Fitz was troubling her if it was even possible for her to be troubled any more. After a while, she tended to just not give a shit.
But she found to her distaste, that she couldn't help to shiver slightly at the memory of him – of both of them, their hand across her neck, along her spine, the thrilling unfamiliarity of it all. She tried to feign offence or at the very least annoyance at his boldness, at the frivolity of it all but she was still too young for that. Or perhaps that was just it. She was thirty eight and young enough to desire some sense of companionship and maybe even a little intimacy. Hell, it was almost fifteen years since any of that. She'd probably take to anyone willing to be a companion, even Fitz; the nephew of Madame Morrible and the awkward version of Avaric. He was alienated because of his aunt and his relation with her wasn't helping anything.
The music started faintly, barely audible then grew into steady chords on….on a piano and a guitar.
'Lift your eyes and let me in cause,'
'Baby I'm an alien like you.'
'Will you ever wake at night and realize,"
"Reason why you knew me then,'
'Is maybe I'm an alien too."
"SHUT UP!"
But it was a nice sounding song.
"Really, who argues with themselves?" The Witch spun around to face Nanny who stared back at her in disdain. "You and your mother would have been quite the pair."
"I am not my mother." The Witch replied, scowling while Nanny merely shook her head and reached into her pocket, pulling out a white envelope. The Witch felt her stomach sink as she took it, setting it on the kitchen table. She didn't want to open it, she already knew her predicament and didn't need to be reminded. She stared at the envelope; it's clean, whiteness standing out against the dark wood, naturally drawing the eye…
"Oh to hell with it." she muttered and tore open the envelope, expecting it to be another red bill. It wasn't. Below the title and hospital logo was a neatly formatted, red text box, bearing the words.
FINAL NOTICE TO PAY.
Legal action will be taken if payment is not received within 30 days.
She shrieked in horror and quickly tore up the paper, not wanting it lying around for Nanny or Liir or herself to see. 30 days. Just like had thirty days to come up with half a million dollars or…..she couldn't even bring herself to imagine it. Godamnit, she was screwed. After all these years she was finally getting it – all because of some idiot, clumsy girl. How pathetic was that?
She let out a huff of laughter, shaking her head. She flung the shreds of paper to the ground and watched as they fluttered slowly to the stone floor. Isn't this something? she thought, a smirk plastered on her face. She could imagine the headline: The Wicked Witch – no. No they'd be far more dramatic than that. More like: The Great and Terrible Wicked Witch of the West Brought Down by Bankruptcy. Just wait until the Wizard hears about this! Wouldn't that be rich – the Wicked Witch finally being defeated by money problems and a little girl? She sputtered with laughter at the thought. It was the final, hilarious offence to end her.
But there would be time to stew over that later.
She went to the cupboard and got the supplies she needed before heading out the front door of the castle, sloppily blunt for her line of work but caution had never done her any good. She mounted her broom and took off in at an almost vertical angle to avoid being seen, even though it was already dark. She flew until the air began to freeze her nostrils then numb her hands as she peered downwards for a cluster of lights which was downtown. The space around her seemed so welcoming and empty as if she could step off her broom and walk from cloud to cloud, kicking up the mist that was now beginning to sting her skin.
She landed her broom near the hospital, leaving it against a park bench. She reached into her trouser pocket and checked the wallet sized photo, memorizing the man's dark face, his sloping brow and how his scrub seemed to hang off his skinny torso. She flicked the photo into a gutter and began to walk towards the hospital, her hands shoved in her jacket pockets to feign a sense of leisure as if she was just out for a walk. It wasn't that hard to pretend – in fact, she kind of liked this area of town. It was liked a preserved medieval place, full of cobblestone buildings with wide arches and narrow, stone alleys between sections of buildings – like outdoor corridors.
She came to the hospital, a modern building made up of sharp square shapes that stood out against the cobblestone. She stopped a few meters from the entrance, at the edge of the pool of yellow light produced by the streetlamps, her hands still in her pockets, at the ready. The Mark stepped out of the building, dressed in a blue scrub with a leather jacket slung over his thin shoulder.
As the Mark began to walk away, the Witch whipped out the silenced .22 derringer she had in her pocket, clasping both hands around the handle, bringing the gun from the bottom up.
There was a click and the man dropped like a ten thousand dollar rock.
"My supervisor was shot last weekend." said Fitz.
Elphaba's eyes widened and she sputtered in her drink, lurching forward, scotch dripping down her chin. She cleared her throat, composing herself as Fitz eyed her in curiosity or…something. She didn't want to know.
"I – I'm sorry to hear that." she said, aware of her rising voice
Fitz shrugged. "Well he was kind of an asshole, bless his soul." he paused to sip his drink and Elphaba waited anxiously. "I think he was involved with some kind of drug ring."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I mean it was common knowledge something was wrong with him, he was working at a hospital for Oz sake! He had this skinny, sunken look like a meth addict or something."
"What was his name?" Elphaba found herself asking.
"Dr Zadock." He thought for a moment. "Arthur Zadock."
"I see." she said in a quiet voice. It was all she could think of to say and she sipped her drink in silence.
She was rather silent today, Fitz thought. She was staring down in her drink, resting her chin on her fist, a classic pose for someone deep in thought or depressed. Could it have something to do with Nest Hardings? It must be. He felt like he should say something to break the silence but instead he swivelled in his stool to face the rest of the bar. It was more of a club than a bar, dimly lit by blue and red lights, a stage with a band playing a modern, slow, sentimental song, a dance floor with people rocking back and forth and tables and booths scattered in patches around the room. He smirked suddenly. What if he got the Witch to dance?
It was completely outrageous and he gulped his drink, wincing slightly at the burn. He sat there for a moment, itching to ask then leaned back, glancing at the Witch who hadn't moved from her pose of depressing contemplations. He could do it. He had the courage to be the Wicked Witch of the West's doctor, he could certainly ask a woman to dance. He opened his mouth.
"You wanna dance?" he asked, his speech beginning to slur.
"What?"
He motioned towards the front. "Wanna dance?"
"Why in hell would I want to do that?"
He shrugged. "Well the night's young –"
"I'm not."
"Oh c'mon, I know sixty year olds livelier than you." He grinned. "How old're you, thirty eight?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Yes I'm thirty eight and –"
"And so as your doctor, I am obliged to cure you from your inner boring old person!" He leapt up from his stool, slightly dizzy and held out his hand, his eyes flashing playfully if not drunkenly. She stared at him, her arms crossed, not budging. "You deserve to have some fun."
"Fun is vastly overrated."
"But it's fun nothing less."
She glanced at his outstretched hand then at his grinning, hopeful face. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the lack of Life in her life that persuaded her to stand up, allowing him to lead her to the front. They sandwiched themselves between the shifting masses, forced to stand with their toes almost touching. He looked at her in the dim blue light, the black shadows highlighting the edges of her features, reflecting off her eyes and the creases of her shirt, the way it clung to her torso. He snaked his hands around her waist and she finally let go, wrapping her arms over his shoulders, around his neck. She closed her eyes as they listened to the song, rocking back and forth in time.
"The days of solitude are gone."
"Because we've both spent way too long,"
"Hearing voices on the radio."
"And we can't let anybody know."
"No we can't let anybody know."
"Lift your eyes and let me in cause,"
"Baby I'm an alien like you….."
It was a sad sounding song.