I think you've been waiting for something like this.

Fiyero had only just gotten back to his room after a particularly brutal law exam one afternoon. One hundred closed- and 25 open-ended questions in an hour and a half. His mind was still swimming with facts and figures and doubts as he kicked off his boots. He had spent the last three days concentrating on nothing else, for at least in law there were dates and concrete words that had little emotional bearing on him, unlike other things in his life. Not to mention that this was the only class with which he had no prior experience, so by necessity it required a great deal more of his focus.

His focus was tired.

He considered seeking out Tibbett and Crope for the evening; they had a way of keeping him distracted with foamy mugs of beer and witty natter. But a paper on the major government styles in Oz for his political science class was due in a couple of days and the professor gave an eight-page minimum on it. The Vinkus section would be easy, of course, as he was very familiar with the monarchy-structure employed in the still-traditional and clannish land, and the democracy employed by the Gillikinese was fairly self-explanatory. Munchkinland's authoritarianism was where his headache started, with its dynastic succession and other aspects of their lifestyles that made it incredibly difficult to categorize, and to say he was stumped about the Quadling Territory was a massive understatement. Still, terminology and classifications rolled into his mind, one after another: Ochlocracy—no, Quadlings weren't mobbish…was that a word? Kakistocracy—no, that wasn't fair, to assume they're stupid just because he doesn't understand them. Kratocracy—no… Technocracy—no… Perhaps it was a trick question? Did they have no definable form of government? Feasibly that was possible, and it could be argued that the Wizard's decimation of the population and ecosystem during the ruby raids left them unable to properly restructure. Wait, did that mean that they originally had a structure? As former Captain of the Guard of the Emerald City, he really should have had more insight than he did on this. Maybe an executive memo had crossed his desk at some point that would give some bearing…

"Fiyero."

Fiyero was so deep into his contemplations that he didn't hear her open his door and enter, or even a knock had there been one, and his heart jumped wildly at the startling voice. Reflexively he took a defensive fighting stance, but as soon as he saw it was Elphaba standing by his door, arms crossed in front of her with her head and an eyebrow cocked, he dropped his hands and gave her a look of exasperation.

"How long have you been there?"

He had no idea what he had looked like. He had probably just been staring at his boring beige wall for Oz-knows how long, his jaw slacked and his eyes completely glazed over.

"Not long."

At least had she asked him about what he was so deep in thought, he could truthfully state that it had been about a thesis regarding politics, which wasn't terribly unimpressive. Remembering she and her sister had spent a few of their childhood years in the marshlands of Quadling Territory before their family was called back up to Munchkinland to take up the family governance, he pondered vaguely whether he should ask her about its political establishment. While he was at it, she would be best to elucidate some of his confusion about Munchkinland…

He shook his head clear, trying to remind himself that the last time he had seen her he declared that he was her time-traveling lover and she that he was a deranged lunatic. That certainly helped put things into perspective.

"What are you doing here?"

"Galinda sent me to find you," she explained, her eyes menacing under her pinched brow. "She says you've been distant, moodified, and that you've been thinking a lot— that in particular worries her. She seemed to think that I would be able to do something about it."

"She's probably right, but who can say?"

She ignored him. "You missed class this morning," she stated curtly. "Nikidik reviewed for the test."

"Which I've taken before," he reminded her. "I'll be fine."

"That's right, because you're from the future," she said, as if recalling, but the sarcasm was not lost on Fiyero. "The future in which I am a witch, you are a dead man, and the Wizard is a phony. Yes, I remember now."

"No matter how it sounds, I wouldn't lie to you."

"No?" she laughed dourly. "Apparently you've lied to me every day since the day we met. You forced yourself into my life with that irritating smile of yours and dangled some secret just out of my reach. You let me care about you. Then you waited until what should have been the best moment of my life and you spat on it."

"You had to know the truth! I didn't know what else to do."

"You should have been honest with me from the beginning!"

"Would you have believed me?"

"Of course I wouldn't have," she conceded crossly. "I can't say I do now."

"You do," Fiyero asserted, "even if you won't admit it to yourself."

"Easy for you to say! You get to be Prince Charming in all of this, saving the damsel from her fate! Must be nice to be you, to be the perfect one."

"Perfect?" he scoffed. "I spent years in a sham relationship with Glinda while secretly being in love with and searching for another woman! And a criminal no less. I had no qualms about leaving her and my sovereignty behind. Does that sound like a perfect prince to you? Sounds like an asshole to me."

"You dated Galinda?"

"I did," he admitted shamelessly. "And why not? She was cute, charismatic, rich, the very definition of effervescent—everything a guy like me should want in a girl. It was easy, and I was all about being easy-going back then."

"What happened?"

"You happened. When you took Glinda to meet the Wizard, I found myself alone in a bar. I was so afraid of the feelings from which I had no distraction. I took every shot hoping I'd forget about the strange green girl who took one look at me and somehow saw through my pretenses as if they were nothing. I couldn't get you out of my head, which was crazy because – as you were so apt to mention – guys like me aren't supposed to fall for girls like you. And just as quickly as you came you were gone.

"Glinda was a mess when she got home. She eventually was able to tell me everything that had occurred in the Emerald City. You both had been so anxious when you went to meet the Wizard. But then you saw what the Wizard actually was: just some small, elderly chap with some strange, old top hat propped on his head, and a boyish smile behind his gray mustache. She described the Wizard as sweet, unassuming, and sentimental, with an accent Glinda, in all of her cultural savvy, could not place. Apparently, he said that he wanted to raise you up and give you every opportunity he could, just as a father would do."

Her voice remained doubtful yet in an instant so much smaller as she asked, "He did?"

He nodded grimly, trying not to lose his resolve. "All he asked in return was that you proved yourself. He brought out his new press secretary with a book of spells and asked that you cast a simple levitation spell from it onto his willing Monkey servant. His new press secretary, however, was Madame Morrible, and the book was the Grimmerie, a—"

"An ancient book of spells and enchantments," Elphaba finished. "She's mentioned it to us before in our sorcery seminar."

"She probably didn't tell you how powerful those spells are, did she? Glinda told me she couldn't read the language, that the words scrambled themselves as she watched, floating about and rearranging themselves in silver swirls and black clots as though it was changing its mind right before her eyes. Even Morrible admitted she was barely capable of translating it."

"And they expected me to be able to read it?"

"But you could. Glinda said that you seemed to immediately comprehend it, that it was as though you began speaking in tongues as you read from it. Within moments the Monkey howled in pain and began sprouting these gruesome wings from its back. Glinda told me how you had been so horrified! But the Wizard was ecstatic, more so when he realized that all of his Monkeys began growing wings too, dozens of them, flooding into the room wild and frenzied."

"I would have reversed it," she said, adamantly. "I wouldn't have let that happen to them."

"You couldn't."

"What?"

"You couldn't reverse it. Morrible told you then, and Galinda said she and the Wizard were laughing, practically high-fiving at their success, rushing on about making the Monkeys into perfect little spies for rebel Animal camps."

"No."

Her distress at the thought was palpable but he couldn't stop, not until she knew what would happen.

"You figured out that the Wizard couldn't read the Grimmerie either, that he was had no actual magic power, so you refused him and took the book with you when you ran. They called for your capture, and at your defiance they blamed you for the mutilation of the Monkeys and declared you a liar and a Wicked Witch."

"But I escaped? How?"

"You found the levitation spell again and clearly fated yourself to the pain and humiliation of wings rather than that of arrest. Glinda insisted that she did her best to stop you, to talk you down, to discourage your chanting, but she couldn't. Rather than give you wings, fortunately, your spell had simply enchanted a nearby broomstick and it was on that broom that you flew away."

"I flew on a broomstick? Like a storybook witch?" she asked reproachfully.

"Do you honestly believe I'm clever enough to make this stuff up?" Fiyero asked, and she merely rolled her eyes at that like she had no argument. "I didn't want to believe it either, but Glinda just kept crying, day after day, swearing up and down that every word she said was true."

"You keep calling her Glinda," Elphaba noticed. "She told me days ago that she wanted to change her name. She said that you blew her off."

"So?"

"So, I can't help but wonder if that's why you keep using that name. Because she got the idea in your head."

Fiyero glowered at that. "I blew her off because last time around the name stuck. And I'm scared that even such a silly thing will mean that I haven't changed a damn thing."

"She also could have told you about the Grimmerie."

"She did, but years ago."

"Oz, Fiyero, do you not realize how insane this sounds?"

"Of course I do! But it's the truth!"

"Prove it then!" she snapped, the fingers on her outstretched hands curling with tension and exasperation. "Tell me something only I could have told you about myself, if we were so close."

"I don't know how," he admitted, expecting such a request. "We barely knew each other, Elphaba. Almost everything I know about you I've learned in the last few months."

"You told me before that we were lovers, but you didn't know anything about me?" she said scornfully.

"I knew enough to love you."

"Oh please. I said it once and I'll say it again: I'm not that kind of girl. I'm not going to get swept off my feet simply because you're spurting out words like 'love' between poppycock."

"You make noises your sleep," he stated strongly, remembering all of the little things, the oddities he loved so much about her. "You hate the rain. You carry some little green bottle with you like it's a security blanket. You have a lovely singing voice—controlled, feeling," he recalled wistfully. "Every now and again you make up songs on the spot when you thought I wasn't listening."

"Galinda or Nessarose could have told you any of that."

He treasured and safeguarded that secret, this private part of her that she seemed to only reveal when she assumed she was totally alone. In the early morning, when the dew had yet to fully melt, when all the world was asleep but her, he would wake up to her humming of far-aways and future days, of longing and otherness. But what did that memory mean, if she even once sang so Nessarose or Galinda might hear her, to know how special it was?

"You sometimes see strange things in your head, things that no one else can see, like visions of different places and time."

"That isn't something I've kept secret, though sometimes I wish I had." She sighed, a shadow of shame falling briefly on her features before her penetrating stare hit him again. "Is that all you know of me? From this mysterious future of yours? Did I tell you nothing pertinent?"

"Honestly…when we were together…we didn't talk that much."

"What do you mea—oh."

She blushed tremendously at his implication and fell backwards to sit on the bed as she processed that. Taking a chance, he crouched in front of her, itching to remove the vice-grip her hands had on her knees. Instead, he simply placed his larger hands over hers, expecting her to pull away. She didn't. It gave him courage.

"It had been an easy choice for me: to leave my lavish life behind to be with you. But it wasn't an easy life and it was fleeting. We knew better than to be wasteful or to take those moments together for granted. Truthfully, by all logic, it shouldn't have been that great." He could see the red undertones in her neck and cheeks darken further the more he spoke. "It never usually is the first time out. But this was something else. It was fervent, intense. I'd never…"

He stopped himself. He wanted to tell her how deep-rooted within him the need was, about how all-consuming every fierce and fiery kiss had been. Fiyero had long thought about making love to her, but he had never known what that meant before she was in his arms. He had shed his selfishness as he had his clothes, his own cravings falling to the wayside as he fixated on her, eager for her to tremble and pant and gasp his name in ecstasy. And it wasn't just physical. He had never let himself be so unguarded before, so exposed, and he hadn't really meant to be, but she had looked at him with such alarming intensity and profound trust that he just unraveled. He had never experienced anything so terrifying or thrilling.

But there was no way to rationalize any of that, not to someone like Elphaba.

"Elphaba, we only had days together," he told her, squeezing her hands gently. "But I did come to know you. I know things about you no one else in Oz does, that I can promise you."

"Like what?" Her voice was so small, and because he could see how much his eye contact was unnerving her, he smiled soothingly and focused on his hand over hers, turning it under her long, nimble fingers and letting his thumb run over the ridges of her knuckles and tracing the tops of them tenderly.

He thought of all the intangible things first, things that couldn't be expressed in words and moreover might be something entirely separate from the woman she was now. Like how she used to turn her head up to look at the stars above them and the millions of impressions that would all hit him simultaneously in that moment: from the magnificence and apropos of the cosmos he would gleam in her eyes, from how profoundly somber the silence was in those initial seconds as she took a breath, the clinical tone her voice would adopt as she read the heavens like they were a map, and the overwhelming sensation of inadequacy and amazement he felt realizing her acute skill was self-taught.

He remembered the way she'd touch him, how her hands would fall to his chest first, always tentative to start. Soon she would trace his diamonds in favorite patterns, her caresses varying from the feather soft circles she'd draw around each stone, to the teasing brushes of the pads of her fingers as she discovered the varying reactions he'd have to the drawings she'd make between them, to the stimulating pressure of her palms against them in the throes of passion.

And he knew where to touch her. Sometimes, she'd catch his own hands and bring them to where she wanted them most; other times she trusted his experience and his instincts and left herself open to him in way that was incredibly satisfying for both of them.

He mused about the way she'd welcome him to sleep curled against her, though it seemed so against her nature to let herself be cradled into anyone's arms. But he couldn't forget the way she'd find his wrist when they'd collapse next to one another, spent, and she'd pull it around her stomach, still breathless and hot from their lovemaking.

Then there were the things that had no purchase at all in this moment but that his mind couldn't suppress, like the high he would get knowing he was the reason she was so weak in his arms—for she was the Wicked Witch of the West. There was something so fitting about that cruel title because she was as otherworldly and dangerous as it implied. It went beyond her unique skin and her complex eyes and her vast heart. She was, at her core, uncontrollable and raw, with inborn magic that unsettled even the most powerful in Oz. For years he lived submersed in whispers of her, increasingly paranoid and absurd, but unwavering in the deep-rooted fear that gave purchase to the notion that she was but a wraith in the shadows or the apparition of nightmares. Yet there she would lay, corporeal, nestled against him, and in those moments of vulnerability he would feel powerful. That terrifying sorceress, that uncontainable revolutionist, that singularly ethereal beauty was his, and he alone knew what it was like to cause her rapture, to make her so languid and unguarded.

But those vain moments would always be his secret, and moments were all they were, for as soon as sleep would take her she'd begin to contract back into herself, physically and mentally. Memories layered against reality as her younger, prouder version sat in front of him, frowning so familiarly, and without great consideration he found himself sharing aloud, "You hog the blanket. I can't say I was much better, but often I'd wake up to the cold air and see you curled up as tightly as possible, sound asleep, muttering or scowling like you couldn't stop thinking, like even in your sleep that brain of yours is twice as good as mine would ever be awake."

And he would let himself freeze for a few minutes to watch as she slept, restless but real, as her brow would pinch together just before she would turn her head this way or that, as her full lips would become thin or as they fell open with a heavy breath of air. He'd finger a piece of her hair, blacker than the night, and just study her until the biting chill proved too much and he'd risk waking her to share in the warmth.

He feared Elphaba was too naïve to understand the difference between admiration and obsession; his awe of her sleeping form was nothing perverted or crude but paradoxically just innocent wonderment. She didn't yet know the experience of opening her eyes – like her older self had done each time he'd eventually tug the blanket back – to see her lover's awaiting them and the vacuum of intimacy it created as the very atmosphere disappears, taking everything in it so all that was left was him and her.

Most importantly, she couldn't comprehend the primal draw— the undeniable, overwhelming attraction he felt.

"You didn't like me to see naked you in the light," he said, slightly nervous then, and he squeezed her hands again as she made to pull them away with her own discomfort, unwilling to let her fall prey to her insecurities just as he hadn't then. She would clutch her things to her as soon as the sun started bathing them and each time he would assure her it wasn't necessary. Feeling inspired, he inclined his head so he gathered her full attention and he spoke sincerely, "Regardless of everything, nothing I could say could convince you that you were beautiful enough for me."

She was shaking her head. It was clear it all hit too close to home for her but it still wasn't enough.

Steeling himself, he carried on, this time with something he was certain only he could tell her. "You have this one remarkably sensitive spot on your neck, and when I would kiss you there you would lose all resistance."

"I don't believe you," she whispered, her eyes wide.

"Then let me prove it." Resentfully, but still persuasively, he added, "Satiate your curiosity."

Fiyero slowly closed the distance between them until they were mere inches from each other. The colors of her eyes shone so clearly as they danced back and forth between his own, dark yet vibrant. He tentatively reached forward, brushing a loose lock of hair behind her ear, still searching her for any lack of consent.

He could see she was scared, uncertain, hesitant to allow him so close, but the way her eyelids fluttered closed for a moment as his fingers trailed her face gave her latent desire away. His unopposed challenge made him think that even if she was doubtful of his motives, she was in fact too curious to stop him. She wanted to feel it for herself. She craved touch more than she let on.

Fiyero's forehead rested against hers, testing her unspoken resolve. His hand lingered at her cheek, cupping it, rubbing it softly with his thumb. Her breaths shuddered past her slightly parted lips and were entrancing to him, stealing his attention. He could feel them against his mouth and he moistened it instinctively, his nerves coming to life. Unable to repress his craving, he brushed his lips over hers but she twitched away, sinking back onto the bed onto her elbows. Fiyero had fallen with her, catching himself with his free arm to keep from landing on her.

He couldn't bring himself to apologize. It may have been because the feeling of her legs on either side of his was very distracting. It may have been because of how concentrated her focus remained on his eyes—too shrewd to make him feel as though he was taking advantage of her. It may have simply been because she still hadn't pushed him away.

Maybe, just maybe, she liked this.

His small smile was mischievous as he watched her bite her bottom lip. She had no idea how sexy that was. He continued to watch her mouth even as his fingertips brushed the smooth, green skin of her beautiful face and down to softly stroke the column of her neck, from the soft spot behind her ear all the way to collarbone and back up. He felt her shiver against him.

He made as if to kiss her again but stopped, watching her widened pupils as his smile just barely touched her lips. She was still trembling below him, his fingers still stimulating the sensitive flesh, letting her wonder just where this special spot was; he dipped down, nuzzling her chin up slightly with the tip of his nose, burying his hand in her thick hair.

"It's not here," he murmured, his lips pressing against her throat, where his fingers had barely touched. Finding the curved groove where the neck met her collarbone, he kissed that too. "Not here…"

"Fiyero."

"Not here," he exhaled against a new patch of skin, her shudders at his touch rescinding her wasted threat. He began working his way up the side of her neck, every kiss accompanied by a cocky assurance that it wasn't the right place.

Each one made her breathing increase until it was ragged in his ear. It made his heart pump faster.

He knew he had found it when she gasped, one hand suddenly clutching the hair at the back of his head while the other that groped at his shoulder nearly tore his shirt at the seam. He should have ended it there; he could even have rubbed in this little victory. But instead he kissed it again and again, his lips separating eagerly, wantonly, as though he was drinking her in with every kiss, her strained exhalations tickling him and her nails digging into him as he continued to fixate on the skin below her ear.

He gripped her closer and the tip of his tongue snaked out between his sweeping lips, tasting the hypersensitive flesh, leaving her wheezing and tensing with every hot kiss.

"Sweet Oz," she rasped, her hand clutching frenziedly at his back, his shirt untucking as it bunched in her tight grasp.

This was a dangerous game he was playing, for the warmer her skin became under his eager lips the less restraint he had. His weight began drooping onto her until she was flat on the bed and he on top of her; he could feel her heaving chest and her tight stomach against him, sending his nerves alight….

"Yero," she whimpered, writhing below him.

It was a warning to stop, that it had become too much, but the sound of her saying his name like that only incited him more. Excitedly, sensually, recklessly, his fingers at her back gripped her harder to him and he nipped her skin just right. All at once, she squeaked, her legs instinctively clenched around his hips, offsetting his one true restraint in a way so intimate, so unexpected, and so arousing that a loud groan escaped from him into her hair.

They both immediately braced. The room became very still.

Fiyero was afraid to move, lest the pressure where their bodies touched intensified. He could feel her head drop against the mattress as she caught her breath, and his cheek settled against her warm neck as he tried to do the same. It wasn't until she finally loosened her hands from his hair and his shirt that he felt confident enough to try to untangle himself from her. Bravely, he stole a glimpse at her face, which just for a second had fallen open. What he saw was indefinable, almost like need but also different, more; it made him chill and flash hot in dizzying simultaneity.

He rolled off of her. Elphaba was slow as she sat up, set further back from the edge of the bed than he was, fortunately for him. He felt self-conscious and embarrassed by the arousal he would rather she not see.

The world was crashing in around him in bursts, the details of his Shiz dorm room sharpening one object at a time, all in rapid succession; it was disorientating. The tension in the room was so thick, it felt like it was restricting the function of his lungs. How could things have changed so fast? Only a couple minutes ago he was yammering on about her singing voice.

"Are you all right?" he asked, tilting his head down, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Her skin was darker than he could ever remember seeing it; the flush to it almost made it seem brown in places. But she nodded. "I'm fine."

"Do you believe me now?" he asked cautiously. It was what it had all been about, after all.

She was quiet for impossibly long seconds. "Not enough," Elphaba said finally. Her voice was shaky. Subdued. Vulnerable. "For all I know…that was unexceptional. It could be like that for every girl."

"Trust me, it's not," he said bluntly.

She wasn't convinced. Agitatedly, she climbed from the bed, but he couldn't leave it like this. He grabbed her, causing her to turn in front of him. Fiyero cursed his snug wardrobe, seeing her take in the tightness of pants with the blush still lingering under her skin.

"You have to believe me," he said desperately.

"No, I don't," she said, pulling her arm from between his loose fingers resolutely. She made to leave.

"There's a shadow on your skin," he called to her, rising to his feet but not daring to follow her. "A scar. Inches below your navel."

"What did you just say?" she asked harshly, her back visibly tensing.

He was taking a chance. She never told him about it, and for all he knew the blemish was one she acquired in her years on the run and thus was something with which she was not familiar. But with little to go on, he continued. "I don't know where it's from. When I first saw it, I sleepily wondered if one of my diamonds had steamed into your skin in the heat of sex—"

SLAP.

Her hand had struck him so hard that he saw stars in one of his eyes, half-blinding him from the look of pure disgust she gave him. She moved to strike him again but this time he caught her wrist reflexively. She shook him roughly off, her hand still held as if debating trying again – this time he would have let her – but dropped it with an audible growl.

"Elphaba—"

"Don't!" she snapped, visibly seething as she pointed an irate finger in his face. She snarled again between clenched teeth, too angry to speak, and stormed off, yanking open the door and closing it again behind her with violent force.

He was reeling, his insides churning with self-contempt, his outside burning with the stinging of her slap. He yelled out, kicking his chair so hard into his desk that he heard an audible crack through the deafening ringing in his ear. For one naïve moment he thought that the force of his aggressive moment had been the cause of everything rattling in place in his room, but it wasn't only his desk that was trembling. The clock clattered off of his bedside table, shattering onto the ground with overwrought springs and cogs shooting out like buckshot, the artwork he had collected over the semester was all falling askew until one finally slipped from its tack and broke against the floor, and the ground itself in his third-floor apartment vibrated as though Shiz was enduring an extreme seism.

When he went out for a much-needed drink that night, he didn't stay out long, for all the boys from Briscoe Hall could talk about was the freak earthquake that seemed to have struck only them. And the architecture students gabbled away, eagerly debating what it meant about the construction of the bluestone structure that only one corner of the dormitory experienced the quivering underfoot.

Only he knew what really happened: he had shaken Elphaba to the core and she had shaken back, the magic within her triggered by the kind of blinding ire she did not control. But he knew that she had controlled it; that had she lost restraint, he and all of the gossipmongers could have been lost into jolting, lurching versions of themselves like he had now twice seen her do before, or worse.

He could still feel her hand the rest of the day like a charge under his skin— the burning, stinging sensation that one first felt at the moment of a blow remaining longer than was natural. Even after, his eyelid twitched maddeningly, which he would come to find would last for the better part of a week.

In a matter of days, he had made to turn the entirety of her world upside down and yet she held herself in check enough to walk away from him leaving him only with an hour of temporary partial blindness, deafness, and a tolerable headache. But if she spared him for a second time from one of her raging magical commotions, it meant that when he stabbed her with his cruel truth, that it had been from the place inside of her heart that she did not allow people lightly, a place where they were safe from the worst of herself.

He had his pain coming. Dear Oz he deserved it. But poor, good-hearted Elphaba didn't and he loathed himself deeply.