If the Shoe Fits

Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked.

Thank you everyone for the enthusiastic reception of the first chapter. Hopefully this does not disappoint.

Summary: Fiyero's found the girl of his dreams, only he has nothing to go by but a first name and her ungainly choice of footwear. She's beautiful and impassioned and just being around her makes him feel like he's finally awake. Only she's not quite all she appears to be. Fiyeraba. AU.

If the Shoe Fits - Boy Meets Girl

"I must say, Prince Tiggelaar," some girl tittered in his ear, giggling drunkenly, "you throw a wonderful *hic* party."

"I do, don't I?" Fiyero agreed immodestly. He didn't need drunken girls complimenting him to know it was a fact; Fiyero was well aware of his finer traits, and party planning was certainly one of them.

He spun the girl around the dance floor, being careful not to move too quickly for fear that it might make her nauseous and ruin the outfit he'd spent so long crafting. His Munchkin-blue frock coat perfectly complimented his eyes, and the gold brocade waistcoat brought out the golden hue of his skin tone. His cream breaches and white shirt were a perfect compliment to these, and his polished leather boots a fine finishing touch.

He waved as he spotted Avaric across the room, surrounded by a large crowd of women. Avaric had taken it upon himself to organize his dance card for the evening, and the young women – apparently all incredibly cultured and well-bred ladies – were doing anything short of sexual favours just to get on the list. Avaric gave him a nod towards his next dance partner and Fiyero grimaced in reply.

He bid adieu to his current dance partner, giving her a quick bow before making his way across the dance floor towards a slightly plump Vinkan girl. This would be a dance of obligation rather than pleasure, although admittedly there were worse people he could be dancing with at the moment.

'Speaking of which . . .' he thought painfully to himself as a short redheaded girl cut into his path. "Oh look, we found each other," she said boisterously, her curly red hair staying frighteningly still as she bounced in the balls of her feet.

Fiyero covered his pained expression, plastering a fake smile filled with all kinds of appeasements. "I guess we did," he agreed charmingly, running a hand through his sandy hair. "And here I was, not even aware I was looking for anyone."

"Shall we take our dance, Master Tiggular?" she tittered, batting her lashes in a disconcerting manner.

"I'm not sure I'm free to dance, Miss Rosterdam," he replied, faking distress

"Of course you are," she replied. "I already booked you.

"And please," she added, leaning closer to him than was proper, "call me ShenShen."

Fiyero grimaced before awkwardly settling his features into something more neutral. "Are you sure, Miss ShenShen?" he asked her politely. "Avaric didn't sa-"

"Not with Tenmeadows," she muttered derisively, cutting him off before he could say more. "I've booked you myself. No point going through some interloper, no?"

Fiyero looked somewhat amused and wondered if she even knew what the word 'interloper' meant. "I'm sorry, Miss ShenShen," he said, feigning sympathy, "but it wouldn't be fair on the other girls for me to dance with you right now. This dance has already been promised."

"Pssh," ShenShen answered in response. "She's not here, so why wait? I'm here, and I –"

"Excuse me," a voice cut in politely, and Fiyero turned gratefully to face the Vinkan blonde. "I believe this is my dance," she told them both.

"Really?" ShenShen asked. "Says who?"

"Only Master Tenmeadows," the blonde replied, keeping surprising cool given the circumstances. "I was led to believe he had complete authority over Prince Fiyero's dance card this evening."

Fiyero silently thanked the Unnamed God (not that he subscribed to the Unionist drivel) for her good breeding. Had she been as "well-bred" as Miss Rosterdam (and the Gillikinese had the pomposity to call them uncouth), he might have had a catfight on his hands. Instead the blonde just glared icy daggers at the redhead.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Sarima," he greeted enthusiastically, hoping to break the tension with forced graciousness.

Sarima barely glanced in his direction, sending him a shy smile before glaring dangerously at Miss ShenShen. "I don't mean to be rude," she said in a painfully polite manner, "but I must insist on taking this dance."

"Must you?" ShenShen asked blandly. "The dance is already half over. You might as well allow Fiyero and I to continue our talk. You're clearly not wanted here, Miss –"

"Sarima," the blonde said, "Marquise Sarima Polat," she added, throwing in her father's title for good measure. "Fiyero and I go way back. We used to play together on the grasslands."

"Oh so you're a Winkie," ShenShen deduced, obviously unimpressed by whatever Winkie rank Sarima choose to imbue herself with. She paid no heed to the fact that the term 'Winkie' insulted Fiyero as much as (if not more than) it insulted Sarima.

"Yes," Sarima replied tightly, not the slightest ashamed of her nationality. Better a Winkie than some self-important Gillikinese witch. "By your looks, I'd assume Munchkin?"

ShenShen flushed a brilliant red and stewed with anger. "I am sixth generation Gillikin," she replied equally tight.

"Once a Munchkin always a Munchkin," Sarima shrugged indifferently in a breezy tone. Avaric had been most correct about impure Gillikin lines. Despite her insistence, ShenShen couldn't be more than an eighth Gillikinese at best.

"Ladies, please," Fiyero attempted soothingly. "No need to fight over me. I'm sure we can –"

"You take that back you uncivilized Winkie savage!" ShenShen cried, shoving Sarima roughly into Fiyero's side.

"Not in your life, you inbred little midget!" Sarima retorted, pushing back and as a result pushing Fiyero into a passing waiter carrying a tray of drinks.

The drinks spilled onto Fiyero's jacket before clattering to the floor. "Your highness, I'm so sorry," the young waiter, a dark-haired Munchkin boy who was rather tall for a Munchkinlander, apologised profusely.

"It's fine," Fiyero assured him, brushing off his jacket. It certainly wasn't the waiter's fault that he'd gotten caught in the crossfire. "It's not like it'll stain," he added, glad that the waiter hadn't been carrying anything more dangerous than champagne.

"No," the boy agreed, "Would like me to get you something?" he asked hospitably, his eyes falling on the trying scene beside him.

"Yes," Fiyero answered. "Something strong and scotch like."

"I'll make it a triple," the waiter nodded before heading to fetch Fiyero's drink.

"You heathen bitch!" ShenShen cried, tossing hors d'oeuvres at her foe.

"Unionist hypocrite!" Sarima screamed back, tossing a small bowl of top quality caviar at the mostly Munchkin girl.

"Knuckle dragging scum!"

"Circus attraction!"

"Pagan idolatrist!"

"Redneck-racist!"

"Ladies!" Fiyero tried again, stepping between them at the worst possible moment. ShenShen had raised a glass of red wine from a nearby table while Sarima had gotten her hands on a chocolate dessert, and both were currently being tossed in his direction.

Time seemed to slow and life carried on in slow motion for Fiyero as he let out a pained "noooooooo". The dessert hit the side of his face, jarring his head to the right before dripping down his neck and down the collar of his shirt. The wine was splashed straight into his golden waistcoat, before dropping to the ground with a poignant shatter.

"Oh my!" they cried in unison as they realized their mistake. Time sped to full speed and they simultaneous reached to his clothing, unbuttoning his waistcoat and attacking his shirt. "Let me help you with that."

He wondered later if maybe all the women in the room had some sort of radar attuned to undressing princes. His quiet protests were accompanied by a whole room of women suddenly turning their eyes towards him, the look in their eyes animalistic.

Fiyero took a frantic gulp, his eyes widened with fear. They moved forwards in a single movement, arms reaching towards him and lipstick stained mouths salivating with lust. He looked around desperately for his best friend, but it was hard to see anything past the hordes of women suddenly coming upon him.

It was pure luck that saved him, well luck and the Munchkin waiter from earlier. He returned with Fiyero's drink and seeing him in such a pickle, dragged him free before the women could get their claws into him. He was safe for but a moment, but definitely not out the woods.

"Run," the Munchkin boy instructed as the women turned all at once, the hunger still present in their eyes. "Run," he commanded.

Fiyero did not need to be told thrice. He dashed quickly out of the room, ducking through hallways and into empty rooms until he was quite certain of his safety. It wasn't until he had barricaded himself in a disused library that he finally felt safe enough to breathe, and only because he considered it the last place anyone would look for him. With a loud of sigh of relief, he let himself drop surely to the ground in near exhaustion.

"Excuse me," a reprimanding voice called across the room, "do you mind breathing more quietly? I'm trying to read."

Fiyero looked up with a start, thinking for a second that his hiding place had been given away until he began to digest her words. He stood cautiously, making his way towards the dark figure huddled in an armchair with a large, dusty book in her lap.

"Have you been here all night?" he asked, deducing that she hadn't been privy to the scene in the ballroom that got him there.

She 'tsked' impatiently and he could almost hear her eyes rolling. "Of course," she replied, not bothering to look up from the book resting in her lap. "I much prefer this sort of company to that found in the ballroom," she told him and waved a vague gesture towards the books that lined the room's four walls.

Fiyero nodded despite his lack of agreement. He had always been very proud of his social life and rarely deemed a book to be more interesting than people, although at the moment he'd rather be anywhere but the ballroom so he could at least sympathise to a small degree.

He moved around the room, trying to find an angle that would give him a better view of her. All he seemed to make out of her was gently curling, ink black hair that provided an impenetrable curtain around her face. Her hands were covered in a pair of lace gloves and she was swathed top to bottom in a dark violet fabric almost as dark as her hair.

"Do you read a lot?" he asked, trying to make conversation to hide his snooping.

She responded with a low aggravated growl before suddenly snapping her book shut with a loud 'thump'. She looked up suddenly, her hair flying back over her shoulders and Fiyero was suddenly struck dumb.

He gasped.

~ to be continued ~

Next chapter: Meet the girl of Fiyero's dreams.

Notes:

Marquise: according to Wikipedia Marquise (or rather Marquess) is a peerage rank right between a duke and an earl. From what I can tell, this gives Sarima the same rank as Avaric (Avaric being the future Marg(e)ave).