girl before! How is it done? Popular culture makes it seem so easy: get down on one knee, pop out a giant sparkly ring that you must have financed through theft or the selling of an organ (bodily or instrumental), and the sappiest, most exactly perfect words will just flow forth in an effortless stream.

Yeah, that's not happening.

This will be, what, the tenth time I've tried proposing to Rapunzel?

First, there were the times when I couldn't quite get the words out: at the big welcome back party when I was more than a little intoxicated and it just seemed a bit too soon; one morning about two weeks after that at breakfast when she knew exactly how I like my eggs without being told; at the first ball when I saw her in full royal regalia, so beautiful and strong yet so unsure in her rouged cheeks and mouth, full skirts, and jewel-encrusted slippers; and when the queen invited me to study the kingdom's history, statecraft, and court etiquette along with Rapunzel, and she met me at the classroom doorway, giddy and with a smudge of ink already on her cheekbone.

Then there was the time when I did get the words out, as I carried her up to her room after a very long and trying day, and she relaxed completely and trustingly into my arms, warm, soft, cuddly, perfectly feminine and, oh, how I was a gentleman though it pained me. It was only after I'd asked that I realized she was asleep before I started the first word.

Even worse, there were the times when my motives were misinterpreted. Once when she was crying and she just thought I wanted to make her feel better. Once when I slipped up behind her and snaked my arms around her waist while I murmured in her ear, opting for the daring approach, and got a frying pan to the face for my troubles. I'd almost missed that feeling. Once when we were paging through the royal genealogy and she dissolved into giggles at my (admittedly flippantly-worded) suggestion that we join our respective bloodlines. And once more when I tripped all over my own tongue when she emerged soaking wet and nearly transparently clothed from the fountain after leaping in to rescue a struggling kitten. I will concede, however, that I was thinking the most ignoble of thoughts at that time and it probably showed.

In summary, my history as a husband-to-be has been somewhat disastrous. I have at least never given her a ring that she's accidentally ingested though, so I suppose there is some hope.

This time I am going to get it right. I've got one shot at a birthday proposal that Rapunzel will remember forever and won't be ashamed to talk about for decades to come. Hopefully she won't end up talking about it for decades because she finds it hilarious.

You know, all of this would really be so much simpler if Rapunzel would just come to her senses, realize what an amazing catch I am, and ask me to marry her. Oh, sure, I'd play hard to get for awhile—I do want her to respect me and want me for something more than my gloriously ripped body—but we all know I'd cave like a caved-in mine thingy.

Okay, I really, really need some kind of help here. An experienced man to guide me. My options? Not exactly endless.

The king is an obvious choice, of course. The thing is, I don't really want to talk to the king about this. Can you say awkward? You can't talk to a girl's father about wanting to marry her! Well, you can. Some might even say you should, or even have to, particularly with royalty. A lot of stuff rides on royal marriages after all: treaties and international boundaries and world peace, stuff like that.

Why on earth would they let me marry Rapunzel? The only thing saving me from being a complete nobody is my infamy.

Okay, stop, breathe, center. I'm on the third tier eastern corridor. The omnipresent sunbursts are joined here by row after row of potted as well as artistically rendered figs. The kingdom is a vast checkered quilt spread out in a comfy embrace around me. I will be rational and calm, and I will get this done.

The funny thing is that I've already got dear ole dad's permission to go forth and court his little girl. Yep, parental approval secured, signed, sealed, and delivered (in writing even; I didn't get to where I am today without covering a few bases), and who ever thought that'd happen? (If you want that story, you'll have to ask him yourself.)

You see, the issue (the embarrassment, the shame, the humiliation) isn't the king knowing that I want to marry his daughter; it's him knowing that I want to marry her but I don't know how to ask her. How to ask her in a way that she'd be guaranteed to say yes, I mean.

So the king's out. Who else? I am admittedly somewhat lacking in the positive male role models department. I mean, really, who else can I survey? The palace guards? Oooh, there's an option. They certainly spend enough time observing her—without all the smart-alecky looks and comments I get for the exact same thing—that they should know all the little nooks and crannies that lead to her heart. (I'm actually kind of jealous. Wonder how I'd look strapped into a kettle too?) But nope. I might have been forgiven for my grandiose getaway as aided by the Snuggly Duckling gang—that bit about saving the long lost princess certainly helps—but I doubt I'm quite back in their good graces after a minor incident last week involving a borrowed, priceless suit of armor, a bed sheet, and a wheelbarrow full, and I mean full of tomatoes.

Ah, here comes Conli now.

"Hey, man! How's it going? Any tortoise uprisings to foil lately? No? That's fabulous! Hey, I need some advice. Think you could spare a minute?"

And... nope. They're definitely not over it. If this was a just world, I should have spontaneously combusted down into ash just now.

Wait a minute... Snuggly Duckling gang...

Hmm, there are only about a million of them. One of them has to have had a successful romantic relationship.

Well, damn.

The pub thugs it is.

Chapter Text

Every successful endeavor needs a plan. Sure, you need to be flexible and able to think on your feet, sometimes literally (okay, a lot literally in my former line of work), just in case everything should unravel and go to hell in a hand basket, but there's really no point in getting started unless you're able to envision how you finish. And that means a successful conquest. Thinking of failure gets you nowhere.

I envision Rapunzel in white, flushed and beaming, adorable ragamuffin hair (I do have to admire my handiwork) covered by a veil that I will toss away when the dancing begins. Maybe a few tears in her eyes, just a couple, to give them that extra bit of sparkle. They can be kissed away later.

I'll be there too of course, in silk or satin or velvet, some luxurious fabric tailored perfectly to show off my fine athletic physique. I'm not quite sure yet if I'll go for somber, regal colors or something as bright and festive as a peacock. I think I'm leaning towards the peacock though. If Rapunzel wants me to be decorative beside her—as I'm sure she must—well, who am I to say nay to giving the kingdom some eye candy?

I also imagine the deafening peal of wedding bells that you feel as much in the ground and your bones as you do in your ears, and the roar of the crowd as I, well, as I prepare to score. Insert rakish grin here. I may be a better man now than I ever was before, but it's not like I'm noble and chaste enough to push down the thought of the wedding night... and various other things that try to come up at the thought of the wedding night.

Alright, enough envisioning! I'm getting flustered, and getting caught like this would be pretty embarrassing. I can just imagine that too—

"Eugene!"

Uh oh.

She's right there. How did she get right there?

To turn around or not to turn around, that is the dilemma. If I don't turn around, her feelings will be hurt. If I do turn around, she and whoever else may be with her will have some inkling of the kinds of things I've been thinking, and I really don't need other people inside my head.

"Eugene?"

Aw, damn, there goes the wobble in the voice. Think, think, think! What are my resources here? There's a distinct lack of rocks to crawl under. A most unobliging ground (floor, really, not that it matters) seems to have no intention of swallowing me whole anytime soon. Invisibility cloak nowhere to be found. Alrighty then, I have no resources. Great. In another life, in another world, in another part of the freaking castle, there'd be nice, waist- or chest-high pieces of furniture right next to me. But noooo! All I see everywhere right now are sunbursts, sunbursts and potted figs.

I lunge and then pirouette with the most delighted of smiles on my face, graceful as a ballerina, precise as a soldier on parade, with my terracotta savior firmly pressed to my hips, and no one must ever know how it pains me.

"Rapunzel, hey! Morning, Your Majesty. Hey, tell me, is this not just the finest piece of horticulture that you've ever seen?"

Okay, that may have been a little too perky.

Rapunzel and the queen slide their eyes slowly from my face down to the fig tree in my arms. Rapunzel looks puzzled, the queen distinctly speculative. I stare adoringly down too, just to complete the image. It is a pretty nice plant, short and densely leaved, and the container's great too, reasonably concealing and not too bulky or heavy. I owe a debt of gratitude to this plant for existing, and I'm becoming the kind of man who doesn't forget that. There's also no way I can put it down yet.

"I think I'd like to keep this one! There's no problem with that is there?"

"You really like figs too? I love figs! Just a few days ago, I saw this dessert in the cook's recipe drawer that I really want to try. They're like these little rectangular cookies, but it's not cookie dough; it's cake. Eugene, they're fruit and cake! I bet they're delicious, and we could make some with fruit from your tree!"

And Rapunzel is now attached to my arm. Rapunzel is dangling from my right arm, and she is bouncing, and she is saying something, and I love the way her face gets so animated and she throws her whole itty bitty body into everything she does, but Rapunzel really needs to step away right now.

"That sounds like a great idea! But your mom hasn't said I can keep it yet."

"Oh, I can't really see it being a problem if you walked off with it right now. We have plenty of fig trees to share with those who need them." Yep, the queen is definitely laughing herself silly internally at my expense. "Were you looking for Rapunzel though? You are right outside her rooms, you know."

And there's that bit of sharpened steel, sheathed in velvet tones. Uh huh, I really should be going now. I can tell the king and I will be having a bit of a manly "chat" together later over this.

Lady, can't you look into my eyes and tell that I'm skulking around because I want to marry your daughter? I'm trying to do right here!

"Did you want me, Eugene?"

And you! You would have to phrase your question that way, wouldn't you? Of course I want you.

"Not really," I lie. "I mean, it would have been great if you were free; we could've hung out. I'd forgotten that it's your special mom/daughter time with the queen. Broken sundial and all that. Just my luck, huh?"

I would never forget that, ever. You deserve every bit of normal, loving parent/child interaction you can get, and I will not be the person who stands in the way of it.

"Oh, well, I could—"

"No! No, don't give up your plans for me. I'm sure I'll think of some productive way to occupy my time."

There's that suspicious twitch to the queen's eyes again. I like her laugh lines usually—family resemblance practically guarantees that Rapunzel will stay a fox for decades—just not so much when those laugh lines are directed at me.

Am I rushing? I'm rushing, aren't I? If I'm not careful I'm going to ruin everything, I just know it. Is my voice too bright? Rapunzel's getting that particular scrunch to her eyebrows that signals that she might be starting to question my motives too.

"Look, I'm just going to take this splendid tree here back to my rooms now. We can wait for it to come into season and the figs just be really perfect, and then we can make those things you wanted to try. And you and your mom can go have your girl time, and we'll all be happy and fine. How's that?"

Puppy dog eyes. Think limpid, think innocent, think worshipful and eager to please.

"You're sure? You promise?"

"Oh, I definitely, surely promise."

"Okay... I'll see you at supper then."

And they're gone, finally. I'm going to collapse right here and just never move again. Whatever happened to the man who only had close calls, who didn't actually get caught? It's her; it's got to be her. She just messes everything up. She messes everything up and makes me think crazy thoughts and do crazy things, and I've just promised to babysit a plant because it would make her happy.

My plans for an awesome birthday surprise proposal are not getting off to the best start here. I'm going to need some back-up in the castle itself, and since I'm right here by my true love's boudoir anyway, I might as well see if any little creepy crawlies are at home.

Of course it's a simple matter to slip into her rooms unobserved now. Let's just add breaking and entering the princess's royal chambers to my long list of sins, and not even the temptation of her inside it. Huh, there's a frying pan right by the door. On second thought, maybe I should be glad Rapunzel's elsewhere. Looks like she's still rough on intruders...

That's my girl! There's nothing like the golden glow of pride for a young woman who incapacitates and takes whatever prisoners she can.

Now then, where's the frog? Rapunzel would have to have a pet that could quite literally blend into the furniture or her person. Crap, what if he'd been on her the whole time outside?

"Pascal!" I hiss, easing my way into the darkened quarters. Her furniture's fairly simple, and I wouldn't really call her messy, but there's all kinds of knickknacks and doodads and experiments in progress scattered across the floor and most of the available surfaces of furniture.

So many places to look, so little time if I'm to make it out to the Snuggly Duckling, do whatever it is I have to do, and then get back in time for supper.

"If you're in here, I really need a minute of your time, pal. It's about a certain princess's birthday."

Ah hah! The baleful glare of those freaky eyes emerging from the brocade of a chair, followed by the appearance of his beady little body, is something that I may never get used to, but at this very moment he has the potential to be my greatest ally. I am not at all above bribery.

"Listen up, froggy, I'm putting together a really important surprise for Rapunzel's birthday, so I'm going to need you to keep her busy."

The chameleon looks distinctly unimpressed. Really? I mean, really? I can't believe I'm kneeling on the floor to talk to a lizard at eye level. I can't believe I'm talking to a lizard, period. (Oh, the things that have changed in the last year.) And he's the one looking unimpressed here?

"Look, you are the best option I have. You think I like asking you for favors?"

Unimpressed changes to suspicious right before my eyes. Who does he think he is! He's not even bothering to hide his expression! Actually, you know what, forget that! How am I even reading his facial expressions?

Breathe, breathe. I like him, I do. He's got the kind of loyalty that even I can appreciate. We even get along most of the time now, and I think both of us could stand to remember that at this particular moment. He's just one fierce little overprotective monster. (Note for Rapunzel: an army of chameleons, that's what our child shall raise! And then rule the world, muahaha!)

"Aw, come on, buddy, I thought we were past this. I don't really have time for you to be difficult. Get this, you love her, I love her, together we can work in harmony and hopefully end up making her really, really happy."

The daylight's ticking away here. He's got that tongue of his flickering away behind his lips too. Ear stabbings from this distance and position are all but inescapable; I won't have the time or coordination to escape. I've got no choice.

"Alright, I'm going to tell you everything. But no laughing!"

And so I do. The words fall faster and faster from my mouth, and I think I must be whining as I proceed through my many proposal failures—"I said no laughing!"—but it actually feels really good to finally get it all off my chest. I quickly spill my guts and outline the whole plan to Pascal.

For the record, he doesn't stop that little squeaking, jerky laughing thing that he does until about ten minutes after I stop talking. Okay, five. But it's an eternity when you are literally counting the seconds.

"So that's the plan. What I need you to do is to keep her busy. At some point, she's going to notice that I'm gone. If she has time to think about it, who knows what she'll imagine. I need you to take those empty hours when she's got nothing else to do and keep her too busy to wonder. Will you help me?"

What the? He's lunging! He is moving way quicker than he has any right to be doing, and it's the whole body, not just the tongue, and he's heading for my face! Waaaaaaah!

And that, my friends, is how I find out that chameleons seal deals with bites to the nose.

Yes, I embarrass myself horribly. No, I will not mention the details.

Pascal's agreement finally obtained—with many conciliatory promises of a meal complete with mealworms and under dire threat of a literal tongue lashing—and potted fig safely lugged down to my rooms, it is time.

To the Snuggly Duckling!

Let's just hope I don't regret any of this.

Chapter Text

You still with me here?

Okay, now that you've got yourself envisioning success, it's important to keep in mind that giving yourself time to feel fear is really a no-go. Seriously, if you let yourself dwell on the potential stupidity of what you're about to be doing, you're not going to do it. You're not that brave; I'm not that brave; no one is that brave.

There is something to be said for logical action and the serious weighing of pros and cons and stuff like that, yeah, but there's also really something to be said for sheer manly gumption and getting it done. Ever hear of a self-fulfilling prophecy? Basically, you make your thoughts real. Think too much about all the many different and dramatic ways that things can go wrong, and you'll screw up your mind and actually make them go wrong.

That's why I'm not dwelling on my many previous failures, oh no, absolutely not. I'm certainly not going to consider how little I know (and I'd really like it to stay that way, thanks) of the pub thugs' love lives. Instead, I am thinking of Rapunzel in her wedding gown, whatever that wedding gown may look like. Consequently, I'm thinking of Rapunzel in hundreds of different wedding gowns; they change every few seconds. That's alright though. I'll be awesome, and she'll say yes, and that'll be the end of that.

All this and more chases itself through my head as Max smartly marches up to the Snuggly Duckling. He stops expectantly, and I... well, I don't exactly flip off his back and burst through the door right away.

It's such a cute sprawling little building, you know, all oddly distorted and wave-like, lurching up out of the roots of an ancient twisted tree in the middle of idyllic sun-dappled greenery, otherwise known as The Middle of Nowhere. It's quirky, whimsical, not in the least menacing, even without factoring in the name of the place.

You'd never guess what's inside, which I guess is the point.

Coming up on it, I always feel like a kid who's just been presented with a Jack in the Box. Ever have one of those? It was one of the most popular donations to the orphanage, and can you guess why? Because mommy and daddy's precious little darlings turned out to be terrified of the damn things, and with more than ample justification. Most vicious toy on the planet: all cute little decorated box and cute little music that plays when you turn the cute little crank, all right up until the point it explodes in your cute little face. (We won't even mention the clowns and similar horrors that tended to lurk within.)

And if Max were a human, that would have been a very pointed clearing of the throat just now. I know this because he follows it by slamming his rear end on the ground, and I go tumbling out of the saddle down his haunches. Not really one for subtlety, is Max.

"Alright, alright, I'm going. You act like it was my idea to be here or something."

Okay. The Snuggly Duckling is not a Jack in the Box. Its friendly neighborhood thugs are not clowns, not even Ulf. Actually, Ulf would probably take offense to being called a clown. And I'm not a cute little kid anymore. I am a man! A man of valor and heroic deeds, a man who has won his fair maiden and now needs only to claim her!

...I am a dork.

Whatever. This will not explode in my face. I will not let it. I am going to marry Rapunzel, and I am going to ask her to marry me. Um, reverse the order there and you'll have something approximating my grand plan.

As an aside—because there just haven't been enough already—did you know that Maximus can smell fear? He totally can.

He takes a big whiff of me as walk by and lets out a snort of horsey laughter.

I elbow him in his big, honking, stupid horsey nose.

He trips me up with a crafty hoof around my ankle.

"What the heck? Your feet are the size of dinner plates! That's cheating!"

Max looks smug so I launch a kick at his knee.

Max decides to play Stomp-a-Eugene. It's a lot like Whack-a-Mole, if you've ever heard of that, but with certain necessary modifications.

I roll bravely into the fray, screaming like a man at the slaughter.

You get the idea.

Dust rises and stays risen for several long minutes while I remain locked in hand-to-hoof combat with a trained warhorse. And then, just like that, it's over.

Hey, we're buds, just two guys bonding the way guys do, even if one of them happens to be a horse. It should also here be noted that the Snuggly Duckling patrons are absolutely unconcerned about sounds of slaughter right outside their door. I guess it comes with the territory.

Enough with the horsing around though—aren't I just the wittiest man ever? It's time to get down to business. I stand up, dust a few horseshoe prints off my clothes, and Max swings his head in a clear directive: "there's the door; open it."

So I do.

Just once before I die I'd like to burst into the Snuggly Duckling dramatically and startle them all. (And that would probably be the point at which I died.) I'm probably never ever going to do it, however, because that would be an amount of foolishness on par with suicide with that whole "skewer first, ask questions later" mindset they've all got. It's just… the thought is really, really tempting.

I inhale as shallowly as possible the delightful brown-scented air as I step into the pub. (Someone really should take an occasional bath.) Ah, yes, the comforting, familiar smells of sweat and decay, caressing the insides of my nasal passage—how I hadn't missed them. Ah, men, manly men. Great, hulking, armed-to-the-teeth brutes of men with their really bad man-smell.

And the best and only guy friends I've got, at least the kind that go around on two legs... most of the time...

I sweep a glance across the dim, smoky interior. The standard cauldron of chameleon parts is boiling away merrily, stirred by the loveliest and most gracious of hosts. Really, I'm kind of surprised that they still cook the little buggers, seeing how popular Pascal is across the kingdom. (And how could anything that grumpy taste good anyway?) Since Rapunzel's return, it's become quite en vogue to have the little critters as pets. Of course, the Snuggly Duckling gang does give a completely new meaning to lizard du jour; I doubt they've ever stuck to the standard ways of following a trend. It's really just as well that I made Pascal my point-critter-slash-diversion back at the castle, seeing as how the thugs apparently still think chameleons are a delicacy, or at least a staple. Poor Pascal can never come here again, for his own sanity.

My guys are just hanging out, doing their thing, completely oblivious to me standing in the doorway in desperate need of assistance. It's maybe just a little bit insulting. I mean, there's being engrossed in your activities, and then there's ignoring me. Two very different things there.

Hookhand is busy tormenting that poor, chained minstrel, waving around sheet music with all the enthusiasm of a broadsword in open field combat. Ulf and Attila hunch in absolute absorption over a game board loaded with tiny, armed figures. Vladimir sits cross-legged in the floor with a significant portion of his unicorn collection scattered around him as he polishes the figures piece by piece (and they'll definitely need some polishing after being on that floor). Yep, same lovely atmosphere as always. There's Gunter's little shrine to questionable taste—I mean cozy domesticity!—with Killer, Tor, and Bruiser arguing away with him over some aspect of the decor. Big Nose plucks flowers dreamily at the bar. Shorty is, of course, deep into his cups, leading most of the rest of the pub's inhabitants in a drinking came that he's probably a shoe-in to win. Meanwhile, one pig, three goats, and five surely foolhardy chickens stroll about underfoot.

You know, looking at my options, I think Max definitely should be my best man. I also probably should invite him inside. He'd fit right in.

I cannot believe they're still ignoring me. How long does a guy have to stand here to get some attention?

"Hiya, fellas! Shouldn't you be pillaging somewhere?"

Just like that, I am the center of attention once again, and all is right with the world. And here we go with the looming, always the menacing looming. Yes, it's been awhile, a month or so maybe, since I was last out this way, but the whole imposing, put-upon show really needs to stop. And I hate my knees, because they still want to quiver, even after all this time and various instances of male bonding at Rapunzel's instigation. Fortunately, I am no mere mortal, being Flynn Rider in my previous life so I just flash my winning-est grin as Hookhand marches forth to greet me.

"Yes, me! I have missed you guys so much, you just don't even know how glad I am to see you now!"

Hookhand is joined in his disregard of my personal space by Big Nose, who makes a show of looking to either side of me before circling around behind me.

"You came alone?" Big Nose asks, apparently not one hundred percent sure that I haven't shrunk Rapunzel down and am hiding her in a pocket.

"Yes. Ineedyourhelp." It escapes all in a rush, before I can second-guess the wisdom of my decisions.

"With?" Hookhand's every bit as bad as Pascal. Geez! Does no one in the country realize I've gone on the straight and narrow? And if any of these guys dare to get hypocritical about my former lifestyle, I'll...

"I need a mercenary mind," I exclaim brightly, looking back and forth with overly wide and eager eyes, like a puppy plopped between two dangling steaks. "You guys were, of course, my very first thought!"

Hookhand and Big Nose exchange glances over my head, shrug, and turn away. "We don't do that so much anymore."

No, no, no, no, that isn't how this is supposed to go!

"I want Rapunzel to marry me!"

A blink. I've got the attention of the other guys now too, as in the blinking of an eye they abandon their individual tasks and reappear in a tight circle around me. I cringe a bit in spite of myself. Don't get me wrong—I love being the center of attention; it's one of my few but tragic character flaws—but the looming and the stench... which come to think of it may be due in large part to the neglected boiling chameleons.

"Those might be getting a teensy eensy bit overcooked," I point out helpfully, but Hookhand knocks my arm down and leans over very, very close to my face.

"You want Rapunzel—the princess—to marry you," he repeats slowly.

"Yes."

We stare intensely into one another's eyes, and he is about as readable as a water-logged, fish-chewed piece of parchment, and his breath smells a bit like one too.

I grin again, a painful stretching of the corners of my mouth up into my cheeks. "That's what I need your help with."

"So just ask her," Big Nose responds with a rolling shrug that spreads out across the other inhabitants of the room, and they all start drifting back to their own tasks.

Wait, wait, wait!

"But that's not really my style," I exclaim, clutching at Hookhand and Big Nose simultaneously. If I can get them on board, the other guys will follow.

With a drunken cackle, Shorty pops up between us, breaking my hold. I would like nothing better than to kick the little geezer as he waves a tankard at me and points out, "You don't have a style."

Oh, that does it. I draw myself up to my full, gallant height, unsubstantial as it is among this roomful of giants. "What do you mean? I was Flynn Rider, the most dashing and distinguished—and, let me point out, Most Wanted, which I don't think any of you can lay claim to—thief for hundreds of miles. I was the epitome of style. Just look at this face!" I ran one finger down the ridge of my perfect nose, such a thing of beauty that criminal profilers struggled to capture it.

And I am back in the center again, although those are some distinctly scornful admiring looks. Under the pressure of their combined gazes, I deflate.

"Besides," I mumble, "I can't just ask her. I've tried that and it didn't work."

I seem them exchanging concerned glances from beneath my downcast eyes. Attila pushes through and awkwardly claps me on the back with his giant oven mitt. I'm sure it's meant as a comforting gesture, but the execution could use some work, seeing as how I am now sprawled in floor at their feet. (My shoes are a lot nicer than any of theirs are though. Point score for me.)

I down here and dirty already, guess I might as well stay for awhile. With a sigh, I roll to my back and fling my arm over my eyes, sighing again more loudly. A very pointy and uncomfortable pair of toes nudges my ribs. Growling feels good. Moaning feels better though, more expressive and pathetic. Can't I just be left alone to my pity party in peace?

"What is it? Can't you see I'm a miserable failure?"

I try my best to glare at them all simultaneously, but it's hard. It's so much easier just to focus on looking at them one at a time, particularly given how much of the field of view just one of them tends to take up even when they're not spread out in every direction. Really, what did their mamas feed these guys? Elephant steaks?

"You ever been in love before?" That's Big Nose, gently, coming to kneel beside my shoulder.

"...Point," I acknowledge with another sigh. He better not be feeling superior over his successful acquisition of his ladylove. Mr. Hopeless Romantic may have been in puppy love plenty of times before and longing for it all the rest of the time, but how long did it take him to get lucky? Come on here. However, even I am of the mindset that you shouldn't insult someone when you're begging, so I keep those thoughts to myself.

"And you came to us?" Vladimir inquired with an almost academic curiosity.

"I don't know a lot of men to a—"

"You've come to the right place, my boy!" Shorty leaps in, literally. I glare at him where he's now perched on my stomach. "With our skills combined, you will be a suitor fit for the daughters of kings!"

I see heads nodding. Heads nodding is good, right? Agreement, advice, assistance to be forthcoming, yes?

"Err, I know a man should have goals and dreams and all, but I'd really be content with just the one, guys."

Looking at them, no matter how much I like the guys and how much I already owe them, I have to say that their assurances ring a little hollow. All in all it seems safer not to comment on what I know of their own appearances and general lack of personal hygiene and female attention, Big Nose notwithstanding. I do these guys a lot. If things go well, I'll end up owing them more, and at the moment, I'm a beggar. As we all know, beggars can't be choosers, at least not super duper discriminating choosers.

"You said you tried before and it didn't work. What'd you do?" Hookhand asks bluntly, apparently as eager to get the process started as I am—or at least eager to mock me at my own expense as soon as possible.

The others inch closer, tightening the circle. Oh no. They want story time. Oh, no, no, no, why me? Really though, what choice do I have? So as I did with Pascal earlier in the day, I now do with the Snuggly Duckling gang. I tell them everything, running through the litany of my many failures.

Once they're finally done laughing—and it takes them quite a bit longer than it took Pascal, the sons of hyenas—they haul me to my feet. Attila gets out some parchment for note taking, and Big Nose rubs his hands together briskly as they swarm and start in on an assessment of my current abilities.

"Clothing's fine. Posture?"

"Stand up straight. Straight!"

"He's got good bones, decent musculature. How are his teeth?"

So help me, I will bite off fingers.

"Could use a breath mint, I see"—What? Look who's talking!—"and a sweeter disposition."

"How many fingers am I holding up? Okay, now balance on your right foot and touch the tip of index finger to your nose. Left hand! Left hand, right foot!"

"Looks like coordination is better than intelligence."

Oh, grrrrr. Just... grrrrrrr...

"Alright, what wooing skills do you have? Show me your suave."

Aha! I've got this one! One sexy beyond belief smolder, coming right up!

"Good heavens, man, I said your suave! What do you call that monstrosity?"

"...the smolder?"

At their looks of disbelief and what I can really only call horror and disgust, Rapunzel's distinct lack of impression when we first met comes to mind.

I'm an idiot.

With a snap of his fingers, Big Nose sends my tormentors away from me. He marches back and forth in a tight half-circle around me, hand to his chin in deep thought, as Hookhand and Shorty consult Attila's notes. The four of them go into a huddle, waving Vladimir over to join them after a few seconds.

What are they saying? I can't make it out, too low and growly, but they're so intense, and they're waving fists around and throwing elbows out and stomping feet. Is this about to devolve into a brawl? Over my matrimonial suitability? How is this my life?

"Well?" I demand, feeling panic setting in like a tidal wave chipping away at the delicate sandy beaches of my confidence and self-control. "Are you going to help me?"

Big Nose looks up, a slow, thoroughly terrifying smile dawning on his face. He thrusts one fist into the air and roars, "Help you? Princess Rapunzel won't be able to resist you. We are going to create an extravaganza!"

"An extravaganza!" The other men quickly take up the call.

Help.

Chapter Text

You know, I've heard people say that trials build character, that those who fight the hard battles come out on the other side stronger, wiser, more worthy of all life's little happinesses. Let's be honest here: if trials really build character, there ought to be far greater public approval for criminals. You see my point? (Says the thief who would be king. Or queen's consort, whatever they want to call me; I'm not picky.)

So here we are again, Max and me, just hanging out beside one crazy-wavy pub, waiting for its occupants to get themselves in gear, stumble outdoors, rock my life, and change my world.

We've been here for hours. Okay, minutes. Long minutes though, very long minutes.

I'm really starting to think that maybe I should have gone with the palace guards or the king himself after all. No doubt they would have been more punctual than these nightmares of mankind. One of the things that isn't often mentioned in the various tales of infamy is how a life of crime impacts all the teeny tiniest details of said life. Living outside of the law (okay, okay, on the fringes; the pub thugs are law abiding when it suits them) has made them less than respectful of time. It just sort of happens to you when you make your own rules and keep odd hours. I used to live like that. But you know what I did? I moved into a castle. New housing, complete change of perspective.

Also, I've got a deadline. Said deadline looms significantly closer than I had been expecting, too, and it is something approaching horrifying. After I threw myself upon their mercy, the lovely folks of the Snuggly Duckling spent the next three days arguing amongst themselves about how exactly this extravaganza (ugh, just the word is enough to make me shudder) that they've got planned for me is going to pan out. And maybe one day soon, they'll tell me how it'll all go down.

There are only two handfuls of days remaining before Rapunzel's birthday, and to my mind I've more than emphasized the importance of getting every done, set, in place, perfect by that date, so what could possibly be taking them so long?

"Guys? Hey, guys!"

Huh, I didn't know I could roar so well. Damn, I am manly.

Oooh, and it's effective too. Here they come.

No good can come of the faces I see marching towards me. Less good will come from the bodies attached to those faces, especially the shortest one. Do I even want to know why Shorty's in a dress?

The giants file in around me, cutting off any chance of escape barring leaping atop Max and convincing him to vault them. Attila's brought apples, however, so that seems a fairly unlikely scenario.

Yep, Attila's got apples, Hookhand is carrying a stack of papers from which Big Nose pulls random sheets, scribbles enthusiastically, and then showcases them to his compatriots to soft oohs and ahs. Shorty's just in a dress and more than a little tipsy, as always.

I'm really, really second-guessing the wisdom of my choices. Repentance, remorse, regret, various other things that start with re-, those are all things that I try not to feel, yet here they are creeping up on me as I await to be acknowledged as the romantic lead in this little story.

I want some help with the thing, yes, but I'm not so sure I really want someone else planning the entire process! Not like I'm going to speak up—much—about it though. Would you want to be on their bad side? Didn't think so.

"I hope you've got some grand plans to help me propose successfully to Rapunzel on her birthday, which I would like to note is not quite so far away anymore."

"Do we ever!" Hookhand and Big Nose chorus, Big Nose staring lovingly and starry-eyed down at the paper mountain, Hookhand grinning like a maniac.

The guys are getting into this way more than I expected. Maybe that means it won't be so bad?

Shorty reels into the circle and staggers against my leg, giggling in his lovely purple gown. "You, my boy, will become a prize fighter of love! Winners only here!"

Scratch out any positive thoughts. This is going to be awful. I don't know why I came here. Here, out of all the places I could have gone! I could be ensconced in great fluffy armchairs before a roaring fire, getting drunk and strategizing with the king with my most pressing concern not to get too sexual when talking about his baby girl. I could be in the guardhouse getting drunk and downright bawdy with Conli and associates. Hell, I could be inside the Snuggly Duckling getting rip-roaring drunk right now and maybe that'd make things more bearable. All those could haves, yet here I am: expecting at any moment the horror of being stripped of my dignity and most of my clothing and then thrown into a ring into which they'll take turns pounding me.

"You know," I venture, eying the infinitesimal spaces between their bodies for cracks of escape, "maybe this is going to be a bit more involved and time consuming than you thought."

"Oh, we've definitely got our work cut out for us. Fortunately, Big Nose here has a master plan."

Hookhand is enjoying himself way too much, and there are no cracks. Why are there no cracks? They shouldn't fit together like a bricklayer and a stone mason got together and decided to have a contest to build the most solid wall of human flesh ever known.

"Ok, what about gifts? 'Cause that's my main concern. I think maybe we should go do some shopping. You know, in town, in smaller groups, maybe individually?"

I have a horse with me that can jump ridiculously high and ridiculously far. He's one step short of Pegasus, and he is eating their traitorous apples and wrinkling his nose at me in traitorous horse glee. Max and I will have words later.

"See, that's the thing," Attila's oddly metallic voice echoes earnestly from inside his ever-present helmet, "she's a princess now so she's used to having extravagant gifts bought for her. Something handmade with love would be better."

"What?"

So this is what it means to grasp at straws. I think I may black out any second now. Just keel over into blessed unconscious and be spared this whole experience.

Big Nose's mouth purses with disapproval as he eyes me over the top of his so-called master plan. "Guess you never did any honest work, huh?"

Oh, no, he didn't.

"Oh, look who's talking!" I'm snarling so hard I think I may be spitting. It would serve them right to end up covered in my Saliva of Rage, acting all superior just because they're big bad mercenaries and I was a measly little thief. "Like you have!"

As one, the denizens of the Snuggly Duckling draw themselves to their full heights with fearful dignity. Oh, shit. I'm not going to back down on this, I'm not, even if melting down into a puddle of goo suddenly seems like an awesome idea and transforming into a groveling, wiggly, doe-eyed puppy an even better one.

"We! Have! Hobbies!"

The ensuing mass bellow blows my hair and clothing ever which way plus back, since I am unfortunately still standing in the middle of the huddle. Max trumpets a protest and promptly springs himself up and out, and just like that, I am left alone and at their mercy. Of which we all know they have none.

Hookhand shoves the papers in Vladimir's general direction, grabs the collar of my shirt, and hauls me off my feet to dangle eye-to-eye before him. The guy really looks rough close up. His eyes are not only bloodshot; they're bloodthirsty, too.

He snarls into my face, and I can smell the remnants of the chameleon stew he must have had for lunch three days ago. "You're going to construct the perfect romantic evening, and we are going to help you."

Unspoken goes the accompanying "whether you like it or not." No point in wasting words when the intent is perfectly clear, right?

I sigh and release my two-handed grip on his one massive wrist. "Fine, whatever. You can let me down now."

He does, slowly, and as I find solid ground safely beneath my feet again, I spare a few thoughts for the scolding I'll get later over the damage to my royal-supplied wardrobe. It's going to be a lot harder to keep my absences inconspicuous if I start showing up to the castle rough-upped regularly.

"I know it's probably considered counterproductive for you guys, but have you ever considered some anger management? Our association can't continue like this." I gesture at my rumpled clothing, the red lines across my neck, their perpetually scowling faces. "I think Rapunzel's going to notice."

"We're trying to help you, and you act like we don't have any transferable skills," Big Nose explains. "It's insulting."

Did I... just... hurt their feelings? Really? Really? I'm the one who's been kept waiting forever, surrounded, loomed over, insulted, yelled at, and manhandled, but I'm the bad guy here?

Winning's not going to be possible; that's fairly obvious. They're the ones with all the bulk and the weapons. Too many of them, not enough of me. I guess I might as well try to get this ordeal over with as quickly as possible, and hope I'll have the time left to pull something together on my own.

I sigh and shove the hair back from my forehead, unobtrusively checking for any throbbing veins. I can feel the pressure building. "Show me your plans."

And... that perks them all right back up! Yay. Not.

One thing I can say for the guy, Big Nose is definitely a thorough planner. He has it all laid out right here: staging, gifts, etiquette, romance. Nine rounds of "education" that will turn me into a worthy paramour and prepare me to ask that most important of questions. Nine rounds of metaphorical battle against myself and each of the men standing around me, with Big Nose basically directing the operation.

And Shorty? Oh, Shorty's going to pretend to be Rapunzel. Yep, that explains the dress.

Someone kill me now.

"We'll go one at a time for the most part." It sounds like Big Nose is talking to someone else far, far away. It's hard to hear him over the inland sea I've suddenly got in my ears. "We don't want to overwhelm you. You're looking pretty sick as it is."

I feel as green as Pascal on his calm days. Emptying my stomach on top of my shoes—or better yet, theirs, although I'm not confident in my ability to move that far right now—seems like a pretty reasonable idea. It's certainly as reasonable as the plans I see before me.

The first laugh catches me by surprise as it bubbles up out of my gut and blasts open the backs of my lips in order to escape from my mouth. The second one is more expected, as is the third when my legs fold beneath me and I sink to the ground.

This whole ridiculous experience is like the boxing match of loooooooove and around me are the suddenly anxiously hovering thugs who will make me a prize fighter (as Shorty so aptly put it) and teach me how to score a knockout. Said knockout is, of course, one Princess Rapunzel of Corona. Yowzah!

That is so bad and so corny that, even in the midst of hysteria, I am ashamed to admit I thought it. So you just pretend that the last twenty seconds didn't happen.

And now you've forgotten, and it never happened. Get it, got it, good.

And so begins my great time of trial.