Thank you so much to everyone still sticking with me and especially to those who took the time to review. It really makes my days.

"Elphaba," Fiyero called after her as she stormed from the history hall. She had passed right over the paved sidewalk in the shade of the towering stone academic building in favor of the more direct path to his dorms over the expansive lawn. There were browned paths in the otherwise green grass from where students had taken to walking, but even with these Elphaba's surprisingly long gaits had trodden wherever she pleased as if the worn trails didn't exist just feet away.

He thought about bringing up at least one of the million-and-a-half things that he wished to say to her now that they were finally alone. Fiyero looked about them, checking every path and shrub nearby, paranoid of more eavesdroppers. It was cold enough outside to discourage languid students, most of whom were finally finished with the long days of exams and essays, from lounging on the plush green (at least so close to the classrooms), and any giggling, chattering groups were so filled with pent-up excitement for the end of the semester that they seemed to run or skip from place to place, too fast to care about those that lingered here or there.

But the problem wasn't the privacy. The problem was Elphaba, whose strides held a determination he knew he would be foolish to interrupt. She didn't even acknowledge him as he spoke her name, urging her to slow so he might walk with her rather than behind her, and when he considered violating his instincts his apologies caught in his throat each time he saw her hands flex and fist at her sides.

He wished he knew what she was thinking, what she was feeling. It was all he needed to know before their friends completely derailed their progress outside of the classroom. But she said nothing and remained inscrutable to him, even as he finally caught up with her to find her frown deepened and her silence graver.

Elphaba slammed the door shut behind them both so loudly Fiyero cringed, fearing objects would fly off the walls again even though they didn't.

They were finally alone. He had been needing this for a few days now, this opportunity to be with her and be candid with her, yet now that they were here again in his room his mind couldn't focus on anything long enough to know where to even begin. He glanced at the bed; usually the sheets were tucked in tight enough to bounce a coin from it but the last few days he hadn't bothered to make it. It seemed silly when sleep came so intermittently.

He couldn't help but be overtaken with a rush of warmth as he remembered her being on that bed with him just days ago, how close their clothed bodies had come to one another, the sound of her staggered breaths in his ear…

He turned around to face her, suddenly intent on knowing if she felt the heat too, but then the cool rush of shame to see her features crumpled as she too glanced at his bed, her green fingers tightly gripping the ends of the black scarf around her neck. As if pulling it snugly to shield her.

Fiyero ran both of his hands through his hair; only months ago he would have cared how the locks would end up out of place, but what difference did it make now? He was a man out of place, and the irony of that in this moment wasn't lost on him: He was a man who had unwittingly travelled back in time but all he wanted in the world right now was to travel back once more, to fix what happened between him and Elphaba to create this chasm that so obviously existed between them. It was only a few feet between where he stood and where she lingered by the door, but it may as well have been hundreds of miles. It was breaking his heart and breaking his mind and he didn't know what to do anymore.

"You wanted to talk?" she said frostily.

"Yeah. I uh…" He faltered, unsettled by her. "I do. And you want information about Dillamond."

"So a trade, then."

"Not a trade. It's all the same. Look, Elphaba, I have something I need to show you."

He stepped to his desk, his feet nearly getting caught up in the legs of his chair as he moved about it, hastily pushing around piles of Life Science notes, of political essays, of economic charts – everything he had been using to keep himself grounded the last couple of weeks while he felt unmoored without Elphaba – as he looked for a tiny key that he presumed was buried in the disarray. But then he remembered: he had it in his hand moments ago, for it was attached to the small ring of keys that held his nickel dorm key, and he fumbled to grasp it and hold it in his trembling hands as Elphaba called his name, wanting clarification.

"It's in here, everything is in here." He kneeled, jamming the key at the lock on his bottom desk drawer a couple of times, but his focus was becoming bleary. Cursing, he tried again until he became smothered with Elphaba's sudden presence at his side, the shade of green filling his periphery and the soft scent of her hair soothing his nerves.

She took the key from him to unlock the drawer herself. "I've got it, Fiyero, just sit back."

He acquiesced quietly, watching as she frowned at the contents of the drawer. She pulled out various envelopes and a few bundles of cash before finally pulling out what he had to assume had been what originally caught her eye: a black, roughly bound book packed full of papers, tied shut by a string with a tag bearing her name.

"What is all this?"

He parted his lips as if to respond, but by this time he had fallen to the floor, slumped against his desk, with exhaustion overwhelming his ability to speak. Instead, he watched silently as she picked up one of the envelopes first, no doubt because she had felt the metal objects inside, and pulled out the documents folded inside and two heavy keys.

"Are these the contracts for the property at which you're hiding Dr. Dillamond?" Rather than respond, he just watched as her keen eyes, dark with concentration, scanned over the text, her brows pinching further and further together the faster she read. "This isn't a Shiz address. It's in the Emerald City. What is this, Fiyero?"

"It's an abandoned corn exchange in the City's lower quarter. It's a terrible place – there are boards on the windows and mice and pigeon droppings everywhere – but I've stocked it with a couple months' worth of food and clothing and a bedroll so at least it's habitable. It's a low-rent warehouse district, far enough away from the Palace to avoid heavy Gale Force presence and close enough to Westgate to allow for escape when feasible."

She listened to him attentively, and then she too settled to the floor, a shuddery breath escaping her green lips as she slowly shuffled through the papers.

"It, uh, was purchased with cash and I met with the owner under false pretenses, so it can't be traced back to either one of us, and—"

"You met with the owner. You described the building. When did you do this?"

"I've taken the train to the city a couple of times. I must have looked at fourteen different places over the course of the weekend before I settled on that location—"

"The weekend? But you always spend your Saturdays with Galinda—" She stopped, remembering something. "You cancelled on her last time. Told her to spend the time with me instead."

"Couldn't very well tell her the truth, now could I?" He sighed, dully, and stretched his arm out to pinch the corner of one of the other envelopes and move it towards her. "That's what you came here for. Dillamond's about a mile and a half or so north of here in an old house in Little Glikkus. The address is on the rental agreement."

And just as she had before, she took a moment to read over the contract. It wasn't for a couple of minutes, until she had put them down and stared at the brass key she had pulled from amidst the papers, that she spoke again.

"I don't understand why you're doing all of this."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't even tried to stop me from going," she said. "You're buying me safe houses and hiding stacks of money, but never once have you said, 'Don't go.' If you're so concerned about my meeting with the Wizard, why haven't you just tried to convince me to stay?"

"I know I could never stop you," he said simply, honestly. "Even if you did really believe me and I convinced you to tear up that letter and hide away, you'd always carry that little bit of doubt inside of you because it's just the word of a time-traveling, pretentious prince against every other person and thing in Oz. Before long, there'd just be regret, a-and resentment, and I just can't…" He took a deep breath, fearful he could drown in himself without it, and tried to remind himself that what happened to him wouldn't matter. She could still resent him despite everything. This was about her and only her. "You have to see for yourself."

"Until I try," she agreed faintly, "I'll never know."

"So, I've settled for preparing you so that maybe things will be different this time. This time you can win."

"Win?" she repeated sharply. "This isn't a game, Fiyero, this is my life."

"Life is a game." He said it with emphasis, recalling a conversation they had perhaps just a month ago under the shade of their favorite pearlfruit tree. "And sometimes we're not the ones moving the pieces at all. Sometimes we're just the pawns."

"Wait, is this about chess?" she snapped, and he could see the storm brewing in her eyes. "All that about foresight, circumspection and caution? Is that all that was, a lesson against impulsivity for the hotheaded green girl?"

"Well, no, at the time it was just supposed to be fun. I had no idea you'd be so Oz-damn terrible at it."

She seemed ready to cut him a new one in response, but then she released a bitter laugh. "This is… I don't even know what to think anymore. How much of my life have you manipulated since I met you? Am I just a piece on a board to you?"

She jumped to her feet then and he struggled to do the same, gripping the edge of the desk as he pulled himself upright. "Of course not! Oz, Elphaba, I've been making this up as I go! I'm trying to be smart about all these things, but it doesn't come naturally to me."

"Don't sell yourself short, Fiyero."

"That's funny coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I can't believe you just stood by while Nessarose shot you down, declared you unfit to love and be loved! As she led everyone to believe that you're just asexual or aromantic, like it's true! And we both know that it's not!"

"I don't know that!" Elphaba bit back, everything about her wilting with her insecurities.

"How could you even think that?"

"Fiyero…just look at me."

"That argument will never work on me."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything."

"I've already told you, Fiyero. I'm just not that girl."

"What girl? What does that even mean?"

"I'm not the kind of girl…" She trailed off, sighing, putting a hand to her head with palpable frustration. "The kind of girl who loses sight of who she is."

"And who is that?"

She was getting so aggravated with him; this he knew. But he needed elaboration or else he felt like he would implode.

"I'm the nasty green thorn in everyone's side."

"What? No, Elphaba—"

"I wasn't born for roses, pearls, dances. I'm not some debutante using the university to meet rich bachelors at your modish jamborees— your stupid, pointless, cultish revels! I came here to study. To make something of myself, to make good for this world, to give the Wizard and the rest of Oz the chance to see that I'm more than this skin!"

She spun away from him, the green tips of her fingers disappearing into the roots of her hair in angst. He stilled his tongue from pointing out that the Wizard and Morrible would see her for more than her casing; they would see her as a tool. His heart ached for her, wishing as she wrapped her arms around herself that his could join them.

"I was only a little girl when I first learned about the Wizard," she continued, her voice dulling to a murmur. "It changed me. He was this tangible version of Nessarose's omnipotent god; a flesh-and-blood man of unknowable magic and acclaimed goodness and wisdom. And I was a freakish little child cursed with powers of my own and philosophies too liberal to belong to the intolerance of Munchkinland. I needed him, Fiyero. I still need him. Yet you tell me…you tell me it's all a lie? Everything I've worked for, everything I've wanted since before I can remember?"

"He's not a god. He's just a man."

"He can't be," she cried, her arms shooting down rigidly at her sides. She turned to face him once again and for once he could read her expression perfectly and he almost wished he couldn't, for all he saw was anguish and self-doubt and fury. "He's supposed to fix me, Fiyero! To make my outside match my inside! To finally help me understand this gift, this curse I have! He has to be able to really see me! He…he needs to love me so—so that others…"

"Elphaba," he whispered brokenly, as an uprising of something swelled up his throat. He tried to swallow it back down but he couldn't; he could barely breathe as he witnessed her begin to unravel, her confessions breaking down into less eloquent sums until she became the abused child he sensed she was before his eyes. And no matter how many times he opened his mouth to argue, he couldn't for the knot blocking him up inside, not letting air in or out; he was frozen as an unwitting witness and little else as she implicated the loveless life she was dealt, the self-hatred she carried, and the uncertainty she bore. And so, he watched, helpless, as her emotions bled out of her, twisting and warping with shame and hostility while her movements grew wilder.

"My future had been unlimited," she exclaimed. Her fingers spread wide and tense as she flailed them around her. "Unlimited! I could see it Fiyero – I know it sounds crazy – but I saw all of Oz celebrating me, screaming about me. I've watched myself standing with him, feeling happy, feeling special. And now you're telling me everything I've dreamed and seen and felt is all wrong?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the pain in his chest unbearable, and he felt submerged in water when she suddenly became blurry in front of him, as his eyelashes beaded up sticky and blinding, as his nose and throat and lungs seemed to overflow with something thick and liquid. "I'm so sorry…"

"Fiyero…" she started, but weaker than he expected.

"I'm sorry for everything!" he cried hoarsely, despite her protest, feeling his limbs start to tremble violently as his unstable emotions began surging. "I'm sorry for lying. I'm sorry for not lying! I dropped this huge bomb of madness on you and I told myself nothing else mattered as long as you were going to be safe. I forgot that you'd have to carry this burden too and then I was stupid and told you that I love you and I shouldn't have done that, because that's just one more thing I've made you bear, as if that damn letter and school and your dad and sister weren't enough, and I wish there was something I could do to make this all better, to take back all that I've put on you, and yet all I can think to do to fix this is to unload more of my weighty secrets so that maybe you'll be more prepared to protect yourself and—"

"Fiyero, just stop talking!" Elphaba broke finally, gesturing so fast and so angrily that he tumbled back a few steps into something behind him. He flailed until he caught his headboard, using it for balance; he could feel the mattress behind his calves and objects clattering from the upset bedside table fall onto his booted toes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Uh, w—"

"You're falling apart, Fiyero!" Elphaba spoke sharply, and he flinched hard at her furious movement and her brutal honesty. "You're an absolute mess! Are you so fixated on me you can't see it?"

"I—" He choked on words, for they felt too dense and his throat too swollen to allow passage for them, and in their place came weak, strangled noises with every struggling lungful, causing him further distress. He couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe? "I…"

He felt faint.

"Fiyero!"

He knew Elphaba was right in front of him, seething righteously, but she seemed so far away. Another wave of vertigo, one that he couldn't counter, struck him so immediately then that it was as if the whole room spun, floor and all, tilted about him. The edge of the bed seemed to catch him behind the knees and he plummeted down, or sideways or backwards or all of these at once; just as quick as it happened he was somehow on the mattress with Elphaba right there, her strong hands clenching his shoulders.

Terror, however momentary, struck him fiercely, sending his heart and mind racing far too fast for him to catch them, and for a moment there was just his turbulence and her features which were blurred by his unwanted tears. He recognized her then, in a way he hadn't in so long, and for a second he was oblivious to space and time for she was his Elphaba—he saw the simultaneous intensity and tenderness he once knew in the forests of Oz. Where had she been? He had missed her so profoundly; he thought of her every single day, grieving for her touch and her love and her trust, so long lost to him… He sobbed, falling forward against her belly and wrapping himself around her midsection, burying his face into her clothing and clutching to her like a child.

"Oz!"

And just as fleeting as his wits left him, they returned – he heard her breathy exclamation, he felt her brace herself at the sudden intrusion of her personal space – and as much as he knew he shouldn't be touching this woman like this he didn't care. Disconcerted though Elphaba must have been, she did not push him away. He felt her touch: one hand against his back and the other upon his head, holding him against her.

"It's okay, you're okay," she murmured, and when her fingers began to stroke his hair comfortingly, he felt the awful welling inside like he could lose control and cry once more.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered, sniffing back snot. He couldn't bring himself to part from her embrace, not when she was letting him be so close, not when her fingers were combing against his scalp so soothingly. He buried his face further into her midriff; her dress absorbed the toxic tears clinging to his lashes. "I'm sorry…"

How could he feel so lightheaded and heavyhearted all at once? His mind spiraled six different directions, his fragmented thoughts unable to find lucidity in anything, only emotion. His body of bones and organs and muscles seemed gone, replaced by contrition so onerous and pervading that he winced and gasped like a fish incompatible with the air. He was responsible for the destruction of her long-coveted and finally attainable dreams, yet he also felt the burden of her malnourished soul, for though he was not the one to neglect and abuse her emotionally as a child, it was that inner spirit that suffered the most from everything he brought to her.

"Fiyero," she sighed. Her fingers laced into his hair and at her gentle tug he peered up at her through strained, misty eyes. "Oh Oz, look at you. What am I going to do with you?"

"I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you," he murmured unhappily.

She made a noise that was neither laugh nor scoff. Perhaps both at once. "How can you possibly expect to take care of me when you don't even take care of yourself?" she criticized. Taken aback, he felt his droopy expression fall open; immediately she scowled the way she always did at ignorance and snapped, "Look at yourself, Fiyero! You haven't shaved, your clothes are wrinkled, your place is a wreck— you could barely walk in a straight line over here. Yet despite all of this I can't get you to stop yammering about me!"

"Do you think I want to care this much?" Fiyero asked then, imbuing the question with layered meaning, and the abrupt reference startled her eyes wide for a moment. He knew the latter part of his question was already uttered, if only by allusion: Don't you think I know how much easier my life would be if I didn't?

She started to answer argumentatively but he interrupted, candor bursting out of him like water through cracks in a dam: "I don't know how to turn it off, Elphaba. I wish it could be about something nobler. I wish I had some great cause like you do, one that would make you proud of me instead of hating me, but all I've got is you. And I can't stop caring, I can't stop thinking, I can't stop making notes and planning and thinking and dreaming—"

"You said 'thinking' twice," she said almost lightly, as if it could possibly lessen the gravity of it all, in contrariety to the somber mask she wore.

He wiped at his face, the attempt at flippancy a desperate and appreciated necessity. He gave a half-hearted, half-accomplished smile, feeling it falter as his floppy form had him sagging down, like a worn-out scarecrow on its stake. "So you recognize the severity of all this."

Elphaba released a heavy breath again, her lips turning in and becoming thin in judgment while she stared at him. The atmosphere grew unbearably silent save for his rough breaths and the hard beats of his weary heart. Even her inner thoughts and feelings, despite being inscrutable, had quieted to something inaudible to his observance. They were usually so tumultuous and obvious, like the sea, with waves either softly swaying or crashing harshly against the sand; at this moment he was little better than a deaf man on a moonless night, cognizant of the water but oblivious to how it stirred around him.

His eyes rolled back behind his eyelids as he felt her hand run through his hair. Oz, the sensation was so familiar, like that of a distant memory. Just the very thought of it dragged him down further into his sadness, making him weightier and weaker against her, and the palpitations pounded violently throughout his limp form, so hard against his sternum that he was sure she must have felt them too.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he sniffled, humiliated by his lack of composure.

"You just need some rest," she said soothingly. And for a minute he believed her; he felt himself begin to drift, her sweet, gentle tone the soft lullaby he needed to fade away.

But then she slipped within his arms, detaching herself from his clutches. It jarred him to alertness again, his pulse racing with distress, his breaths suddenly ragged in his panic as he gripped her again even tighter.

"Wha—"

"Shh, shh, it's okay, just let go," she said, her hands sliding to find his wrists at her back to loosen him. He shook his head, confused, desperate, the mere thought of separating from her was more than he could bear. "Fiyero, you need to let me go."

A war took place inside of him, one side of which fought to do as she asked and the other side unwilling or unable to withdraw from her…

"You should sleep," she said evenly, "and I need to see Dr. Dillamond."

"No! No, I don't need to sleep— I'm fine," he insisted, but released her anyway, his faculties finally clearing again to rid him of that physical dependency. "Let me take you there."

"And make me responsible for you when you finally pass out?" she asked, shaking her head. "No. You'll stay here and go to bed."

"It's the middle of the day!"

"Then nap."

"I'll just get another cup of coffee," he countered, standing in front of her. For a minute he had forgotten he was taller than her, but only barely since he was slouching in a way he never ordinarily would. "I'm good, I don't need to sleep. I'm just peachy now. I'll show you."

"Just take a few minutes to lie down, at least."

"No way."

"Are you stupid, Fiyero? You're going to kill yourself like this! Why are you being so stubborn?"

"Because!" he blurted argumentatively, without reason. "Because…because Little Glikkus is dodgy! So you shouldn't go alone! A-and there's a secret knock you need to do when you get to Dillamond's—"

"There's a key, Fiyero, I shouldn't need to knock. That's the point."

"Then…then…" Fiyero searched his foggy mind for excuses. He gave up and insisted willfully, "I don't need sleep."

"Then stay here and be awake for all I care. But I wish to be alone. I'm leaving."

"I'm coming, Elphaba. You can't stop me following you."

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "You'll find that I can," she said sharply, and though he wondered what she meant it didn't matter, for she immediately tempered herself. "But I don't want to. Sit back down."

He was about to snap back obstinately but she pushed on his chest and he stumbled back once more into his mattress. As soon as his butt hit the sheets she had a palm pressing hard onto his collar, preventing him from standing despite his angriest (yet still pathetic) efforts. It wasn't until he felt her free hand on his forehead that his struggle abated, her thumb brushing against his brow and pushing his bangs from it.

"You're warm," she whispered sadly, so quietly he would have thought he imagined it had he not watched her lips form the words.

He stared up at her undivided eye contact with dissipating annoyance. "Stop doing that," he mumbled as she continued to stroke his hairline. Where her fingertips contacted he felt strain ebb away—across his forehead, around his temples, down to his clenched jaw…

"Stop what?" she asked cannily. That witch, she knew exactly what she was doing to him…how manipulative! And yet he didn't care enough to truly thwart her, having waited so patiently for so long for attention like this from her...

"Stop," he tried again, feebly. He forgot what he was saying. Knowing that if he just closed his eyes again he would be gone, a victim to the cruelty of the darkness behind his lids where his unconscious imagination lied in wait to torture and torment him, he refused to close them. His vision twisted and swirled in front of him. "Stop…"

"It's okay, Fiyero, just relax."

In a last frantic attempt to resist that powerful pull of drowsiness, he jerked and pushed against her roughly. "No! I won't!"

Elphaba growled and shoved him back down – so hard it actually hurt – and snapped, "You want to play it this way? Fine!" And before he knew what was happening, she had reached into a pocket and pulled out what looked like a match tin. "Just calm down! Don't make me do this," she begged, like this was some ultimate last resort. She sprung open the lid with her thumb and inside he could see a dark purple powder that sparkled with the light. "Don't make me magic you."

Magic him? Wait, what? He thrashed in spite of her physical upper hand and whimpered, "No, wait Elphaba, please, I can't, don't make me sleep, anything—" because he couldn't, wouldn't, endure his nightmares even one more time, and she had to understand that…

But she didn't. The lines on her face deepened morosely. "I'm sorry, Fiyero." And then her green hand was there in his vision, clutching the small metal container between them; she blew on it, sending a cloud of violet dust into his face. He gasped in shock – the instant the powder filled his lungs his body went completely limp – and the last thing he felt or knew as the darkness drowned him was the feeling of her catching him as he fell.

Reviews mean a good night's sleep for Fiyero. ;)