A/N: A short, Emily-was-bored-and-near-a-computer-late-at-night thing.
Elphaba Thropp cannot be pregnant. She can't. Because if she is, everything would be ruined, and she would tumble off the edge of the precipice that she and all those around her are precariously balanced on.
She would have to leave the cause, and since it has taken her over, filled her up where she was empty, she does not know what she would do. And Fiyero. He is leaving, this is an interlude, but this- a child- would make it real. It can't be real. She is not real.
She is in danger, mortal danger, every day of her life. This can't happen, not to her; hasn't she given enough of herself to the world, yet?
So she ignores it, but that doesn't make it go away.
She leaves earlier in the mornings and vomits into the snow in the alley beside her makeshift flat, and continues on her way, pretending that it didn't happen. She is very good at that.
She ignores the slight pressure at the waists of her dresses, attributes it to the chocolates Fiyero brings. Ignores the fact that she has always eaten whatever she wanted and remained thin as a twig, ignores the fact that it is only the front of her belly that expands, and only slightly. Ignores it when she doesn't bleed when she is supposed to.
Elphaba Thropp isn't good at playacting. But she is very good at pretending. She has never lied, but she finds she is quite gifted at lying to herself. That if she tells herself she is fine enough times, it won't be true, but she will start to believe it. That the human brain will let itself ignore what it wants.
While she used to be able to stay up until all hours and wake, alert, at six, she finds herself nodding off now. While she used to be able to go for long periods without food and not notice it, she finds herself hungry for the strangest things. While always before, she has eaten anything that is available, she finds herself nauseated by foods and smells that never bothered her before.
But she pretends she doesn't. She pretends it doesn't matter. She pretends she doesn't know.
Systematically, methodically, thoroughly, she wipes her mind clean of her secret knowledge. She wipes it so clean, that when she falls into oblivion, when she wakes up and is confronted by a squalling dark haired infant, several months old already, with charcoal curls and bright sapphire eyes that hurt her lacerated heart to look at, she can't convince herself of the truth.
She pretends she doesn't know, in the back of her mind.
She pretends she doesn't care.
Because she can't open herself again, she can't.
Everyone she has ever loved was ripped away.
And to survive, she pretends it doesn't matter.
