Lengths

Summary: Fiyero had asked the Governor's daughter if she, per chance, knew where her sister was—twice, in fact—and both times, he'd thought to himself: it's amazing what lengths we go to.


001.

He'd said, "You're Elphaba's sister, right?"

"…Nessarose."

"Right."

And he'd stared at her.

He'd suddenly felt very out of place, standing there, having swallowed his nonchalance, his usual cool. He was standing in a library—a library, of all places—and he hadn't stepped foot in a library for years, and he'd spoken to this person, this girl, who—

Who was this girl?

"You're Elphaba's sister, right?"

"…Is there something you'd like from me, Master Tiggular?"

"No! No, it's just…you're—"

"I'm Elphaba's sister; yes. I'm sorry, Master Tiggular, but I was trying to…study…"

She'd kept such composure, her spine erect in that huge, bulky chair and her eyes slightly downcast, her dark, dark fascinating eyes with their odd sort of depth. Like he'd never really know who she was.

"…so, if you'd kindly speak with me some other time—"

"Do you know where she is?" he'd blurted without hesitation.

She'd brushed a lock of the smoothest, strangest hair he'd ever laid eyes on behind one ear and she'd inhaled and shifted in her chair.

He'd interrupted her.

"I apologize, Miss…"

"Nessarose."

Just pretend she's a girl, he'd said to himself. She is a girl. She's a girl. Remember? Girls?

"So," he'd said all of a sudden, and he'd sat right down across from her at the small study table, ever so suave, "Miss Nessarose. You're Elphaba's sister."

She had not looked amused.

"Yes," she'd said, and that composure, that practiced tolerance, had come out through a carefully crafted funnel of a single syllable, not allowing any emotion to escape.

Her eyes were like tunnels, he decided. Deep, narrow tunnels, light barely visible from one side to the other.

She was creepy, he'd decided, with that headband and those leg braces and—

"I thought you were with Galinda."

And he'd snapped out of his thoughts—he'd been thinking—and he'd remembered Galinda.

"Oh," he'd said. "Yes, I'm with Galinda. We just went to the OzDust a couple days ago—the dance."

He'd studied her tunnels for eyes and her headband and her face—a neatly, almost elegantly chiseled face, a face—

"You were there, too, weren't you? With the Munchkin boy—"

"Boq," she'd said, and she'd almost cracked a smile.

"Boq," he'd repeated, triumphant, at last regaining some sense of his cool self, his careless, wry grin. "You were there with Boq, in a nice dress—pink. I liked it. And then you skipped the old goat's class the next day—very naughty, if I do say so myself. Tell me; what exactly were you doing, and did you hear about the debacle—or…the mess that went on in there that day?"

She'd listened to his well-rehearsed luring speech with half-interested courtesy, and she hadn't giggled at his jokes; she'd only placed her pen in a neat little pouch on the table and gathered up her few outspread papers, waiting for him to finish. And then she'd said, "Debacle," in a clear but quiet voice. "Not mess."

He'd looked at her, his signature clouded expression covering his face, and he'd thought she seemed quite similar to her sister, and yet so, so different.

"What are you talking about, Miss Nessarose?"

"My sister must have taken an interest in you," she'd said, and she'd almost smiled again. "Elphaba likes challenges."

Still playing clouded.

"It's all right, Master Tiggular," she'd whispered. "It's all right to be intelligent." And then she'd trained her eyes on him and lowered her voice even farther when she'd said, "You don't have to be that with me."

"And how did you notice?"

"Well, you can say a lot of things about me, Master Tigg—"

"Fiyero."

"Fiyero," she'd complied, nodding her head as if they were introducing themselves then. "You can say a lot of things about me, but I notice things."

He'd looked into her tunnels for eyes.

"Do you know where she is?"

"I don't," Nessarose had said, and she'd begun to wheel away. "We don't have many classes together." And then she'd added, "And I'd advise you not to go looking for her."

"Well, why not?" he'd pressed, standing up.

"That would just be a…debacle," she'd uttered. "A mess."

"Don't you want her to be happy?"

"I'm not sure that you're good for her," Nessarose had stated, without conviction; the statement was weak. "I'm not sure that…you just…do whatever you want, Fiyero."

"Nessarose…" She'd been maneuvering her chair about the bookshelves, getting herself away from him. "I don't love Galinda. And she doesn't love me."

Nessarose had stopped. "She may think she does."

"She doesn't."

"She does! She—Fiyero, please, I don't even know you…"

"He doesn't love you," he'd shouted. "Boq doesn't love you."

And time had halted, because this had made her fall silent, and they'd also been standing in a generally quiet library.

"He doesn't love you; he was just...he..."

But Fiyero had to stop.

She'd been so affected; her chest had concaved into the back of her chair and her knuckles had gone white on the wheels. And her face had been a bizarre, blank canvas that managed to portray a sense of rage and devastation and resignation just by freezing its porcelain features.

He'd been thinking, at that moment; he'd been too perceptive, too astute. These Thropp girls were—dare he say it—changing him, ever since the lion cub, and that little slice of time he'd had with Elphaba.

"And what is your purpose in telling me that?" Nessarose Thropp had seethed, dangerously low. Her features still had hardly moved.

"I'm telling you that it's not going to work out."

"That's exactly what I'm telling you. And you're going to go to great lengths to try to make it work out, and it's just not going to—"

"Exactly my point."

"So listen to me!"

"You're a walking contradiction, Nessarose Thropp."

She'd glanced away from him as it stung, slowly prying her hands off the sides of her wheelchair, and he'd realized what a slip he'd made.

"Oh, Nessa…" he'd said, "I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant, Master Tiggular. It's fine."

She'd straightened and tucked her hair behind her ear, and she'd kept her tunnel eyes averted from him. "Are we done illustrating each other now?"

He'd gulped. "I'm sorry, Nessa."

"Don't be."

And as he'd begun to stride away, disillusioned and determined, he'd thought of himself and Nessarose Thropp when he'd said, "Look, I still am going to have to find her," and he'd thought to himself: Oz, it's amazing what lengths we go to.

Nessarose had nodded, so knowing, and laughed humorlessly. "I know."

He'd said, "I'll check Galinda's dorm," and then he was gone, ever so cool.

He'd felt guilty—and somewhat incomplete—when he'd left that girl alone again.