a/n: based off the movie, with references to the show, which i've recently started watching and is way better than it has any right to be.

Flynn is three mugs of ale deep when the girl sidles up to him and plunks herself down in the nearest stool. He doesn't bother to hide his quick appraisal of her. She's pretty, with full-figured curves and eyes as blue as the sapphires he once pocketed off some poor jeweler. "You're Flynn Rider," she says in an awed voice. "Aren't you?"

He puffs out his chest and gives her the best smolder he can muster, given that the walls of the tavern are starting to look a little topsy-turvy. "You've caught me red-handed."

The girl wraps a strand of curly brown hair around her finger. "Actually, I think you've caught me," she teases. Her lips are very red. "I'm Daisy."

"Daisy," he repeats. "Well, now that I've got you, what am I going to do with you?"

The rest of the night is a blur, sloppy and tinged with alcohol, and it culminates with him waking in a strange bedroom.

He blinks and looks down at the warm body sprawled atop his. It takes him a moment to remember the name of the girl with the vacant smile etched across her face. Flynn nudges her off him and sits up, rubbing at a crick in his neck. The soreness can't tamp down his good mood; as he slips into last night's clothes, he revels in the afterglow of putting another notch in his belt.

He's halfway out the door when he spots the poster pinned up on her wall.

Well. Someone's got himself a fangirl.

The paper is yellowed and crinkled at the edges, but otherwise in good condition. His nose is drawn slightly better than most renditions (though it still doesn't hold a candle to the real thing, in Flynn's not-so-humble-opinion). She's doodled hearts around his face in a loopy, girlish scrawl. A little sentimental, but oh well.

The smirk on his face stretches a mile wide. Okay, maybe it's a tad creepy, but he really just feels flattered. Flynn's well aware of the reputation he's cultivated with the ladies of the kingdom, and he preens himself on the achievement.

Behind him, Daisy finally stirs. "Flynn? You're up?"

"Rise and shine."

"Can I cook you breakfast?"

Flynn pauses. He can leave now, let her become another in a long list of strangers. But he likes the star-struck way that Daisy looks at him; after all, she is in the presence of the kingdom's most dashing thief. It can't hurt to stay for a bit of grub.

As she cracks eggs and whips them in a wooden bowl, she pleads for Flynn to spill the stories of the swashbuckling she's heard so much about. "You're a legend around here," Daisy gushes, much to his gratification. "The girls won't believe it when I tell them I was swept off my feet by Flynn Rider! Come on, tell me everything—is it true you once broke out of prison with nothing but a stolen brooch?"

So he does. It's nice to have a captive audience. Flynn's always had a knack for storytelling. He relays her greatest hits: stealing a priceless painting by swapping it out for a cheap copy, narrowly avoiding getting caught by the collective armed forces of the city of Vardaros, and of course, the time he schmoozed his way into some aristocrat's wedding and made off with the ring (of course, not without winning over the blushing bride first). Daisy ooh's and aah's at the appropriate moments, and claps her hands together at the conclusions. It's self-indulgent, even for him. His ego thoroughly massaged, Flynn finds himself feeling a tad more open than usual.

"There was one winter," he says, "when the Corona orphanage was facing food shortages. Me and my buddy Lance, we made off with four whole crates of fruit from the farmer's market and left it in their courtyard." Almost as soon as it's out of his mouth, Flynn wants to take his words back. Has he said too much? Given away any piece of his past—Eugene's past?

He doesn't look up in time to catch Daisy's frown. "That's, um, really cool, I guess."

"Yeah." He pushes his worries out of his thoughts, allowing the memory of the good deed to warm his chest like a shot of hard liquor. He doesn't have many like it. "The kids there were smart about it. We couldn't have just dropped it off at their doorstep; matrons would have traced it back to the merchant and seized it." Without thinking, he says, "God, those matrons were one hell of a pain in my side."

Daisy blinks at him, wide-eyed. "How do you know what the matrons were-"

Realizing his mistake, he abruptly cuts her off. "So we told the kids to distribute it among themselves and dispose of the crates as soon as they could."

"Uh-huh." Daisy chews at her bottom lip. "Did you get anything else out of it?"

He knits his eyebrows. "Well… no. We were just trying to help them out." He's only ever done something like that once, and even now he can't quite explain his rationale. For all the pomp and swagger, Flynn knows that ultimately, most people see him as lawless scum. There's a life that's reserved for the do-gooders and heroes of the world, one that's clean and tidy and bright, and it's one he'll never be a part of. And he's okay with that. So he doesn't know why he felt the urge to feed the orphanage—he wasn't trying to seek out virtue or prove he was more than criminal riffraff. But he did do it, and he doesn't regret it.

Daisy picks at a fingernail, oblivious to his thoughts. "Okay."

After they polish off the meal, Flynn takes Daisy around to a few of his usual haunts. It's not until the initial shine of her compliments has worn off that Flynn realizes it's actually not very fun to talk to Daisy at all, and he reminds himself why he's always kept his flings short and meaningless. Trying to have a conversation with Daisy is a bit like conversing with an actual daisy.

Still—he's never attempted a real relationship. He could be missing out. Try anything once, he tells himself.

Over the course of the week, it becomes crystal clear to him that Daisy is exclusively interested in Flynn Rider. Or, more specifically, the carefully constructed version of Flynn Rider that he's spent the better part of his life honing, and all the glamor and excitement that comes along with it.

And it shouldn't be a problem. Because he is Flynnigan Rider, suave and smooth, the guy who knows his way out of every situation and has the power to make any girl swoon. Eugene is just a faded memory that he wants to erase from his mind.

If that's true, then why do you have to watch who you are around her?

Shut up, inner voice.

They date for two weeks. The sex is good, and it's nice to wake up next to the same body nestled beside him day after day, yet anytime they're not in bed, he just feels exhausted. Exhaustion is a foreign sensation and he doesn't like it one bit. For once, he actually tires of telling his stories. They're not all tales of excitement and victory—there were times when his plans fell through and everything went down in flames, but he doubts Daisy wants to hear those, or that he would enjoy recounting them for her.

Daisy never wants to stay in or even go anywhere remotely private. Whenever he doesn't feel like taking her into town, she pouts until he gives in. If he's honest with himself, he's not sure whether he feels annoyed or relieved—he doesn't really want to spend one-on-one time with Daisy. It's just one of those things that couples do, he supposes. The whole thing makes him feel downright ridiculous and only confirms his belief that he wasn't built for a relationship.

Soon enough, Flynn's on the verge of ripping his hair out, and that would be a human goddamn tragedy. He can no longer remember why he attempted any of this. Ever since the orphanage, it hasn't felt natural to stay in the same place for too long, or to have someone clinging by his side like a barnacle.

It's a warm spring morning when he finally makes up his mind. With Daisy sound asleep in bed, her chest rising and falling with every light snore, Flynn does what he should have done two weeks ago. He slips his few belongings into his satchel, jumps out the window, lands noiselessly on his feet, and goes on his way. Flynn doesn't do goodbyes.