A/N: I just...wanted to write something cliched, heh. Set after Thank Goodness and before Wicked Witch of the East.
The Weight of You
Somehow, Fiyero always ends up here, at the same seedy establishment full of suspicious gazes and watered-down beer. He hates this place, probably almost as much as he hates his job, but he's not stupid enough to risk getting recognized in any other place frequented by the rest of the Gale Force.
His thoughts never vary much when he drinks, and it always boils back to her, which he hates. He thinks of the Animals who sneak themselves into the city, desperate for a job, any job, and the way he tosses them back out like their lives don't matter. He thinks of the Resistance that smuggles those hapless creatures back in anyway. He thinks of the never-ending rumours and false sightings of the Witch the Witch the Witch that he is obliged to chase down and drag back in irons.
His job scope is wide, but her reach is wider.
He thinks that he might still love her, or at least what he remembers of her, but he also half-hates her as well. If not for her, he might have turned out to be the most loyal Captain the Wizard has ever known, the sweetest lover that Glinda has always deserved, but he is none of those. Even years later — after she ran off and couldn't be bothered to get into contact with her closest friends even once, who worried themselves sick about her day and night — everything is still all about her.
Fiyero snorts into his glass, a sneer curling his lips as he stares at his own tiny, wavering reflection in the pungent brew. He is pathetic, and he doesn't even know how to be anything else.
.
.
.
The funny thing is that it is her hair that ends up giving her away, and not the skin she was always so self-conscious about.
He finds himself almost transfixed by the dark tresses tumbling down the woman's back, and a full minute passes before he realises he is staring. He blinks, takes another gulp of beer, and the spell is broken. How many women have hair like that? The rhetorical question is sour even in his mind. His obsession is bordering on unhealthy, if it hasn't already leapt headfirst into the deep end, but just because he knows he is addicted doesn't make it any easier to break the habit.
The woman turns then, clearly having finished her conversation, and Fiyero's eyes narrow at the brief glimpse he gets of her profile, stark against the light. It actually feels like his heart stutters and skips a beat before continuing at a more frantic pace, and he's standing before he's even conscious of moving, the stool clattering to the floor behind him. Everyone turns, even her, and he feels frozen in place as a pair of sharp eyes pierce him where he stands.
"Wait —" He stumbles, kicking the toppled stool aside, and when he sees her start to run, all he can hear is a surreal roaring in his ears. He grabs her arm hard, and he is so desperate, so furious, that he ignores the muffled hiss of pain that comes when he wrenches her around to face him. Tilted dark eyes glare back at him, and her cheeks are flushed darkly against her skin. She is harder, sharper, angrier, sadder, than he remembers her; she is more, but he still knows her at once.
It's her, it's Elphaba Elphaba Elphaba.
Even through his raging thoughts, his instincts don't desert him, and he is all too conscious of being watched, some gazes benign and others less so. He hisses out a soft, "Come on," through gritted teeth, and pulls her along behind him to the back of the bar, halting in the corridor that leads to the bathrooms. It smells of waste and vomit, but he doesn't care, not with the woman who won't leave his mind standing right in front of him.
"It's you." It is all he can think to say, and he falls silent, never relaxing his hold on her because she reminds him so much of those arrested Animals, who would sooner clobber him over the head the moment his attention is diverted than go quietly with the Gale Force. She has the same wariness and defiance in her eyes, and part of him wonders how they've come to this.
"Fiyero —" She sounds incredibly tired, as if she's the one who's spent years searching for him, but she's stopped trying to pull away at least. "I have to go. I have things to do."
His blood boils at that, and he knows that she can feel it. He can see it in the way her head tilts upwards fractionally, insolently, as if she doesn't feel the same confusion and exhilaration that he does at seeing each other again. But perhaps she doesn't — perhaps he's been the fool this whole time, endlessly missing her while she's been moving on with her life, moving on from him.
"Did you even give a damn about me after you left? About us?" he snarls, slamming his palm into the wall by her head, and he has the pleasure of seeing her flinch, even if only a fraction of an inch. He means to include Glinda and Nessa and Boq in that us, but the way he says it makes it sound like he's talking about the messed-up, unrealised affection between the two of them instead. His eyes slide shut for a moment as he sucks in a breath to calm himself.
She doesn't reply, only watches him with her hooded gaze, unreadable and closed-off in a way that reminds him of the time he saw her at the Ozdust. She makes him feel childish and ridiculous for that outburst of emotion, and he just wishes for a moment that she would show something, even if it's just disdain or plain hatred, because that might actually be better than not knowing where he stands with her right now.
Maybe it's the alcohol acting for him then, or maybe it's really just him and his own desires, but he bends ever so slightly and all but crashes his lips onto hers. She stiffens with surprise, a muffled protest coming from her throat, before her hand slides up his neck and roughly pulls him closer to her. Their kiss is full of need and emotion, searing but brief, and Fiyero can't help but groan in protest when she abruptly pulls away, her breath still hot against his skin.
"Elphaba…"
For a moment, he feels a cool, regretful touch on his cheek, before he is shoved backwards and away from her. He stumbles and almost falls, and by the time he regains his footing, she is gone.
.
.
.
The next time, she is the one to approach him.
The hair on the back of his neck stands in the short moment before her hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder. Without turning, he abandons his drink and rises from his seat to follow her, like an actor taking his cue and carrying out a well-rehearsed move. They barely manage to reach the same corner as before when her lips are already on his, her tongue swiping across his bottom lip and her fingers tangling in his hair, as if this isn't only the second time but already an age-old routine that they both know all too well. He growls, one arm tightening around her waist as he melts into her kiss in a way that tells her everything she's ever wanted to know.
They are both flushed and panting when they part, but neither of them smile. His eyes drink her in hungrily, storing everything about her in his memories till the next time they meet — the way her eyes glow slightly in the half-darkness, the way she doesn't look away from him even when a stranger behind him shuffles slowly back to the bar, the subtle curve of her waist and hips beneath his palms, the heaving of her chest that belies her impassive expression, the strands of flyaway hair matted against her forehead and neck.
Before him, pressed against the wall with her head tilted back to bare her slender neck, she looks like a woman well-loved, or perhaps one well-lusted after, and yet she looks no more vulnerable than she's ever been. She still looks hard and harsh, her eyes flinty, like his presence has done nothing to soften her, and her innocence has been lost too long ago to ever be retrieved.
He can't find it in himself to be angry at her then, only infinitely sorry, because time has clearly been much kinder to him than it has been to her.
He startles when her hand slides down the length of his arm and her fingers twine with his, and he feels the moment she freezes, sees her look down before the realisation sparks in her eyes. Her index finger runs along the cool metal of the ring that he suddenly, inexplicably hates, and for a moment the air around them is suffocating, like there is a third person in the corner with them.
He blinks, his mouth half-open to say something, anything, but it is too late, because she has already slipped out of his grasp anyway.
.
.
.
The first time he takes her, it is against the very same wall where they have shared numerous kisses and touches, because she refuses to go anywhere else with him. She won't explain her refusal, because he has never been privileged enough to deserve an explanation from her about anything, but he thinks he sees shame and embarrassment in her expression the only time he tries to ask, so he never asks again.
Instead, he presses feather-light kisses against her eyelids and her nose and her neck, his hands on her hips and her legs hitched up around his, with the dull murmur of bawdy conversation just beyond the thin walls of the passageway. When he first thrusts into her with a grunt and hears her soft intake of breath against the shell of his ear, all he can think of is Glinda oh Glinda, I'm sorry please forgive me please and for the first time, he feels like he might understand the guilt that flashes across her face sometimes, whenever she sees the gleam of silver on his hand.
She arches against him and moans as he rocks within her, and the erotic purr deep in her throat is loud in his ear. Her long skirt is bunched up uncomfortably between them, a barrier between their bodies, but he tries to ignore that and tries to give her all his passion and desire and love — but is it really still love? — as if he can imbue everything he is feeling into the very core of her being.
Then she shudders and clenches around him and gives a muffled cry against his shoulder that he thinks might be his name, but he can't really be sure, and he feels a hot spurt of release and the breath that he's been holding finally escapes in a rush of jumbled syllables that she pretends not to hear. Almost immediately, her legs unwind from around him and she lets go, her face unemotional again as she allows her skirt to tumble down the length of her limbs. Still, she rests against the wall for a moment longer like she doesn't trust her legs to support her quite yet, and traces the contours of his face with a finger the way she often likes to do.
She waits till Fiyero does up the last button on his pants before speaking, and his gaze rises to meet hers in a mixture of surprise and caution. They really are more similar than they realise.
"You're the Captain, aren't you? You guard the Wizard's palace."
He inclines his head in a silent answer and an equally silent question, and the worst thing is that he knows, he knows why she is asking, because he is close enough and familiar enough to see the calculating glint and the sheer intensity of her determination in her eyes. The worst thing is that he answers her anyway, truthfully and wearily and with resignation lacing every one of his words.
And the worst thing is that when he finally finds the energy to walk back out into the smoky, dusty interior, she is nowhere to be found, but at least it's no longer unexpected.
.
.
.
He is not on duty when the Wizard dies, nor when part of the palace caves in at some point during her short battle with the meagre number of guards that arrive to find the old man's lifeless body. The number of fatalities is five, including an old goat — or Goat, perhaps, since there is no longer really any way to tell — who somehow managed to get caught in the crossfire. Glinda only suffers a broken leg and a number of scratches, having been on her way to investigate the commotion but not having reached the inner chambers before the destruction occurred.
They meet at the same place, as always, but he is waiting for her this time. She looks the same as always, calm and unruffled, but his eyes are icier and his shoulders tenser as he watches her slow approach, like a feline stalking its prey. He feels betrayed, even though he saw the betrayal coming, even though he all but gave her licence to carry out the betrayal.
She stops a foot away and makes no move to touch him, because she has always been too perceptive for her own good, too perceptive when it comes to him in particular. There is a fragile silence in the small bubble of private emotions surrounding them for a long moment, until he breaks it with three harsh words.
"You hurt her."
"I know." She knows who he means by her. Her sooty lashes sweep downwards as her gaze falters for the first time, perhaps the only sign of contrition he will ever get from her, and it's not even meant for him. Has he ever even meant anything to her?
"They're looking for you."
She doesn't reply, but she knows that too, and they both know that unless he chooses otherwise, this will be goodbye. For once, he holds the power in his hands, and just for a second, he allows himself to imagine a possible future for them — but the Elphaba in his future smiles, and he doesn't know if the one before him remembers how to; the Elphaba in his future is kind, but he wonders if the pain has been ingrained so deeply into her that she will only ever know how to be cruel.
Maybe he can change her, but maybe he doesn't want to.
This time, he is the one who leaves, and this time, she is the one who stands there blankly in the wake of his decision.
.
.
.
The next morning, Madame Morrible is found dead in her bed with a stab wound through her heart.
Fiyero doesn't return to the bar that night, or the next, but she doesn't wait, and he never sees her again.