I can only apologise for the delay in posting this. PainicPicnic has been working her cotton socks off for her finals and been unable to write for a couple of months. Real life has to come first! We will hopefully be updating more regularly once the summer begins and PainicPicnic has some free time...
She staggers to a halt beside him, bracing one hand against a nearby tree and panting so hard it feels as though her lungs are on fire.
Sweet Oz.
Have they really done it? Have they really managed to escape unnoticed? She pushes sweaty hair out of her face, eyes falling on Tiggular as he too struggles to catch his breath.
Now is hardly the time or place, but she can't help but notice he's looking a bit tidier this morning. Hair combed, shirt neatly pressed, waistcoat properly buttoned up, eyes clear and bright and free from any trace of bloodshot. Oz, he looks almost respectable. Almost like the clean, accomplished, hardworking prince he should be.
You see, Tiggular, she longs to quip with all the sarcasm she can muster, see what wonders a little effort can make on even the most unfortunate of characters?
But right now there are more important matters to focus on than Tiggular's appearance, of all ridiculous things – even if his waistcoat is clearly too small for him, each button pulled tight and the material straining against the muscles of his chest as he exhales softly…
...The cub – the Lion cub, that's what matters. Yes. That's why they're here. And right now, Tiggular's handling him more like a sack of potatoes than anything else, letting the cage dangle idly from one hand.
"Be careful with that," she raps out, reaching for the cage.
.
He half-hears her, enough to swing the cage out of her grasp, because he isn't about to burden her with its weight and the last thing she needs is her uniform torn and bloodied as well. Glinda had mentioned, in passing, that Elphaba had given up half of the other closet so she could store excess shoes, during which the blonde had discovered her roommate's disparaging lack of clothing. Or, as Glinda had specifically stated –
"And I don't mean that because there's nothing sparkling or even remotely pink, a travesty of its own right if you ask me…but it's the size of her wardrobe. Barely enough uniforms for the week, and three frocks. There's a winter jacket, I'm sure but...there's nothing there, Fiyero. Nothing personal, just these dull, lifeless –"
"Stop throwing him around!" Elphaba's voice snaps him back to reality. "Use both hands. Anddon'tshake him! He's a living, breathing Animal – not a keg of Winkie wine!"
.
He ignores her, striding on into the woods with a toss of that perfectly gelled hair, cage still tucked under one arm.
"Where, exactly, are you going?" she storms after him, boots scattering leaves and poppy petals - the woods are full of them - in her wake. "We can't just let him loose anywhere, you know! We have to find someplace safe, someplace he won't be scooped up and imprisoned all over again!"
.
He's just risked it all for an animal. For her. And she has the gall to berate him as if he is in the wrong?
The cub lets out a pathetic mewl as he rounds on her.
"Do you ever stop talking? Keep shouting and maybe Morrible will hear you from the tower!"
.
Her mouth opens to retort almost before he's finished his sentence – after all, she's inevitably going to disagree with whatever it is he's saying until the whole thing blows up into another spectacular, blazing argument and she's more ready for it, heart beating fast in her chest and something uncannily like exhilaration pulsing through her veins and Oz, she's starting to enjoy fighting with him far too much –
– But then she sees his face. And it's the first sign of real hurt, real indignance that she's ever seen from him. The shock of it stops her, just for a moment. Something about those words ignites a memory - Galinda sitting her down after class one day, taking her hand so gently in hers, and saying with more care and tact than she'd ever dreamed the blonde was capable of; Elphie, sometimes, it's really important to let the people around you have their time to speak, even if you don't like what they're saying…
"…All right." She barely mumbles the words, stuffing her hands deep in the pockets of her skirt and settling for scowling at the poppies beneath their feet instead. "All right, fine. Go ahead."
.
With a huff he starts into the forest again, shoulders squared.
"No one goes through the forest anymore. Believe me." He detaches one hand from the cage to loosen his tie and undo the first few buttons of his waistcoat, breathing easy as the fabric gives way. "Not since they built that road just a little way to the north. It's long since been regularly maintained, my family's used it for years now. Setting him free out here will be our best b –"
.
"- Can I just say one more thing?" she cuts in, and his expression is almost funny, practically despairing as she throws up her arms to stop him speaking. "One. More. Thing."
Oz, it's as though he's trying to push her buttons harder than ever, because the voice he'd spoken with was open and honest, determined and…intelligent. Sharing a little tidbit of genuinely useful knowledge. And that little word, that little our makes her heart sing in her chest and roar with frustration all at the same time because really now…why in Oz's name does he care?
She draws in a breath – then jabs a finger in the direction of the towers, looming over the thick canopy of trees above them.
"You could have walked away back there." She lifts her chin, fixing him with her gaze and trying – dear Oz, how she's trying – not to notice the waistcoat buttons he's flicked open, and the silk shirt he's wearing beneath it, perfectly tailored to every contour of his body and leaving terribly, dangerously little to the imagination. "You could have taken the easy way out, no strings attached. You could have simply sidled off without a second thought. But you didn't."
.
His blood turns to ice as she stares, expectant of an answer he can't quite admit.
Because she's right. He could have - should have - run away. Acted like her spell had placed him in the same trance as the others instead of...whatever it had really done. He's the goddamn drop-out Winkie Prince, the devil-may-care royal with the scandalicious reputation. He isn't supposed to care, he isn't supposed to think, he isn't supposed to ruin the perfectly carefree reputation he's built up for himself.
"So?"
It's weak, but he doesn't know what else to say. She expects some revelation, like always, but he isn't ready to give one.
.
The word hangs in the air – the strangled, desperate edge to his voice echos through the trees around them, making a point for her – whilst Tiggular takes a great interest in the forest floor all of a sudden.
"So," she pushes, taking a step closer and ducking her head to make sure she can read his face. "What, exactly, does that tell us? No matter how shallow, and self-absorbed, and irresponsible, and lazy, and – and downright unbearable you pretend to be – no matter how hard you try not to care, to be the absolute worst version of yourself -"
.
"Excuse me? There's no pretence here."
His gaze jerks up and suddenly Elphaba is much, much closer. He'll pride himself later on not choking his words because she's as radiant in the late afternoon sun as she was in the Ozdust ballroom. He could simply close the gap between them with a single step.
"I happen to be genuine self-absorbed and deeply shallow, and have forever prided myself in how unbearably irresistible I can be. Thropp, whatever you think you're seeing –"
.
"I beg your pardon?" she growls. "Think I'm seeing? You're the one acting blind as an Oz-damned Bat!"
She throws her arms out, slicing them through the air as she gestures to his undone waistcoat, his tousled hair, the cage still clamped in one hand.
"Just look at you, for Oz's sake. Look at what you've done! Look at how you've helped him –" The Cub's buttery-gold eyes peer up at them both, still wide with fear but calmer than before, devoid of the blind panic they'd held back in the classroom. "- carried him halfway across campus, saved his life…if that isn't worth something, then what is? Hm? Answer me that, and perhaps I really will start to believe this ridiculous delusion, this – this fantasy you're so determined to sell to us all."
That strikes a nerve. Something unreadable twitches in his expression – a crack in the china, a chink in the armour…like throwing a tiny stone into a perfect, smooth, serene pool and setting it rippling.
Her feet take on a mind of their own, lurching towards him as though desperate to capture that tiny, fleeting glimpse of Fiyero, the real Fiyero, raw and honest and brimming over with emotion as he had back in the library for a too-short moment. Those beautiful eyes are suddenly so tired it makes her ache to the core, a man who's spent a lifetime running a thousand miles away from something only to have it catch him up at the very last, very worst moment.
"…Look at you," she says again, but her voice is a murmur now, all the anger draining away in spite of herself. "Look at what you're doing to yourself, for Oz's sake. If this really, truly were for the best…" She lets her breath out in a slow sigh. "Tiggular…why is it making you so unhappy?"
.
She's easy to take when she's shouting - passionate through and through, yes, but the angrier she gets, the less she thinks. The easier the questions are to deflect.
But his plan shatters when she quiets, reigning herself in. Instead of berating him with blows that'll easily bounce off his armour, she resorts to quiet attacks. Whispered logic and reasoning that he can't stop from slipping through and breaking him apart.
Unhappy? Him? This isn't the first time he's been asked this, but this is the first time he can't simply run away. Can't make himself forget with drink or dances or a pretty girl. There's no escaping her. No escaping the undeniable hope in Elphaba's stare that, maybe, he's redeemable.
Nonetheless, he finds himself scrambling.
"Me? Unhappy?" The laughter sounds like the lie it is to his own ears. "You know me -"
But it'll make you happy too...right? The voice echoes dully at the back of his mind, and he finds himself repeating the next few words like a memory.
"- I'm always happy."
.
Can he even hear himself? Even his laughter is false, a kind of choking, breathy sound in the back of his throat that makes her want to cringe with disgust and throttle him all at the same time.
Instead, she draws herself up. Takes another breath. Fights down the anger, the frustration, the desire to shout in his face all over again. No, that wasn't the right way to reach him. She knows that now. No matter how tempting it might be, no matter how much of a thrillit gave her.
The right way to reach him, the real him, was…
"Tiggular." Her voice is calm, but absolutely firm. "I read the papers. I hear the gossip, in spite of my many attempts not to. And that other night in detention? Oz, the way you carried on, anyone listening with half a brain cell would have realised the truth."
Her feet drift closer involuntarily, and her eyes flit to a point somewhere between his neck and collarbone, unable to quite meet his gaze as she mutters with all the cold detachment as she can muster, "You drink more than my dear Father ever did and that, Tiggular, is saying something. You survive on a diet of dancing, partying, petty troublemaking and scandal. You burn through schools as fast as you burn through girls, your country lives in shame of all that you do, your family publicly slanders your name at every opportunity they have…dear Oz, Tiggular, if that makes you happy, I have nothing left to say to you."
.
It's all he can do to stand his ground and let Elphaba pick him apart - for the second time - and leave him barren. No defensive smiles or dancing away. No excuses, no armour. Just consequences.
And shame.
He can't fight that – can't fight her. Not without giving up even more.
"Fine." He can't remember the last time he's been this quiet, the last time he's spoken without careful thought of how cocksure and carefree he sounds. "If you don't want my help, then don't bother keeping me."
She's more than capable of freeing the cub anyways. And maybe, if he's fast enough, he can salvage some part of his –
.
"- Wait," she raps out, but he doesn't. His jaw is clenched tight and his eyes staring at nothing as he turns away, leaving the cage dumped unceremoniously at her feet.
Damn it all, she's gone too far.
"Wait!" He doesn't. He just speeds up, instead.
For the love of –
"- Tiggular!" she shouts, breaking into a run. "Stop – get back here! I never said – I didn't mean –!"
What, what, what didn't she mean? Didn't mean to go so far? Didn't mean to say so much? No, she'd meant all of those things, every word, but she hadn't – she hadn't meant to hurt him.
The thought sends her heart plummeting in her chest, and she thinks of detention, and dusty books, and laughing until her mouth ached from it, and Oz-damnit, he might drive her mad, but she's really hurt him this time and panic twists in her stomach, and she's throwing herself across the clearing at him, hand outstretched, reaching, grabbing –
"- I do -!"
