Disclaimer: Tangled and all the characters therein belong to Disney.

Story Note: I don't know where this idea came from, but it grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go, so here it is. This is going to be a multi-chapter fic. Some remarks:

First, despite its setting, political content will be kept to a minimum. I can't completely eliminate references to political issues, but there won't be any issue advocacy, partisan politics, or current political figures mentioned in the story.

Second, I don't think I can pull off the update schedule that I had for my previous novella. This story is more emotionally intense and less action-driven, so the outline is fluid. I'll try to update twice a month, however.

Third, they are closer in age in this AU. This is because their life situations are different enough already.

Fourth, the story is rated T for mature themes throughout, innuendo, sensuality, probable language, and possible mild violence. I don't expect the rating to change.

Bad Influence

Chapter One: Charmer

The beat of artificial drums pounded through the yuppie club on U Street, and the vividly colored flashing lights on the dance floor bathed the patrons' faces in a spectrum of bizarre hues. Rapunzel recognized the tune from the radio that Pascal and Max kept in the office the three shared, but it wasn't quite the same. It was some sort of remix, and she didn't much like it. It was far too repetitive, seemed to drag on and on, the voice modulation hurt her ears, and the music didn't flow naturally as it had in the original song. Whatever, she thought miserably, taking a sip of her beer and wincing at the taste. It's not like they're playing it for me. And I'm certainly not getting on the dance floor again.

She thought back to what had happened about an hour ago. Some boy who looked about her age, a clean-cut, well-groomed boy in dark pants and a red tie, with not a single hair out of place (Rapunzel could actually smell the hair gel), had asked her to dance. It had been a disaster. Though it would have been legal for the last couple of years, Rapunzel had never frequented bars and clubs until tonight, her twenty-first birthday, and she had no idea how people danced in them. Her partner had laughed nastily at her dancing once they got onto the floor.

"What's that, a square dance?" he jeered, rudely ditching her in the middle of the song and quickly finding another dance partner in a girl dressed in an outfit that looked spray-painted on her body. "Where are you from, anyway? Podunk Woods, Alabama?"

The voice of Pascal Verde, one of her best friends from work, flitted through her thoughts. "That's a typical DC douche," he would have said, his sunny smile spreading over his face and brown eyes sparkling with wit. "Some little self-absorbed political intern brat who thinks he's owed the world on a silver platter." She could just imagine Max Morgan, her other best friend, objecting to Pascal's characterization: "I was once a political intern!" And then Pascal would reassure Max—who had indeed been a political intern once upon a time before becoming a high-ranked staffer for a senator, and then taking a break from that world to work at the Arts Commission—that he wasn't referring to him, just to self-absorbed brats with an entitlement complex. DC douches, in other words.

Rapunzel smiled in spite of herself at the thought of the discussion that her best friends would have had if they were here, but the brief moment of happiness didn't last. They weren't even in the city at the moment. They were in Key West on spring break. She could have celebrated her twenty-first with Pascal and Max if she had wanted; they had invited her, but she had declined to go. They were a couple; they would probably want to have a vacation together, and she thought it would be awkward to be there all the time. She was sure she would have felt like a fifth wheel. Instead, she felt invisible. For not the first time this evening, Rapunzel regretted the decision, but it was too late. She was not in warm, sunny Florida. She was stuck here in chilly, wretched Washington, DC, and she would have to make the best of the situation. She took another sip of her beer. It tasted horrible, but she supposed that it would get better once she'd had more. Wasn't that how people drank? They got so drunk that nothing tasted bad to them anymore. She supposed that it had to be something like that.

The awful remix finally ended, and a new song did not immediately start to play. Rapunzel took advantage of the break to glance around. She frowned as she noticed that another man appeared to be making his way toward her. This one looked a little bit older than DC Douche, and he wasn't nearly as Ken doll-like, she thought. His white shirt had the top button open and he wore no tie or jacket. His dark hair was a bit windswept, and he had a lock on the right side of his face that hung roguishly over his temple. He also had a slight beard and a crooked smile. Rapunzel liked his appearance better than the synthetic look of most twenty-something guys that she encountered in yuppie hangouts, but she did not suppose that his attitude to her would be any different. She took a deep breath and braced herself as the man approached her seat at the bar.

He was indeed handsome, she thought. He leaned against the bar, looking at her with open admiration. Maybe this would be all right. "Hi," she said timidly as a new song—thankfully, a slower and quieter one—started. The lights began to flash again, but they were not as fast or erratic, making them more tolerable too.

"Hi," the man said, flashing a dazzling smile at her. "You here by yourself?"

Rapunzel had heard that line before. It was a guy's way of finding out if she was "taken." She sighed inwardly, but was not offended. After all, this was a club. "Yes," she said moodily, staring at her drink, not wanting to meet his eyes. She wasn't in the mood to flirt.

"That's strange, a pretty girl like you," the man said, still flashing that addictive smile. "How about a dance?"

She shook her head violently. "No thanks," she said quickly. "I can't dance."

"Oh, I'm sure you're fine."

"I don't want to dance," she said firmly.

The man hesitated. "Well," he said, "how about some company right here, then? No need to spend the evening by yourself." He smiled crookedly.

Wow, he was persistent. Rapunzel was not sure whether to be flattered or suspicious of him—or both. She looked at his face, trying to read his expression, but came up with nothing. He must be well trained at hiding his thoughts. His eyes were beautiful, though. Pure light brown, with pupils to get lost in.

He smirked as her gaze traveled over his face. "The name's Flynn Rider," he said. "How's your night going?" He flashed that toothy smile at her again.

Yes, he was flirting. And she was basically going along with it, gazing at him like some awestruck teenager, she realized with chagrin. "I'm Rapunzel," she said, quickly looking away.

He stared at her for a moment before throwing his head back and letting out a laugh. "Right," he chuckled. "Right. Sure you are. Well, Rapunzel," he said, with a wink, "I'm Prince Charming."

Of course, she thought sourly. He's a DC douche too, just as I feared. She glared at him, but he didn't notice, too wrapped up in his own joke.

"Let down your hair!" he called out dramatically. "But, oh dear"—he reached out and stroked a lock of her short, unevenly cut brown hair—"it's brown and too short. Alas, I cannot ascend your tower!" He gave her a wink again.

Rapunzel flinched. "Don't make fun of my hair!" she cried, her voice breaking. She turned away in horror, ashamed of almost falling apart like this in public. He didn't know about the hair. About her mother. About all those years. He couldn't understand why it upset her. Her name was strange, and he clearly thought she was making a joke. She was probably just coming off as an unstable little girl, she thought in dismay, and then wondered why it mattered. No one in this club—no, no one in the city except for Pascal and Max—seemed to care much for her anyway. What was one more person who thought she was a flake, a country bumpkin, a weirdo, or whatever else?

"You're such a naïve one, darling. Of course people think you're weird. Of course people make fun of your hair. And you do act flaky sometimes, my love."

No, Rapunzel thought firmly, pushing the image of a tall, black-haired woman out of her mind and focusing on the present. She glanced up sheepishly at Flynn, ready to apologize for her outburst.

He was definitely taken aback at her reaction. Gingerly he reached out and patted her shoulder. "Hey," he said. "Touchy subject, I guess? Sorry. I was just playing along. Your hair's really pretty, you know. What's your real name?"

As he asked that question, his expression changed slightly, the faintest flicker of guilt darting across his face. She attributed it to his feeling bad about making light of a sensitive subject of which he was unaware, prompting the outburst. "It is my name," she said, suddenly fishing in her little purple purse for her Maryland resident ID card. "Here. See for yourself. My name is Rapunzel Forrest. And it has always been my name," she added, half expecting him to accuse her of changing it herself. People had definitely done that before.

His eyes popped in surprise. "Well," he said, "this is awkward." He chuckled and gave her an apologetic look. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," she mumbled. "It's weird, I know."

"Your parents liked Grimm, I take it?"

"My mom did."

"Ah." He took one of her hands in his—how on earth had he managed that without her seeing it? she thought—and brought it to his lips chivalrously. Her heart skipped a beat at this. He released her hand and smiled at her. "Well, Rapunzel, I couldn't help but notice from your card—you're twenty-one tonight, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Well, happy birthday," he said. "And you're here by yourself?"

"My best friends are on spring break in Florida, and I wanted to stay in town."

"I'm very glad you did," he said smoothly, giving her a wink. He gestured at her glass of beer. It had the logo of Keystone Light on its side. "Do you like that?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not at all." In truth, she had simply asked for the least expensive beer at the bar. She was shocked at how pricey everything was at this place.

"Don't blame you. This must be remedied. You can't celebrate a landmark birthday with cheap beer." He motioned for the bartender, who came forward. "Her tab's on me," Flynn said. Rapunzel opened her mouth to protest, but Flynn shook his head at her. "No, I insist," he said with that infectious smile. "And I think that what we need are Long Island iced teas for each of us. Wonderful drink," he said to Rapunzel. "Ever had one?"

Rapunzel shook her head as the bartender prepared the drinks. "I've actually never tried drinking until tonight."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not a cop," he said teasingly. "Far from it. I'm twenty-six, but I assure you, I've been drinking for longer than five years. You can 'fess up."

"No, I really haven't." Her tone and words were sincere.

He frowned. "Huh. Well, now that you're of age, you can experience everything you've been missing."

The bartender brought two tall glasses back and put them in front of the pair. Rapunzel took a sip through her straw and almost immediately felt a little lightheaded. Wow. She didn't know what went into this, but it seemed strong.

"So, Flynn," she said, turning to him. "What do you do?" It seemed polite to make conversation with him, since he had picked up her tab.

"Ah," he said, not meeting her eye. "Well, I'm a lobbyist. Ex-lobbyist," he added.

"Ex?"

"Yeah." He quickly looked at her again. "What about you?"

"Final semester at George Washington. Fine Arts. And I work part-time at the city Arts Commission." She frowned at him, thinking, as she took another sip of her drink. It was pretty good, and she thought she might want another one if she finished this one off, but at the moment she was focused on her own memories. "Come to think of it, I do recall... have you been in the news before?"

"Lobbyists do sometimes make the news in this town," he said evasively, watching her eyes closely.

"I really hate letting you buy me drinks if you're out of work," she mumbled.

Flynn chuckled. "Trust me, it is not a problem. My firm did well."

"Oh." This was apparently his way of telling her that he had a lot of money. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. It was nice to know that she wasn't imposing on someone who couldn't really afford it, but she felt uncomfortable around people who were much better off than she was.

Flynn's left arm slipped around her waist, making her jump in surprise. He quirked a brow at her. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said. Her drink was now half gone, and her head was feeling light. Her thoughts were starting to feel vaguely fluid, and she decided that she really didn't mind his arm around her waist. This was the first time in a while that somebody other than her two friends had continued to talk to her after learning her name, listening to any unusual details of her life, or observing some strange behavior of hers. Most of the time, young adults in Washington would laugh, sneer, or become uneasy before quickly walking away. She expected it now and was surprised that someone was continuing to stick around.

Flynn grinned, and she grinned back at him, feeling giddy now. The thoughts of Pascal, Max, Key West, and being alone on her birthday had fled her mind. "So, where do you live?" she asked him.

"Fairfax."

She frowned. "That's a long way from here, isn't it?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that. It's not too far for a taxi—fare's on me, of course. And I promise it'll be worth the ride." He winked suggestively at her.

She took a long pull from her drink, draining the glass, and completely missing his last statement or its implication in her growing haze. "I live in Silver Spring," she remarked obliviously. "I took the Metro. It's not too bad, but there's a transfer, you know." She turned to him. "Can I have another?"—pointing at her drink.

"Sure," he said, gesturing for the bartender. "You like it, I take it."

"It was good," she said, smiling at him. His smile really was infectious, and Rapunzel decided that she had "caught" it. She was definitely having a better evening than she had expected half an hour ago.

The bartender returned with her second drink, which she immediately started drinking. A loud song came on again, the lights started flashing rapidly, and conversation subsided in the noise. Flynn watched her drink for a while before the song ended and another slow one came on. He grinned, moving his hand from her waist to her shoulders, rubbing her left shoulder lightly with his fingertips. She chuckled at him, blushing at his actions, and drained her second drink.

"That was fast," Flynn remarked. He was only just now finishing his first.

"Flynn," she said in a suddenly urgent tone, "can I have a cosmo?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "And I thought you didn't know anything about drinking."

"Pascal and Max like them," she explained.

"And who are Pascal and Max?" Flynn said, gesturing for the bartender again. He ordered two of the drinks, one for each of them, while Rapunzel continued to chatter.

"Oh, they're my best friends from work. They're in Florida right now."

"Ah, right."

The drinks arrived quickly and Rapunzel took a sip of hers. She frowned. "It's okay, but I think I like your drink better."

"It's not mine," Flynn said with a laugh, idly stirring his red beverage. He turned to her quizzically. "So, enough chatting about booze, ya lush," he said with a flirty wink. "Where are you from?"

She bit her lip. "Not from around here," she muttered.

"What? You'll have to speak up."

"I'm not from around here," she said in a louder tone. "Hey Flynn. I feel funny, you know what I mean?"

"It does that to you." He glanced at her with a look of concern. "But you're pretty small, so I don't think you should have any more after that one."

His expression suddenly jogged a memory in her muddled-up mind. "Hey," she said again. "I really think I've read your name in the news. Flynn Rider, you said, right?" Her voice was loud.

He glanced around the bar uneasily. "Not that loud. Could you lower the volume a bit?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized in a quieter voice.

"It's all right." He turned to her and leaned in close. "And yeah, that's what I said. Why? What do you remember, exactly?" His tone was anxious.

She bit her lip in contemplation. "I'm not sure, but it seems like it had something to do with a couple of Congressmen from New York. Didn't you testify, or something?"

Relief washed over his face. "Yeah, you remember right."

"Well," she said, "it's good to know that the drink hasn't completely screwed up my thoughts." She grinned at him and took another pull through her straw. She was starting to feel very open and social. "I'm glad you decided to talk to me. My night really wasn't going so well. I'd been asked to dance by this one guy that I've started calling 'DC Douche' in my mind because I don't think he was polite enough to tell me his name—"

Flynn laughed.

"—and he was the one who said I didn't know how to dance, well, I mean basically, in different words. So that's why I didn't want to. I don't know how to dance the way people in here dance. He asked me if I was from Podunk Woods, Alabama, which was pretty stupid, because you know where I was really born, Flynn?"

"Nope. Are you going to tell me now?" Flynn was bantering, but it only masked his unease about this situation. She was already quite drunk and was babbling a mile a minute. He'd had plans for her after they left the bar, but if she was this intoxicated, he couldn't go through with them. He also knew all too well that drunk people had rapid mood swings at the slightest provocation, and he was not about to take the remaining drink away and risk upsetting her.

"In the mountains in Alaska!" she exclaimed loudly, gesturing dramatically and forming a pyramid shape with her arms—to indicate a mountain, Flynn supposed. "Can you get any farther from Alabama than that? And besides, wouldn't I have an accent if I were from Alabama? How stupid can you get? Pascal would say that DC douches are born with spilver soons in their mouths. I mean silver spoons. And that they don't know anything about regular people."

"Rapunzel," he said urgently. "Settle down."

"Okay," she agreed, not minding what he said at all. "Did I tell you that Pascal is on spring break? I can't believe it! And it's also the first day of spring; did you know that? I'm glad I was born on the first day of spring. Well, some years my birthday is the first day of spring. Sometimes it's the last day of winter. But I was saying, it's so cold outside! It's hard for me to believe it's really spring."

Flynn groaned. She was definitely drunk. He looked at her glass. It was empty. "Oh, good lord," he exclaimed. "Okay. No more drinks for you." He gestured for the bartender to give him the tab.

"Aww. Please? It was good."

"And strong," he said, pulling out some money from his wallet and handing it to the bartender. "Did you not eat anything before you came here?"

"No," she said. She stood up and immediately started swaying. "Whoa. My head..."

Flynn grabbed her by the waist and supported her as he helped her away from the bar towards the door. He felt irritated all of a sudden, though more with himself than with her. So much for his plans for the evening. He had hoped to pick up a nice, attractive girl and take her back to his condo for the night. It definitely beat calling up the escorts, even the high-end ones that the sleazy Capitol Hill staffers, hypocritical members of Congress, and slick lobbyists like him hired. Anyone with money could engage their services. Anyone who could afford to pay them. They weren't picky. From Flynn's perspective, there was no sense of accomplishment in that. No... well, no lobbying, just a cold transaction. His good looks, intellect, and charms were pointless; he might as well be an ugly, dull, dirty-old-man politician, and when all was said and done, he just couldn't stand his attributes being worthless. On the other hand, wooing a pretty woman into his condo was an achievement that often required all three types of qualities, melded together artfully.

What's more, he was actually quite pleased with his pick. Rapunzel was a little different and unusual, but something about her intrigued him. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, possibly the likelihood that she had an interesting past in the far northern wilds, but it was enough that he thought he might even want to follow up with her later after they were done tonight. He had been looking forward to getting out of that bar—but not like this. Not supporting her to keep her from falling over dizzily. Flynn sighed as he held her up and kept her from toppling onto the sidewalk. He should have put an end to this as soon as Rapunzel failed to take his hint about his making it "worth the ride" out to Fairfax. He might be capable of many things, he thought darkly to himself, but he was not going to take advantage of a young woman who was too drunk to even understand what he was trying to do, much less give proper consent to it.

He hailed a cab and helped Rapunzel into the back seat. "Flynn," she muttered. "I don't feel so good. I need to go home."

Well, he supposed he might as well take her back to her own apartment. It was closer. "That's where we're headed. Tell the driver your address," he said to her.

"70 Corona Place, Silver Spring," she said from memory before collapsing against the seat, leaning her head back. The cab lurched forward, and as it traveled down the road, her brain seemed to be floating in a pool. She felt dizzy, as if the world was spinning around her.

"Hey, have I seen your face in the papers?" the driver asked Flynn.

"Nope," Flynn said immediately.

"You look familiar to me."

"You must be thinking of someone else," Flynn said firmly, willing this conversation to end. Fortunately—though not, he supposed, to her—Rapunzel provided a distraction by groaning. He reached over and put a hand on her knee to calm her. "You'll be all right," he said. "You got a roommate, Rapunzel?"

"Nuh-uh."

He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his other hand. "And your friends are in Florida. Is there anyone else?"

She shook her head sadly.

He sighed again. Great. Just bloody perfect. He had definitely not wanted to spend the night keeping an eye on a girl who was sick from liquor, or—most likely—nursing her hangover in the morning, but she apparently had no one else in town who could check on her and make sure she was all right. Anyway, he supposed that this was basically his fault. But why do I care? he asked himself in thought, irritated with himself for thinking such things. Is that guilt, Rider? Pathetic. If I let guilt get to me, I'd be locked up right now. Guilt is for suckers. He glared at the top of Rapunzel's head, glad that she was too engrossed in her own discomfort to see the expression on his face.

On the other hand, he thought suddenly, she'll be gratified tomorrow if I do keep an eye on her tonight, and I had thought about connecting with her again later. He grinned. He could get something out of this after all.

The taxicab entered Maryland, soon pulling into the private drive. Flynn glanced out the window. A big sign painted in yellow and purple, labeled "Corona Heights," passed by him as the cab entered the grounds. A fanciful sun motif decorated the logo. He leaned forward to get a look at the place. He had been taking a risk by bringing her to her own apartment, betting that a girl who celebrated her birthday in a club catering to hip and connected young people would not live in a shady area. A complex of three moderately tall buildings, a parking garage, and a covered pool loomed in front of him. He breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed to be a typical suburban apartment complex.

Flynn paid the cab driver and helped Rapunzel out of the back seat. "I don't know which one you live in," he said. She groaned, lurching forward, and pointed at one of the buildings. Flynn held her around her waist and walked her over to the building.

Rapunzel seemed to do better when she did not have to focus on standing upright. She fumbled in her purple purse and brought out her access card, swiping it through the card reader and grabbing at the door handle when it beeped and flashed green. Flynn quickly opened the door for her, helping her inside.

"I'm on the fifth floor," she said, punching a button on the elevator. No one was there at this late hour, so they did not have to wait.

The elevator lurched as they began to ascend. Rapunzel whimpered, slumping down the wall and curling up in a ball on the floor. "Flynn, I think I'm going to be sick."

He did not want her vomiting in the elevator. "Try to hold on till we get to your room," he said anxiously. The elevator stopped, and they got out. Rapunzel turned to the left and began walking mechanically down the hallway. She stopped at a particular door, took out her key, and unlocked it.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, immediately dashing for the bathroom. Flynn turned on a light so that she would not bump into anything. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he looked around, trying to ignore the sounds of Rapunzel throwing up. She had not closed the door all the way.

It was a small apartment, consisting of a general-purpose den/dining room/study, a kitchen, a tiny bedroom, and—he supposed—a small bathroom. The den contained a worn old couch with a yellow blanket draped over the back, a six-shelf bookcase completely packed with books, a little side table hand-painted with swirling flowers and abstract patterns, a dining table and four chairs (Flynn supposed that they came as a set, since she probably wouldn't have any guests other than her two guy friends), a small television and DVD player, and a battered computer desk containing a purple laptop, a printer, and what looked like a camera bag. In one corner of the room, the floor was covered with plastic sheeting. A big canvas lay propped up against the wall, a painting of stylized snowflakes and icicles adorning its surface. He looked down and noticed a box filled with tubes of paint and paintbrushes, and then he remembered that Rapunzel had said she was majoring in Fine Arts and worked at the Arts Commission. He smiled and looked at the walls, which he suddenly realized were completely filled with paintings. They were in all different styles: realism, abstract, art deco, cartoon, impressionism... Flynn didn't know that much about art, but he was able to recognize the basics.

The toilet flushed, and Rapunzel emerged from the bathroom at last, looking absolutely miserable. Flynn turned around. "Hey," he said gently, tucking her short hair behind her ears. "I'm sorry."

"I feel awful," she said, collapsing on the couch.

"You need water," he said, going into the kitchen. He found a plastic cup—better not give her anything glass—and fixed her some ice water, which he brought back out to her. She sipped it.

"Thanks," she said in a small voice. "Does this normally happen when people drink?"

"If they have too much, yeah."

She sniffed. "I guess this is why Mother said I shouldn't drink."

He was not sure what to say to that. "Well, it doesn't have to happen," he said. "You just have to know your limit. Eat something before you go out. Drink water in between. There are ways to avoid this."

"Hmm." She gulped down half the water and set the cup down on the side table.

"You'll probably feel like crap in the morning," he said reluctantly. "Sorry. It's called a hangover."

"Yeah, I've heard about that."

"Do you want me to stick around?" He wasn't sure why he asked. He had intended to stay anyway, but now he had given her the chance to tell him to get lost. And he wouldn't blame her if she did just that. He certainly would in her situation.

"Yeah," she said, looking at him. His breath caught in his chest. He hadn't really noticed her eyes in the flashing lights and dim atmosphere of the club, but they were really pretty. Vivid green, and huge.

"All right," he said. He patted the cushions on the couch. "I'll be here. You'd better get to bed."

"Okay." She got up, smiled a wobbly little smile at him, and stumbled into her bedroom. "Good night, Flynn."

"Night, birthday girl."

He sank down on the couch. It was surprisingly comfortable. He pressed the seats gingerly. Yes, he supposed he could sleep here. He looked around for a pillow, finally noticing one on the floor. He picked it up.

Underneath it were two newspapers: The New York Times and the Washington Post, local edition. He frowned and picked up the Post. That was a bit odd for a twenty-one-year-old. Normally young people would read the news on the Internet, if they cared at all. That was what he did. He supposed there was a higher than usual chance that young people in this particular city would care about the news, but still... Flynn opened the paper. Sure enough, he found what he was afraid of.

CROWN GROUP LOBBYISTS BEGIN PRISON TERMS, the headline blared on page 2. Flynn groaned in dismay.

He scanned the article anxiously, looking for any mention of his name. Surely he wasn't making it into articles now, but one never knew. He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the end without encountering himself in the article. He set the newspaper down and picked up the Times, doing the same with it. This one had a similar article, but it also did not contain his name. He folded the papers together and tossed them on the floor.

He was not tired just yet, so he continued to scan the living room, focusing on the bookshelves to see what she liked to read. Sure enough, there were a lot of art books and art history books, as he had anticipated. One shelf looked like it contained nothing but her old textbooks. He also caught sight of some botany and environmental titles, as well as a book about hurricanes, which he thought was a little odd, until he remembered that she had grown up in an arctic environment and that tropical storms were probably fascinating to someone like that. One shelf contained mainly books about American history, but there were a couple of feel-good "spiritual" titles about miracles and self-help on that shelf. There was also an ample collection of fantasy fiction and what appeared to be many issues of a serial manga. So she was a geek, he smiled to himself. He approved.

Then he noticed the photographs. There were only two on the bookshelf, but she had given them hand-painted—and quite possibly handmade—frames. One of them contained a picture of a black-haired woman in a maroon pantsuit, smiling knowingly at the camera. She was standing on the porch of a picturesque chalet. A snow-covered mountain slope filled the background. Flynn supposed that this was probably her mother and her home in Alaska. The other photograph was of Rapunzel herself, with two guys beside her. All three of them were beaming from ear to ear in front of the Lincoln Memorial. One of the guys was a short, round-faced, goofy-looking character with brown eyes and spiky green hair. The other was a taller, muscular guy with very blond hair. That second guy looked vaguely familiar to him, and for some reason the thought unsettled his stomach, but Flynn could not place him.

He sighed and headed back to the couch, turning off the lights as he did. He stretched out and pulled the yellow blanket over himself, trying to get to sleep. He'd have to ask her in the morning.

Chapter Note: Yes, Rapunzel's surname is almost the same as the one I have her use in my one-shot "Everything She Dreamed It Would Be." This is because I was lazy. There is no connection between this modern AU and that in-film/post-film alternate timeline.