A/N: Helloooo people of the internet!
This is my first fic ever (woahhh) and hopefully not my last, so I really hope you all like it! It's pretty short and simple, but its been on my mind for a while and I just really wanted to write it down.
Do I need disclaimers? I see some people always have them, and others never do...but I'd rather be safe than sorry. In any case, there is someone out there who owns Wicked, but I *warms up singing voice* am not that girl.
Elphaba Thropp had always loved baking.
It wasn't simply because of the treats that always emerged from the oven, sweet to the taste and warm to the touch, although she certainly couldn't complain about the outcome; it also wasn't just because of the time it afforded to be free from the world's harassment, even if she did relish the escape for a short while.
No, her love of crafting goodies for her sister and for herself stemmed primarily from one key ingredient: flour. The snowy, granulated fluff had a strange hold on her, and while she knew it was silly, she couldn't deny its powerful fascination.
For as long as she could remember, sifting the flour was a step of its own. She never needed a measuring cup; she knew just how much was required by a single scoop of her hands. She would reach into the ceramic tub, white coating her skin up to her wrists, and watch it rain through her fingers as she lifted her cloudy arms.
They were doused in white, and that was how she wanted it. True, they didn't possess the soft, pink and tan blend of her sister and father—but they were pale, and normal, and bore a temporary mask for any stray splotch of repulsive green.
She did not clean her hands before she gingerly folded the flour into the mix, but watched them as they stirred, tightly clasped around a wooden spoon. It reminded her of the times her mother would bake, concocting delectable aromas while humming a bittersweet tune. She always looked so beautiful then, and Elphaba liked to imagine, just for a moment, that she could be half as beautiful as her mother once was. In a practiced imitation, she would hum softly as she went about her work; and if she stared hard enough, in just the right light, her hands became as porcelain and perfect as her mother's were.
For the final step of her routine, Elphaba would always watch as the last starkly-white patch of flour dissolved into the creamy dough. It always fell in with such a contrast, but, after some gentle prodding, was eagerly accepted by the rest of the mix. She wished she could be more like the flour—strikingly different at the start, but soon welcomed and acknowledged for her goodness and importance.
But the truth was that she was not a simple, inert object, nor was her skin powdery-pale. She was Elphaba, the green girl; Elphaba, who, despite her silent pleas for normalcy, would always have her dreams cleaned away like the flour on her hands at the end of a baking reverie.