Title/Prompt: A Sort of Clever Stupidity.
Rating/Warnings: G
Word count: 4554
Summary: Flynn Rider is trying to concoct a scheme to steal a royal crown with the Stabbington Brothers - but his plans are thrown into disarray when a messenger pigeon named Max keeps delivering his letters to a girl named Rapunzel instead.

Notes: Written in January 2016 as part of fandom_stocking 2015, for luxken27. So yeah, this one is 12 months old and has been hosted on AO3 and I'm only just now getting around to posting it here! Whoops :/

This fic is an AU still based in canon. Um, the only real difference is that Max is... a carrier pigeon.

Title taken from this George Eliot quote:
It always seemed to me a sort of clever stupidity only to have one sort of talent - like a carrier pigeon.

Flynn is shivering by the time he makes it to the agreed meeting place. Coronian winters are short, but notoriously wet — the rivers swell, the oceans heave, and every trail in the forest turns to boot-sucking mud.

The Stabbingtons are already there, wearing heavy woolen cloaks and matching scowls.

"You're late."

Flynn pulls his hood back once he's under the shelter of the tree. "My horse was swallowed by a mud pool," he says irritably. He glances at the two stocky horses standing nearby, rain gleaming on their coats and their saddlebags bulging.

Stabbington looms over him. "You can't be reliable, maybe we find somebody else for this job."

Flynn thinks about the two coins in his pocket and how long it's been since he had a good meal, and decides it would be in his best interests to be a little more gracious. "It won't happen again," he promises.

Stabbington glances at his silent brother. "We got a job," he says.

Flynn waits patiently.

"A big job."

"Excellent," Flynn says hesitantly, wondering when he'll hear something he doesn't already know.

"The royal treasury puts certain pieces from their collection on show during the Lantern Festival." Stabbington glances around, but there's no chance of them being overheard. They're the only people for miles. "We got wind of some information regardin' a crown."

Flynn's spirits lift. "A crown?"

"It'll be on display in the Sovereign House during the next Lantern Festival. We know a way in."

Flynn shifts his weight. "You know, a piece like that is hard to sell," he says. "Unless you've already —"

"Let us take care of that," Stabbington says.

"Actually, the selling is usually the part I'm most interested in," Flynn says, having no intention of helping if he can't determine a way to take his cut of the prize.

"You get ten percent," Stabbington says gruffly. "Still a small fortune."

"Ten percent doesn't seem like much to me," Flynn says, though he won't waste his time trying to negotiate something better. At least, not today. Good fortune will come later if he has time to plan his own way to the crown. "What do you need me for, anyway?"

"We're gonna go in through the roof." Stabbington motions between himself and his brother. "We're too big. Need a little guy." He smirks.

Flynn would be offended if the thought of closing his fingers around a jeweled tiara wasn't so striking.

Assuming his agreement, Stabbington gives Flynn a clap to the shoulder that sends him stumbling out from under the shelter of the tree and into the rain again. "We'll send word," he says.

Flynn pulls his cloak around his shoulders and watches the brothers and their horses disappear into the downpour.

Word comes a few weeks later, but it takes Flynn most of the day to realize that it is, in fact, word.

Spring has burst forth in a green glory of seed and pollen. Flynn's eyes and nose are itchy, but the forest is starting to offer free bounties of fruit, so he keeps his complaints to a minimum, recognizing that his good fortune mostly outweighs the bad.

He spends most nights camping alongside the river, waking to mist on the water and a shrill cacophony of birdsong. One morning, as he's picking the last shreds of rabbit meat from a bone, he hears a soft cooing noise. Glancing up, a fat white pigeon is staring down at him rather menacingly.

"What?" Flynn asks it. "You'd better beat it, featherbrain, or you'll end up on the spit next."

The pigeon ruffles its feathers disapprovingly, and Flynn breaks camp and heads for town.

He's eating a warm currant bun from the bakery when he hears the pigeon cooing again. He looks up to see it perched on a lopsided weather vane. He's sure it's the same pigeon — it has the same puffed-out chest and gleaming white feathers.

As he makes his way back down the King's Road, the pigeon follows him, fluttering and stumbling across rooftops and hooting at him obnoxiously.

Flynn pointedly swallows the last mouthful of his currant bun and shrugs at it, expecting it to leave him alone now that he doesn't have any food in his hand.

The pigeon drops to the cobblestones at Flynn's boots, and it's only then he notices the scroll of paper tied to its leg.

Need messure of roof. South stares and roof tile. — ES

Flynn wrinkles his nose. The note isn't very descriptive — or well written. And he's not sure how he's suppose to measure anything at the Sovereign House. His presence probably isn't going to be welcomed. The new Captain of the Guard is already starting to make life difficult. (It's truly a blessing those new Wanted posters have turned out so laughably wrong.)

"So I'm supposed to send an answer back with you?" Flynn asks the fat pigeon.

It ignores him, too focused on trying to seek out crumbs between the cobblestones.

280 stairs in south tower. Roof tile 4 ft. — FR

Flynn wonders if he should mention the new Captain of the Guard, or the fact Flynnigan Rider is starting to make a name for himself.

"Better not," he tells the pigeon, strapping the new message to his leg. "Just in case the message goes astray, huh?"

The pigeon gives him an insulted sort of a look before he flutters away.

A week later, the pigeon shows up again. Flynn has no idea how it found him — he's miles deep in the forest, laying low for a while after botching a robbery at the blacksmith and only escaping the Royal Guard by the narrowest of margins.

Need urg reply. Need messure of roof and count of south steps. — ES

Flynn frowns at it. "I did reply!" He rummages in his satchel for a quill and scratches out a message on the back of the parchment. The only ink he has is almost dried up, and he tears a hole trying to outline his repeated information clearly.

280 stairs in the south tower. Roof tiles are square and 4ft across. — FR

"Maybe give him a little feathery slap in the face when you take this back," he mutters, knotting the parchment to the pigeon's leg again. "The Stabbingtons aren't known for their thinking power, after all."

The pigeon returns after only two days, and it brings Flynn's hopes and dreams crashing down with it.

The new note is on a scrap of paper torn from a painting — he can see green painted leaves on one side, and on the other:

FR

I am very sorry but your bird is lost and is delivering notices to me

Please do not be upset with him

He is lovely company

Love Rapunzel

"You'd be better off in a stew!" Flynn snaps at the pigeon. He runs his hands through his hair and paces back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. He has no idea where the Stabbingtons are holed up — the pigeon probably does, but apparently will only visit them on his terms.

The Lantern Festival is some weeks away yet, but so far the only semblance of a plan is to storm up the south tower to the roof and drop into the main gallery after lifting up the appropriate roofing tile. The Stabbingtons don't have any of the measurements Flynn has, so whatever supplies they think they need…

He groans and glares at the pigeon again. "You think if I attach a third note to your leg, you could get it right this time?"

The pigeon coos softly and tucks his head under his wing, apparently unconcerned.

Flynn wants to strangle it, but he settles for writing a couple of extra lines in his note to the Stabbingtons instead:

280 stairs in south tower. Roof tile 4ft across.

This pigeon is a moron and deserves to be plucked and stuffed and roasted over hot coals. — FR

Flynn rides deeper and deeper into the forest on a stolen horse, twisting in the saddle now and then to confirm he really has left the Royal Guard behind him.

The forest is old here — huge twisted trees towering overheard to block out the sun, and the path is narrow and winding, walked more often by wild animals than man.

He pulls the horse to a halt and jumps off, turning it around and sending it back the way he came with a sharp slap to its rump. "Thanks, Cornflower," he says breathlessly. He takes off on foot, following the river upstream to where it flows out from beneath a large cliff of sandstone. He's quenching his thirst when he hears a soft cooing and a telltale ruffle of feathers.

"Oh, you have to be kidding," he says. He looks up and the fat white pigeon is sitting on a branch on the other side of the stream, a new message tied to his leg.

"If this isn't from the Stabbingtons, I'm throwing you in the river," Flynn growls, sloshing through the shallow water and pulling the scroll into his hands.

FR

Please do not roast this pigeon

I know he is poor at delivering messages

But he is a very good friend and I would miss his visits

Love Rapunzel

"Damn it," Flynn hisses through his teeth. He sinks to the ground, tired and hungry, his dreams of obtaining the jeweled crown all but dashed.

The pigeon drops to the grass beside him and pecks his fingers.

"Quit that!" Flynn snaps.

The pigeon plucks at the abandoned parchment, lifting it and dropping it, lifting it and dropping it until Flynn snatches it back.

The green leaves are on the back again, and there's an edge of white and gray. He rummages in his satchel for a moment to find the first note he'd received from Rapunzel, and fits them together. They're torn from the same painting, but he doesn't have enough of it yet to imagine the whole picture.

The pigeon drags his quill out of his satchel and looks up at him expectantly.

Flynn looks at him warily before he starts to write. "Why do I suddenly get the feeling you're not so stupid after all?" he asks. "Now I'm scared you're starting to outsmart me somehow."

The pigeon hoots at him, his black eyes shining.

Rapunzel,

My sincere apologies for the error. I have been trying to reach two friends of mine. Brothers Stabbington.

I am sure you make for a much nicer visit, and so my pigeon is flying off course to you. If you could at all direct him onto his proper course, you would have my eternal gratitude.

Yours,

Flynn Rider

He sends the pigeon on his way again before he can regret including the Stabbingtons names — or his own.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Flynn Rider

I was pleased to see you have not roasted him

I look forward to his visits so very much

I have asked him to please send on your messages to Brothers Stabbington but I am not sure he knows where to find him

He is very clever for having found me you know

Has he a name

Love Rapunzel

"I don't believe for a second you don't know where to find the Stabbingtons," Flynn says to the pigeon.

The pigeon tilts his head sideways.

Flynn turns the note over. The white border which had begun on the earlier message is revealing itself to be a stone wall. He rummages in his satchel for the previous notes from Rapunzel. They're all written the same way, like a list of items to be gathered from town, or ingredients for a pie, until the last line cuts through any impersonal structure: Love Rapunzel.

"Don't think I've ever had anyone sign a letter off with 'love' before," Flynn muses to the pigeon. "That's three of them from Rapunzel. We're practically married now, huh?"

The pigeon narrows his beady little eyes, and Flynn sighs and takes out his quill. "She's asked for your name. Featherbrain?"

The pigeon attacks his fingers again and Flynn shakes him free. "Okay, okay. We'll give you a good name. Not that you deserve it. Your ineptitude is at maximum capacity." He pauses. "We'll call you Max."

Two weeks later and Flynn is still in hiding. He's only seen three other souls this deep in the forest — two shady characters on their way to the Snuggly Duckling (not the Brothers Stabbington, for which he is grateful), and a mysterious figure in a red cloak. He has steered clear of all of them.

He doesn't stray far from the stream, and Max continues to bring him frequent notes from Rapunzel — sometimes only hours apart, sometimes days.

Flynn

It does get lonely here when Mother is away

Max and Pascal are nice company

Do you live in the forest

Is it dangerous

Love Rapunzel

She rarely offers answers, but she asks all kinds of questions, and little scraps of paper aren't really enough to write tall tales on. He keeps it brief and (mostly) truthful.

Rapunzel,

Sometimes it's dangerous. There are Wanted men in the woods, I can confirm that much.

They're not too dangerous really. Most of what you hear from the Royal Guard is fabricated.

Do you live in town?

Flynn

Flynn,

I am not supposed to tell anyone where I can be found

It is too dangerous

Mother would be very upset if she knew I was sending letters

Max is very clever about only visiting when I am alone

I keep your letters hidden under a loose board in our staircase

Sometimes I am afraid Mother will find them

I am going to ask her one day if I can visit the forest or the town

I would like to see them

Are you good at painting Flynn

Can you paint things for me so I can see

Love Rapunzel

Flynn pieces together the painting Rapunzel has been writing her notes on. A green valley, trees and a waterfall and a tall stone tower. He's never seen it before in his life, but it gives him an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach all the same.

Sometimes, the things Rapunzel says in her letters keep his mind turning over at night. There are dark things written in those broken little sentences.

Rapunzel,

I'm no artist, I'm afraid. Why don't you meet me in town one day and I can show you around? I'd keep you safe. I think that mess with the fishing boats has finally died down, and I can show my face again.

The Lantern Festival is coming up. I was supposed to be working but — thanks to Max — I guess I need to find something else to do.

Would you like to see the lights with me?

Flynn

Flynn is balancing on a sturdy tree branch, trying to see if the nest twined into the fork above has any eggs in it. It's late in the spring and most of the breeding is over, but his stomach is empty and he's getting desperate for a meal.

He'll have to go back to town soon anyway — there's only so long a man can wander the woods before he starts attracting attention. Most of the time, it's easier to disappear in a crowd.

The swish and shiver of long grass beneath him catches his attention, and he looks down to see that mysterious figure in red again, carving a path through the wildflowers. Vague memories of the elderly Sisters at the orphanage surface in his mind for a moment — red riding hood, big bad wolf, don't wander the woods alone, children.

The figure disappears out of sight beyond a large boulder.

Flynn waits for a few minutes before he drops lightly to the ground and heads in the opposite direction.

"You Rider?" The bartender narrows one eye at him.

Flynn is suddenly grateful for the poor light on account of the grimy windows in the pub, and the fact that the Royal Guard still can't get his nose right. "Why would you ask that?" he says. "I'm much better looking than the guy on the posters."

"Stabbingtons are lookin' for ya," the bartender says gruffly. "Ain't too pleased. You'd better get lost. I don't wanna be on their bad side."

"Bad side is all they have," Flynn mutters. He drains his beer and heads back into the forest, leaving behind his only chance at a roof over his head.

Flynn

Do these lights appear on the same day every year

I think I have seen them from my window

It is important that I know when they come

I thought they were stars

Love Rapunzel

Flynn pulls out his ink and parchment — both stolen from a trading post on the King's Road. He sits under the shade of a large oak to compose his reply.

Rapunzel,

The lanterns appear on the summer solstice to mark the birth of the Lost Princess of Corona. If you're not from Corona perhaps you don't know the story.

It is a very good story, and I would like to tell it to you, but I think the effect would be lost if I had to write it down. I am a much better storyteller in person.

Flynn

He doesn't know why he's putting so much effort into trying to see this invisible girl. But he likes the way she signs all of her letters Love Rapunzel. Not to mention the way she seems so convinced that his world is full of danger makes him feel brave and exciting.

"Don't take so long, next time, huh?" he says to Max, carefully tying the new note to the pigeon's leg. "Three days is a bit much." He pokes Max in the chest. "And she's feeding you too much. Soon you'll be so fat you won't be able to fly."

Max pays him no heed. He sits and preens his feathers until the scroll is secure, and then he takes flight, fluttering out of sight over the sandstone cliffs.

A week before the Lantern Festival, Flynn catches sight of the Stabbington brothers on the King's Road. Their hoods are pulled in over their heads, so he can't see their faces, but he knows it's them.

They're paused at a tree displaying a fluttering Wanted poster. The nose is still wrong (the Captain of the Guard can't get anything right), but the name is right.

"I'll kill him," Stabbington mutters. "After we get the crown, I'll kill him."

Flynn runs a hand through his hair and contemplates trying to smooth things over, but he thinks that ship has sailed. Thanks to Max, plans have changed.

Flynn

I would like very much to go and see the lanterns

But I am afraid Mother will not let me go

I have not told her about you

She will be furious if she finds out

I think perhaps I had better stop writing to you

Love Rapunzel

Flynn's heart sinks. There are two smudges on the ink — tears, maybe — and the back of the parchment is not torn from the valley painting. It's new; a little sketch of a lone figure with impossibly long blonde hair, gazing up at the parade of lanterns into the sky.

"She's as good at emotional manipulation as you are," Flynn says to Max. He feels uncomfortable and sad. He doesn't want Rapunzel's letters to stop. They're nothing too substantial, but they're always delivered without fail (Max must like her a lot), and they cheer him up as he's in hiding, waiting for whenever it's safe to head back into town.

He only has a handful of lines to know her by, really, but he likes Rapunzel.

He wanders the path without a particular destination in mind. Max sits on his shoulder silently, apparently just as upset as he is at the thought of no more letters from Rapunzel.

The stream is ahead, and he thinks he may as well camp there again tonight, when suddenly he sees the cloaked figure again.

He ducks behind a tree and observes quietly. They carry a basket on one arm, and they walk in such a way they appear to be gliding. Flynn follows carefully, keeping his distance, but he loses sight of the figure at a large boulder.

He glances around at the granite lumps and sandstone cliffs and winding paths between the trees, but he's the only soul there.

"Where'd she go?" he asks, annoyed.

Max coos and ruffles his feathers, taking off up over the cliff, leaving Flynn alone.

"Great," Flynn mutters. "Who knows when you'll be back?" He adjusts the strap of his satchel across his chest and heads back to the stream to compose a letter to Rapunzel.

He tears a long strip of parchment, hoping it won't be too cumbersome for Max to carry. He frowns down at his quill. "Doesn't matter how short the parchment is," he sighs to himself. "Weight will come from the truth."

Rapunzel,

Please don't stop writing. I look forward to your letters. Sometimes there's not a lot to look forward to out here.

If you need to keep your secrets, I promise I am very good at keeping secrets too. I haven't told a soul about you.

I would like to take you to the lights. I think perhaps you don't get out of the tower much, which is a great shame. There are a lot of wonderful things to see and do.

The Lantern Festival would be a perfect introduction to Corona. The lights are very beautiful, but there is also a lot of good food, and music, and people come from as far as Limia to pay tribute to the lost princess.

Her name is Rapunzel too.

He stops here, his ink blotching the parchment. His heart is beating fast and his palms are sweaty. The puzzle pieces of Rapunzel's valley painting fall into place in his mind: the tower, the high cliffs, Mother won't let me leave, Mother says the outside world is dangerous — and the lone figure in the red cloak who always manages to disappear right from under his nose.

He shivers. When he was a kid, he believed all the old stories of magic — dragons in the mountains, trolls under bridges, mermaids in the sea and flowers grown from sunlight. Story time was the only thing worth staying at the orphanage for. The older Sisters — the ones who had been alive for the reign of King Thomas' grandfather — loved to frighten the younger children by telling them of all the terrors the outside world held.

The big bad wolf will eat you up if you go into the forest, they had said. Stay within the walls and listen to the Sisters, and you will be safe.

Still, even if Rapunzel's mother did tell her terrible things to try and keep her confined to the tower, it didn't mean Rapunzel was the Rapunzel. The name had shot to popularity after the princess was born. Flynn has met dozens of Rapunzels. The name is utterly unremarkable now.

Flynn crumples the letter and stuffs it into his satchel, staggering to his feet. The sun is starting to set, but he can't possibly sleep with his mind so full.

He heads back to where he so often loses the figure in the red cloak — the large boulder and the rising cliffs.

Max is nowhere to be seen. He's probably preening himself on Rapunzel's shoulder, being fed tasty morsels and having his tiny feathered head filled with ridiculous notions of his own cleverness.

Flynn mutters curses at him as he pushes and shoves at the boulder, trying to move it. He walks around the cliffs, looking for hidden crevices or caves or places he can climb. When he comes to a curtain of ivy he grabs hold of it and tries to heave himself up — but his boots can't find purchase on the rock beneath, and he falls flat on his back, his legs lost somewhere through the trailing vines, the stars twinkling back at him.

"What…" He sits up and parts the leaves, feeling a cool rush of air on his face. It's hard to contain his excitement as he crawls through into the dark, feeling his way until he emerges at the other side, the moonlight spilling down into the valley, shining off the mist of the waterfall and the white stone walls of the tower.

A light glows in the window. Flynn keeps close to the base of the cliff as he moves closer. The tower is impossibly high — higher than he had imagined, and the tunnel through the cliff appears to be the only way in or out of the valley.

Unless you have wings.

Flynn finds Max roosting in a tangle of blackberry brambles, the branches heavy with fat berries.

"Typical," Flynn mutters, settling himself down in the grass and popping a couple of berries into his mouth. "You've got juice all over your feathers."

Max blinks at him sleepily, his white breast stained with purple juice. Flynn checks, but there's no note from Rapunzel tied to his leg. He leans back against the cliff, which is still warm from the day's sun, and watches the tower.

The sun is climbing its way down the tower, high enough now to finally reach into the valley. Flynn stretches and rubs his stomach, cursing himself for eating such a large helping of berries and nothing else.

At the sound of the wooden shutters being thrown open, Flynn shrinks further back into the blackberries. The thorns scratch at his skin, but he can't risk being seen yet. Nothing has been confirmed, but the tower and the valley and the snippets from Rapunzel's notes have all added up to give him a very bad feeling.

He watches, but there's no further activity from the tower. He's too far away to hear anything, but his eyes are sharp, and he keeps them trained on the window for any movement.

When the sun has finally climbed into the valley properly, and it's hot and bright and shining off the little stream running through the green grass, Flynn spots a figure at the window.

He watches in disbelief as the woman in the red cloak is carefully lowered from the upper window on a shiny golden rope of hair. He pulls out the wistful lantern picture Rapunzel had sent him — the girl with the impossibly long hair, sitting and watching the floating lights.

He watches the woman in the red cloak pause and wave back at the tower before she disappears into the opening in the cliff. The shining gold hair is slowly pulled up into the tower again, and there is no further movement.

Max ruffles his feathers and looks at Flynn expectantly.

"Okay," Flynn says quietly. "I don't think you've ever had trouble delivering notes to Rapunzel before…" He pulls his quill out of his satchel. "But I'm going to say it anyway, Max. It's really, really important you deliver this one to the right person."

He scratches out the note carefully. It's only short, but it's important, and he can feel his heart racing as he blows on the ink to dry it.

Rapunzel,

Let down your hair.

Love Flynn.