She's up before dawn, busily erasing every trace of their presence: their teacups washed and dried, their bootprints brushed from the doorstep. Fiyero awakens to the soft swish of a blanket she's folding.

His vision is fuzzy as he blinks at her. It's still dark, outside and in. "Elphaba?"

She finishes folding, then sets the blanket down. It's hard to make out her expression. "We should go soon. We can travel through the clouds, but take-off can…attract some attention."

He yawns. "I'd imagine."

With one last stretch and a longing look at the cushions, he gets up and joins her. Every few seconds he steals a glance at her, but she's looking determinedly away. She spent the night in his arms, her head tucked against his chest and her legs entwined with his, and now she won't even look at him.

Well, it's not like he'd thought this would be easy.

The first tendrils of sun are just sneaking over the horizon when they leave the house. Elphaba left nothing behind, not even a note — "This isn't the first time. Garnet knows I'm grateful" — and now they stand together, staring up into the lightening sky.

"Where to?" he asks, keeping his voice light. Like they're back at Shiz, deciding where to get coffee. His life will never be that easy again.

Her brow knits. "There are other safe houses. I just — I haven't been able to get in touch with anyone, my network's gone quiet, and I don't know..." Her voice trails off, and it's strange to hear her so uncertain.

"Wait." God, his sense of direction is terrible. "Where are we, exactly? How far are we from the Vinkus?"

"What? I don't know, a day's flight from the border, at least. Why?"

He can't believe it hadn't occurred to him earlier. "There's a castle in Kiamo Ko. My family hasn't lived there for generations, so it's empty. You'd be safe there." At that moment it hits him: he's with the Wicked Witch of the West. Her danger is his, too. He amends, "We'd be safe there."

Fiyero can tell she's conflicted. He can also tell that she doesn't have any better ideas. She chews her lip. "I don't want to drag you deeper into this. And your family—"

"Would want me to be safe," he insists, and it's true. Well, probably they'd prefer that he not get in trouble in the first place, but that was never in the cards for him. He takes her hand. "And the people I care about." He can't bring himself to say love, not yet; he's afraid it'll spook her.

"Fine," she agrees, but she doesn't look happy about it.

—

It's different, flying in the day. Last night he'd been freezing cold and terrified, clinging to Elphaba as she swerved through the clouds. Now, though he's still cold and probably even more terrified, he can't take his eyes off the landscape.

The sun is rising, casting pink and gold across the fields and forests. He can see small cities off in the distance, their red rooftops glowing. Oz is beautiful. Somehow he'd never known.

Over the morning the skies become overcast, and they set down to eat and rest once they reach the hills. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she sags against him. Flight takes something out of her.

"It's amazing, isn't it?"

"What?" she asks.

He can't keep the awe out of his voice. "Flying. You can see everything! And it's so fast. It would take days on the road, and you just soar over all of it like the world belongs to you."

Despite his excitement, her smile is tired. "It's just transportation, Fiyero."

He snatches a bite of her apple. "No. The train is just transportation. A carriage is just transportation. Broomstick, though—" He shakes the apple at her. "Now that's the way to travel."

Elphaba grabs the apple back. After a moment she asks, chewing thoughtfully, "Do you want to drive?"

—

She coaches him through the landing, her mouth right next to his ear. If she had any idea how distracting it was…

They skid to a stop on the roof of the castle. "Not bad," he says, but his hand shakes when he gives the broom back to her.

Elphaba smirks. Her hair is wild from the wind, her lips chapped. She takes everything in: the castle, the darkening sky, the mountains behind them. "There's really no one here?"

He shakes his head. "The caretaker and his wife live on the property, but they won't betray me. I swear." He knows it's hard for her to trust him, or anyone. He also knows she doesn't really have a choice.

There's a trapdoor in the roof, ostensibly in case of an assassination attempt, but he's only ever used it to escape from boring parties. He lowers himself down first, then offers a hand to help her. To his surprise, she takes it.

Hand in hand, they walk through the abandoned halls. There's not a speck of dust anywhere; his mother would be pleased. Not pleased that he's run away with Oz's Most Wanted, probably. Pleased about the lack of dust.

He leads Elphaba to his room and lights the sconces. "No place like home," he says cheerfully. In his entire life he's spent no more than a half-dozen nights here.

Elphaba sets down her bag and leans the broom against the wall. "It's nice," she says, wrapping her arms around herself. "It's...big."

"It was built by my great-great-great-great-grandfather," Fiyero says. "But even he only lived here for a few years. It's too big, really, and it's a pain to heat during the winter, and—"

Elphaba interrupts him. "Um, is there—is there somewhere I could wash up?"

"Right, of course." He stumbles over his own rudeness. He should be a better host than this. Oz knows he's had enough practice. "There's a washroom just down the hall. If you want something else to wear, you can take something from my mother's wardrobe. I think her clothes will fit you."

"You said you'd never lived here."

"My family uses it for events sometimes, and we'd stay here afterward." He gives her a thin smile. "Besides, royals are always prepared. My mother's backup closets would rival Glinda's real one."

She winces, and he instantly wishes he could take it back. Idiot, he chastises himself. The look on Glinda's face — he's sure Elphaba's picturing it, too. All this time, behind my back? Fiyero's been trying really, really hard not to think about Glinda. None of this is her fault. She deserved better. "Sorry," he says. "I just meant—"

"I know," she says quietly. "It's okay."

—

Elphaba takes her time in the bathroom. It's been ages since she had running water. She feels herself warming up, softening.

And Fiyero just a few rooms over, in his bedroom. A bedroom with a real mattress, thick pillows, stacks of soft blankets. Luxuries she hasn't known in — well, ever. Almost everything she's ever owned is someone else's castoff, and this is a bedroom fit for a prince.

One prince in particular.

Even under the hot water, the thought makes her shiver. She's been touched more in the last day than in her entire life up to this point. His fingertips on her lips, his mouth on her neck, his arms around her as they flew. Don't get used to this, she warns herself. Nothing will really change. In the morning she'll leave without him — she can't put him in any more danger — and she'll be alone again.

And she'll be fine. She's always fine.

But: Fiyero. She wants to sing his name into the sky. She wants to forget the resistance and the Wizard and Glinda; she wants to hole up in this castle and never leave.

In school she'd wondered sometimes. When he'd bring her tea in the library, or stop by their room when he knew full well Glinda wasn't around. When he'd sit next to her in class and let his leg fall to the side so it was just brushing hers. When he stayed after to copy her notes, and instead just talked to her for hours. Of course she'd known he was just being friendly; of course she never allowed herself to hope.

Here he is, though. He's not in Oz with Glinda, planning their wedding or talking to a reporter about the ceaseless hunt for the Wicked Witch. He's two rooms down, waiting for her.

For a fugitive. For a girl who, at her best, was green-skinned and antisocial; for a woman with no home and no future.

For her.

—

In her absence he washes up and changes, too. The clothes here don't quite fit him anymore, but anything's better than that blasted uniform. He'd like her to forget that he was ever in the Gale Force.

While he waits, he turns down the sheets and fluffs the pillows, lights a fire in the stone hearth. All the creature comforts he'd never given a second thought to until Elphaba went on the run. He's spent years imagining her living in the woods, scrounging for food and shivering in the dark. And he wants — he wants tonight to be perfect.

When she comes back in, it takes him a moment to catch his breath. Her skin is scrubbed smooth, her hair wet and slicked back from her face. She's wearing what must be one of his mother's dresses, though he's never seen it before; it's navy blue and just brushes Elphaba's knees. The fabric looks soft. He can't imagine his mother ever wearing something so casual, but it suits Elphaba perfectly.

"I think it might be a nightgown," she says sheepishly, tugging at the fabric.

"You look beautiful."

Her eyes cloud over. Oz, now what did he say?

"Fiyero, you don't have to…"

"What?"

She stares down at her feet. "You don't have to say things like that."

It takes him a second to realize what she's talking about. "You're beautiful," he insists. He'll tell her a thousand times a day, if that's what it takes.

"I'm green."

"And beautiful."

"Fiyero—"

"No." He crosses to her and grabs her hands. "You don't get to decide what that word means. I know you like to be in charge of everything, but you're not in charge of deciding what's beautiful."

She raises an eyebrow. "And you are?"

"Yes," he says decisively. Elphaba rolls her eyes, but he's pretty sure there's a smile sneaking in around the corners of her mouth. And isn't that what he really wants out of this interaction?

Oz, her mouth. He's had quite enough of not kissing her for one day. As soon as she opens her mouth again — probably to keep arguing — he leans in and captures her lips, taking her by surprise.

It doesn't take long for her to catch up. Within seconds she's wrapped her arms around him and come up onto her toes. He tangles one hand in her damp hair and brings the other up to frame her jaw, to tilt her head just so.

This dress is thinner than the one she wore last night, and the heat of her radiates through the fabric. He's deciding if it would be presumptuous to try to take it off her when Elphaba starts untucking his shirt. He helps her lift it over his head, and gasps when her palms press against his chest.

She explores him, tracing the lines of muscles he'd barely had the last time she saw him, fingertips dancing over his clavicle. He'd forgotten how small her hands are. Her slim, elegant fingers; her callused palms. It surprises him. After all, she's the Wicked Witch of the West — she looms so large in the public imagination, thanks to that drawing of her with the hooked nose and the rotten teeth and that stupid, wonderful hat. And he knows better than anyone what power she has inside her.

It feels like some kind of sorcery now, as those hands come up to his shoulders, teasing out the knots there. Every touch is a spark.

He leans down to kiss her again, deeper, reaching around to the small of her back and pressing her against him. Even that first night at the Oz-Dust he wondered what she would taste like. His hands move down her body until he can grab at the hem of her dress, pulling it up over her hips—

Her hands cover his. "Fiyero," she whispers, breathless. "Wait."

With a sharp exhale he closes his eyes and releases the fabric. Slow down, he tells himself, even though it feels impossible. He is not going to rush this. He is not going to scare her off.

Elphaba says, hesitant, "You — you know that I'm green everywhere."

This again.

He raises an eyebrow. "I mean, yeah. I assumed so."

Her voice drops. "I just…I don't want you to be..." She doesn't finish the sentence.

He's been dreaming about her for years. He couldn't care less what color she was. She could be striped purple under that dress, for all the difference it would make.

"Elphaba," he says, and when she doesn't look up he tucks a finger under her chin. He doesn't know how to explain. He doesn't know how to overcome the years she's spent hating herself. "Elphaba, I know people have spent your whole life telling you that your skin is the only thing that matters."

She blinks twice, hard, and doesn't speak.

"But I don't care," he says. He presses his forehead to hers. "All I see is you."

For a long moment they breathe in tandem. He doesn't move. And finally — finally — she places his hands back where they were, and slowly — so slowly — he lifts the dress off of her.

Elphaba's skin is softer than he'd imagined, and yes, green everywhere, and it turns out that this particular shade of green is the prettiest color he's ever seen. He would just stand here staring at her for hours if she'd let him.

When the air hits her bare skin she shivers. Fiyero maneuvers them closer to the fire and wraps his arms around her.

She stands up on her toes and presses her face into the crook of his shoulder, her lips grazing his neck. He knows this is a bad idea, knows that they are running headlong into disaster, and he cannot possibly care when he can feel her breath on his skin. Just below the surface hums the memory of that first electric touch. He never stopped feeling it, never stopped aching for her.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she says, her voice raw.

He laughs and kisses her again. "Me neither."

She looks up at him through her long lashes, hesitant, almost shy. He could never have imagined seeing her like this: Elphaba, flushed and open; Elphaba, disarmed. "What about your scandalacious reputation?" she asks, channelling Glinda.

No, he orders himself. Don't think about Glinda.

"Most of it was true," he says. Her hands keep running up and down his back, making it hard to concentrate. "I drank too much. I spent time with the wrong people."

"Clearly," she says dryly, nodding to herself.

"Not you. You were always right."

"But you and Glinda — you must have —"

"We did," he admits. "And there were others, before her, but I — we never — it wasn't the same." He swallows. "I was never this nervous with her. I never cared this much."

Fiyero still doesn't understand exactly how it happened: how she got under his skin and past all of his defenses. How every look from her makes him want to be a better man. In all his life no one ever challenged him like this. In all his life, nothing ever touched him. Not even Glinda — the woman he was supposed to marry.

Elphaba's eyes are so uncertain; he can feel her pulling away. He says, "I know I should have called it off sooner. I know. But being close to her, and close to the Wizard — it was the only chance I had of finding you."

"Have you really been helping all of those Animals?"

"The things I've seen…I had to." He looks away. "When your friend mentioned her son, how he'd been imprisoned and scheduled for execution — I'm sure I saw him. But I saw it happen to half a dozen Bears, he could have been any of them."

She nods. "That's why I can't stop," she says quietly. "They'll catch me eventually, I know that, but I can't...I can't run away. I can't give up."

Of course he already knew that and it's half of what he loves about her, but that doesn't make it easier to hear. She's never overheard soldiers talking about what they'll do to her when they catch her. She doesn't know how bad things have really gotten, how bad things could be for her. Her capture is the stuff of every nightmare he has.

Then you'll have to keep her safe, he tells himself. And now that he's found her, that's finally a possibility.

—

Elphaba can't decide what she wants more: to keep kissing him or to make him keep explaining. The last three years, the Gale Force, Glinda...

"Glinda's still working for him," she finally says. "For the Wizard."

Fiyero looks down, but he doesn't let go of her. "It was hard for her with you gone."

It's still something she thinks about all the time: what might have been, if Glinda had gone with her three years ago. What they could have done, everyone they could have saved. She can't keep the acid out of her voice. "She seemed just fine when I saw her."

His grip on her hands tightens; he still won't meet her eyes. "You mean, when her fiancé left her in the middle of their engagement party?"

Oh. Right.

Fiyero says roughly, "I never meant to hurt anyone."

I have changed, he told her back at the castle, but she hadn't really believed him until now. She brushes back a lock of hair where it's fallen over his brow. There are lines there on his forehead that she doesn't remember; the last three years are written on his face as clearly as they are on hers. There is so little left of the carefree boy she'd known at Shiz. He is quieter now, thoughtful.

And the way he looks at her. Those blue eyes, stormy.

She moves to sit down on the edge of the bed and he stays standing, just out of arm's reach. She'd forgotten how beautiful he is. His straight back, his camera-ready smile. What a good captain he'd made, what a good partner for the Good Witch. Standing next to her on the dais at every press conference, taking her hand at every gala.

"You're really going to give all that up," she says, and finally it isn't a question.

Hands in his pockets, he looks at her. "It's not much of a sacrifice."

"You say that now," she says grimly. "But you don't know what it's like. Always on the run. Always alone."

"You won't be alone. Not anymore." The confidence in his voice almost convinces her.

"What I do is dangerous—"

"It'll be less dangerous if I'm with you."

She doubts that very much. "Fiyero, my whole life is dangerous." Sometimes she thinks she's forgotten any other way to live.

He blows out every candle save one, right next to the bed. He sits down next to her and cups her jaw in his hand. His lips touch hers, feather-light and achingly gentle. "Not tonight," he says.

His other hand moves down her body to lay her down. He climbs over her, pressing her into the mattress, and it's just so good: the fire in the hearth, his skin against hers, the weight of him anchoring her. For the first time in too long she is warm, comforted; for the first time in too long, she feels human. She breathes his name.

"No running," he says against her lips. "No danger."

She closes her eyes and imagines that it's possible. Imagines that for one night, she can have this. She can have him.

"Don't be the Witch tonight," he urges, twining their fingers together, leaning down to kiss her again, and again. She is melting, she is forgetting all the reasons why not. "Just be you," he says, his lips against her ear. "Just be Elphaba."

She whispers, "What if I don't remember how?"

In one smooth motion he rolls them over so they're side by side. He kisses her, soft and sweet, the way he might have three years ago when they stood together in the woods, or when he said goodbye at the train station. The way a boy might kiss a girl, instead of the Wicked Witch.

He says low, "Then I'll remind you."

note: thank you for reading! never forget how much fic writers love comments... :x