Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything started, as it so often does, with gossip. Hardly a rare thing to occur in the Emerald City; although, unlike this case, regular rumors usually came and went with the wind, barely reaching some of the population before they became old news. There had been a few topics that became rather relevant as of late, whispers and speculations on the matters disseminating all the way beyond the far edges of Oz. But this one particular rumor stood out from the rest:

Glinda The Good is unwell.

After the initial startle, the statement was quickly dismissed. Unwell? How absurd. Of course she was not unwell. Glinda The Good was perpetually perfect in every possible way, it was but a crime to associate her with a word such as unwell. She was pretty much invincible, really. Alwayas working so hard, being so good, making everyone—everyone! Humans and Animals and every living creature there might be!—so happy. How could she be anything but perfectly well? No, that made no sense, no sense at all.

Except Glinda The Good had not made a public appearance in months, which was more than enough to start some baseless gossip. But then, she stopped attending many of her meetings in person, requesting whatever was addressed in them to be communicated to her and she would respond accordingly; which worked just fine, she did a remarkable job, made all the right choices and wielded her authority even without showing her face—but it was so odd. And after that, people in the palace couldn't remember the last time they saw her around the place; not even her closest assistants had caught sight of her outside her apartment in weeks. And then there were words of doctors and healers being seen around the palace, which led not only to an unofficial confirmation of the rumor, but to the twisted variations of it to start speading as well:

Glinda The Good is ill. Deathly ill. Agonizing as we speak, even. She might already be dead, for all we know.

Glinda herself—who was currently not deathly ill nor agonizing nor dead, as far as she could tell, just sitting on the ground at her living room—was aware of such gossip, she always was. She simply didn't have the strenght to do anything about it anymore.

See, though exagerated in many ways, there was some truth to the words that had been spreading recently. Glinda's illnes—physical, emotional, spiritual and otherwise—had started long ago, too long to pinpoint an exact moment. The very day she was born, perhaps. But the particular trigger, the foundation of said rumors, had originated a little under four years ago. The day half of Glinda's heart had died.

The details were fuzzy in her head. After so much time and so many nightmares, it was difficult to distinguish what had truly happened and what was invented by her mind in the years that followed. She didn't remember every fervent word and every sweet whisper, even the ones that she'd thought would be forever ingrained into her brain. The first thing Glinda remembered vividly was being pushed into a cramped closet and watching a blurred green face through the small stained glass window on the door. Elphie stood there for a moment, a hand pressed against the glass, then took the back of her hand to her forehead and wiggled her fingers. Glinda managed to copy the action just a clock tick before Elphie turned and moved away from the door.

At that point, Glinda had no choice but to hold out. She remained perfectly still, one hand pressed against her mouth to keep herself from screaming and the other gripping the Grimmerie tight enough to be painful. Through the window, she caught only glimpses, shadows: people, a lot of people moving, pushing, fighting; and Elphie, unmistakably Elphie, moving and bracing and resisting; a pigtailed figure, crouching, swinging something, and then—

The screams.

The details of that day were fuzzy in Glinda's head, but if there was one thing that was clear and sharp in her memory, one thing that she couldn't forget, couldn't for the life of her stop thinking about, was the bloodcurdling sound of Elphaba's screams. Elphie, her Elphie, screaming and screaming and screaming, shrill and agonizing as she—knelt? Collapsed? It was hard for Glinda to tell through the glass and tears and the terror and the… smoke?

Afterwards, Glinda heard fragments of cheers over the sound of her own heart pounding in her chest.

She melted! You did it! You killed her! The Witch is dead!

And when the girl and the people and the noise were gone, Glinda made no effort to free herself. She simply stood there, breathing and shaking and thinking—yes, thinking. As unfathomable as it seemed at that moment, her mind was quick to catch up and start trying to understand what had just happened. Her limited senses must have fooled her, surely, the same way every other horrible person there had been fooled. Melted? Killed? Dead? Nonsense. It couldn't be. It couldn't, for several reasons she could not unpack right then and there. But reasons were not important, because the whole thing was simply unreasonable. Absurd. Just impossible. It could not be. Elphie could not be—

The sound of the door handle creaking made her jump. Chistery wore a solemn expression as as he let her out of her hiding spot, head low. Glinda only managed to meet his eyes for a beat before looking away and stumbling past him. The room was no longer dark, but it seemed gloomier with the weak sun rays casting shadows all around. It's tomorrow, her ruthless mind announced.

“Elphie?” Her eyes scanned her surroundings in a frantic, pointless search. She found nothing but traces of the same impossible story—the bucket, the water, the smoke… the hat.

Everything about the hat was wrong. It shouldn't be there. It was getting dirty and wet and it was smoking. Why was it smoking? It would get damaged. Elphie would never let it get damaged. She wouldn't leave it on the ground like that; she hadn't even left it on the ground for too long that night at the Ozdust. She wouldn't leave it behind like that, she would never—Why was it smoking?

Glinda spoke again, willing her voice to sound firmer, braver, "Elphie, they're gone."

The silence that answered was too loud to bear, so Glinda keep calling. She tried a reassuring aproach first: "Elphie, it's over. You can come out now.” Then a little more frantic, "Please, Elphie, say something." She resorted to violence, “Elphaba Thropp, I swear if you don't show yourself right now, I'll burn the entire Vinkus to the ground!" And finally went back to, "Please, Elphie, please!"

But there was no response. No sound other than the screams still ringing in Glinda's ears. Not when she begged, screamed, threatened, nor when she ultimately broke down and fell to the ground next to the hat. "Oh, Elphie."

That was how Chistery found her again: nearly unconscious, hat clutched to her chest, tears indistinguishable from the puddles she refused to acknowledge had anything to do with her friend.

"M-Miss—miss G-Glind-a." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, while his other hand pointed at the little green bottle on the ground Glinda hadn't bothered to see before.

It was nothing short of a miracle that any coherent thought managed to pierce through her grief-clouded mind, but Glinda connected the dots before she even realized there was anything to connect at all. Finally. That was it. What she had been waiting for since the day Elphie had disappeared into the clouds. Leverage. All those years of complicity, of fake smiles and fake shallowness, she never stopped looking for that something she could use to turn things around. Had been anything like Elphie—truly powerful, truly brave—the Glimmerie would have been her most powerful tool to use against the Wizard and Morrible. But the solution for Glinda came in a more mundane, seemingly useless form.

So, she picked herself up from the floor, took one last deep breath and rode back to the Emerald Palace, wielding the green bottle with the same confidence she did her wand—but knowing, this time, her weapon could truly conduct real power. Real change.

Everything else from that seemed to happen so quickly Glinda couldn't quite process it. She didn't stop to think, or breathe, or feel—she acted. She drove the Wizard out of Oz, she locked Morrible up, she went to tell the people what had happened in a way that could fit her plan. Because there was always a plan to work on, even if Glinda herself was not entirely aware of what it was.

She pushed the narrative with ease, stripping the Wizard of his almightiness one insidious remark at time. Yes, the Witch was dead, and yes, Dorothy had killed her. What their wonderful Wizard failed to do in five years had been accomplished by this little farmer girl from another world. Elevating the image the child started building when she arrived at Oz did wonders to make the Wizard's less relevant (or, more precisely, relevant in a different way—but that came later). It was perfect, really. If only the girl's biggest accomplishment hadn't had involved the disappearance of the single most important person in Glinda's life.

Disappearance, because Glinda refused to acknowledge the possibility that Elphie had truly melted into oblivion, at the time. Mostly because she could not deal with it, so she decided she wouldn't. But also because it was absurd, so she clung to the absurdity of it like a lifeline. Every day, every second, Glinda waited for a signal, a clue, anything that would give her a glimpse of knowledge that her Elphie was alive and well. Gone, perhaps, but still out there somewhere, even if it was somewhere Glinda couldn't follow.

The clue came later than day, or so she'd thought. In an unexpected turn of events that gave her another bit of something to hold on to, the Grimmerie opened up for her. She did not manage to read a word in it, not that first day in the attic, but it managed to give her something as precious as a spell: a little bit of hope. It was as if the darned thing took pity of her misery and was telling her not to give up—through the possibility of magic, yes, but mostly through the folded piece of paper tucked within the pages. Through this book, Elphie herself told her to hold out once again.

So hold out Glinda did.

Determined to replace the grief she didn't acknowledge with something productive, Glinda started working. She dismantled the Gale Force, reformed the Emerald Guard. She assembled an improvised Council, appointed Brrr and Boq to join as its first members—her offer was tense and honest: she didn't trust them for what they did to Elphaba, she said, but she needed their influence to build a better Oz; their acceptance was short, as Glinda refused to listen to Boq's excuses and just curtly acknoledged Brrr's genuine remorse. In time, new carefully-picked members joined: representatives from the countries, some she'd met and heard of during the past years, who she knew were secretly critical of the Wizard's measures; more Animals, too, despite their inicial (and rightful) wariness of her intentions. Together, they made incredible progress incredibly fast.

All Animal-adverse laws were revoked, and they passed new ones to criminalize discriminatory acts. They built shelters and rehabilitation programs, a start in giving them back their homes and voices. Animal culture was systematically encouraged, publicly supporting their return and participation in communal activities; for that, Brrr was a valuable asset, as well as the rest of non-human members of the council—Chistery, too, who decided to stay by Glinda's side and eventually became head of Oz's repurposed guard. All in all, the change was quick to spark.

It was the people's opinions Glinda had to work on the hardest. Laws were simple to pass and abolish, she came to realize, but decades of conditioning were not so easily reversed. The first thing she handled was education: she pushed for a change in the curriculum, from first infancy to higher education. People said it was too much change too quickly—she kept pushing. Eventually, of course, she got her way.

There was also the public management, of course, which was her specialty. That aspect of her work differed very little from the role she had before—giving speeches, being encouraging and spreading hope, for real this time.

Back then, she was just a pretty thing to put on display, a distraction from everything that was wrong in their world. The Wizard and Morrible never stopped to consider how Glinda could use it in her favor. (Glinda herself was not fully aware of her hidden agenda, really, she never was—like her ways of adapting herself to fit in, her continuous planning and strategizing were so ingrained into her mind that it was more of a reflex than a conscious effort). She was a figurehead, sure, but people didn't know that; in their eyes, her power—magical and political—was real. For them, she was basically an extension of the Wizard; a Wizard-like figure, even, only closer, more real. The Wizard was all but unreachable, a god more than a leader, while Glinda The Good held their hands, looked into their eyes, played with their children. They believed in her not because she was a legend, but because they knew and trusted her. When all was said and done, it was not hard for Glinda to step into her new position because, for most of Oz, she was already there.

Now, she finally had the freedom to use this power for a good cause, so she did the most of it. Apologies and anouncements and speech after speech after speech about the importance of respect and kindness and acceptance. Everyone listened. She cemented her image of the personification of goodness itself, and this time, she did real good; more importantly for her, she tried to be truly good.

(It can't be just a word, the voice in her head reminded her, gentle, oh, so gentle, yet it made her just as sick. Because no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she accomplished, how much she believed in everything she did, it never seemed to truly mean something for her. Everything felt so empty, so hollow. It got her wondering—was it real, or was it all still a performance? Was she truly doing good because she was good, or was she still pretending to be?)

Time passed relentlessly. Glinda hardly paid attention to trivial matters such as what day it was and how long ago she last slept, so before she knew it, they were just a few days away from the first anniversary of the Wicked Witch's demise.

Apparently, the incipient change of Oz did not include refraining from celebrating the death of the number one public enemy from the past years. Who would've thought?

And, of course, the highest authority of the country had to attend the celebrations.

"I'm not going," Glinda declared.

Someone in the room sighed—some of the human representatives, Glinda swore. Maybe the quadling.

"You have to be there," said Boq, though his voice made it sound more like a question, as it did most times he dared to speak to Glinda these days.

Glinda ignored him, as she also did most times he dared to speak to her these days. "I've been vocal about my disagreement with this—festivity. The propaganda's wearing off, everyone talks about it. I have no reason to keep entertaining the Wizard's agenda like this now, just none."

Someone else talked, but Glinda's mind sometimes couldn't process details like faces and voices and names, so she couldn’t say who. "It's not only his agenda. The majority of the population still sees her as the one that terrorized us for years. Everything else about her is—well, just rumors."

"They're not just rumors," Glinda insisted. "There's many people out there who know what she truly stood for. Everything she did was not for nothing."

"We know that," someone else said. Not a human, Glinda thought, but she still couldn't be sure. "But it's… too soon."

Glinda felt little guilt about breaking her promise, mainly because it was not her doing that people started talking about it. It was only a matter of time after the Wizard left.

At first, people went along with the story they knew. Their Wizard only went away after the greatest threat for Oz had been neutralized, leaving behind a capable leader to take his place—how sensible, how worderful!

But after a while, that proved to be insufficient. They started to realize that Elphaba was not, in fact, the source of all of their problems. And, even with Glinda and the council working non-stop, they started to fret. That couldn't possibly be enough. They needed the Wizard. How could he do this? How could he, their most benevolent, their most trusted, their most powerful, disappear when they needed him the most?

That uncertainty led to two things: demands for the Wizard's return and, when that proved to be fruitless, resentment towards him. And with that, came the first batch of real, useful rumors.

I was told he escaped in shame because of his failure with the Witch.

They're saying Dorothy was more powerful than him and he could not deal with it.

I heard he had no power at all.

It was a difficult period, to put it mildly. Lots of crisis management—meetings and speeches and facing frenzied crowds. Glinda couldn't remember most of that time.

Once the truth about the Wizard was uncovered, people started doubting everything that the man had told them—including, blessedly, everything regarding Elphaba. In such situation, Glinda didn't start the rumors that cleared the woman's name, only never denied them. Alright, she might have also made one or two vague comments to a few assistants a tad too loud around other people. And, sure, she discussed some details of what truly happened with Pfannee and Shenshen, who weren't widely known for being the most discreet individuals. And, well, eventually, she had to disclose a big portion of the truth to her council, because she couldn't possibly keep them in the dark if they were going to work together.

But that hardly counted, right?

So, Glinda liked to think she had not technically broken any promises. It was just an entirely unexpected and unnintentional sequence of events that lead to Elphie's name being cleared.

Well, kind of. Potentially. Right then, it was a nascent thing, far from enough to stop a major portion of Oz from celebrating her death.

As the voices of the council overlapped while they argued, and Glinda realized it was pointless. She knew it from the start, of course, she wasn't stupid. But she couldn't really live with herself if she simply agreed to celebrate her best friend's death again without at least fighting back a little.

They couldn't risk it, they said. Losing the public's favor in a situation like this could be catastrophic. This new government, everything they were working towards, was weak and vulnerable. If they—she—messed up and lost this position, anyone with enough charm could take over and get things back to where they started. They—she—couldn’t afford any sort of public outrage right then.

At the end, she was persuaded. Overruled was more accurate, though Glinda, having a highest rank and technically more authority, still could have done whatever she wanted. She wouldn't have, of course, because she knew they were right (Elphie used a similar reasoning, after all), and also because democracy and the greater good and whatnot… But, oh, it was tempting.

(Would she feel less guilty if she did what she wanted for once and told everyone the truth about Elphie, consequences be damned? Probably not. The guilt was an eternal companion of hers at this point—perhaps the only one who would never leave her behind).

It was a brief reassure when, once that meeting was over, Brrr came to her, looking genuinely sad instead of scared, and told her, "I'm—I'm sorry. I-I understand—how you feel."

And Glinda almost snapped that he didn't, he couldn't possibly. No one but her knew the full extent of the truth—the dept of everything that happened, of what she and the Wicked Witch had meant to each other. No one could understand what she felt, not a soul.

She didn't tell the Lion that, though, because she realized then that there was something he might understand: the guilt of cowardice. Being carried into something, actively supporting harm because it was easier, less scary than standing up for what you knew was right—that, Brrr and her had in common.

"I‐I know they're right about—about everything," he went on, "but… it shouldn't be like this. It isn't—it isn't fair. And you shouldn't have to—do this. I'm sorry."

(Something about his words, about the way he seemed so weirdly sad for Glinda and not just upset about the situation, left Glinda wondering if he knew more than he should).

His voice didn't quaver as much when he said, “When the time comes, we can make things right for her."

Behind him, Boq said nothing, only had the decency to look at her with something resembling remorse before quickly looking away. Glinda didn't dare to take that as an agreement, but at least it looked like he could be shamed into being useful someday. She counted it as a good thing; having Dorothy's Friends by her side restoring Elphie's reputation could certainly work in her favor. If only the Scarecrow—

Well, Glinda preferred to think he was not all that necessary, really. In fact, she preferred to avoid thinking about him as much as possible, for reasons she also avoided thinking about as much as possible. She didn't need all of Dorothy's Friends to make it work, that would be greedy; she could perfectly make do with just two. Someday, when the time was right.

(Wasn't it always so? Waiting for the right time? She was so tired. Oh, how she hoped she could be brave enough to actually do things when the time wasn't right).

But, for now, it was dream. A wish, a hope.

So she had to wear an empty smile and hide her grief for the entirety of the celebration. She tried to shift the attention away from the melting, labeling it instead as the commemoration beginning of a new era for Oz. She was good at making people focus on what she chose. Her role was rather convenient for that, even when she was under the Wizard’s command, when her goodness getting more attention meant Elphie's wickedness got less of it (a lame attempt at protecting her, she told herself, if not just a pathetic excuse). Stealing the spotlight was her specialty, after all. Glinda was great at making things about herself.

But maybe she was losing her touch. It wasn't like the strategy worked terrifically the first time around, but Glinda had thought that, with the rumors and the absense of constant prop and ganda, people would be more open to a less violent aproach. She was wrong. Oz was very much still set on cheering for the death of the witch.

She should have expected it, really, but it was still hard for her to understand how everyone else saw Elphaba. Even after years of seeing it, of living among the lies (creating them, encouraging them); even after Elphie told her, willed her to understand that her forced wickedness was inevitable, necessary even, to achieve her goals—Glinda couldn't see it.

(She could still hear the defeat in Elphie’s voice, her resignation, as clear as the screams. Glinda had tried so hard to reassure her, but how could her? How could her when everything Elphie said was right, and Glinda was to blame? It was her fault. Everything was her fault).

Once it was over, she locked herself in her room and cried herself to sleep with a pillow pushed so tightly against her face she did not so much fall asleep but rather passed out from the lack of oxygen. She emerged from the room the next day looking flawless, not a hair out of place.

Time kept going. The death aspect of Elphie's disappearance was still in doubt in her mind, even though she accepted it as a fact publicly. She still hoped and wished, but it was getting harder to hold on to that hope and wishes and keep going like she wasn't dying inside. The more she thought about it, the less sense it made. But the more the time passed, the harder it got to be hopeful.

She spent the entirety of the next year designing her plan for the second anniversary. That time, she put her foot down, told the people of Oz that Glinda The Good would not keep standing for something as dark as death being used as a motive for jollification. That she would lead this new Oz with mercy and compassion, choosing love and understanding over resentment and fear. What could be more wicked, she asked them, than cheering over another person's suffering?

It was her most perfect speech yet, in Glinda's humble opinion: the perfect balance of truth, shame, encouragement and emotional manipulation. A bit too aggressive in her delivery, perhaps, but otherwise flawless. And, although people weren't entirely convinced (they sure loved burning effigies), it worked. The hype for the holiday had been dying out, anyway, with the rumors and the established common knowledge that the Wicked Witch used to be her Goodness' friend. So, at least the celebrations stopped.

It was around the date of the third anniversary that Glinda started to deteriorate. Although—No, that was'mt entirely accurate. It was around that time that people around her started to notice the deterioration.

It started innocuously, with the people closest to her. A “my lady, have you been sleeping well? You look tired!” here, a “you mustn't keep skipping meals, Glinda dear, or else you'll disappear!” there. Simple “oh, too excited!” it kept her up all night or “oh, so busy!” she didn't have time to eat properly, and it was easily believed. Nevermind she had not had three proper meals a day in months and had been up several nights in a row every week because the nightmares plagued her sleep. People believed her because she was her—because she was popular.

The fundamental truth of the world that was the importance of popularity was a sentiment Glinda largely resented nowadays.

Every time she remembered how she naively believed popularity could work in her favor when she rejected leaving with Elphie the first time, Glinda was filled with immeasurable hatred towards herself. She'd been so stupid not to consider that, as popular as she might become, the Wizard would always be even more so, and she'd hold no real power against his popularity. And her stupidity got her trapped in a position that could have been her dream life, that she could have genuinely enjoyed, if it wasn’t for the entire deceitfulness of it all. She was no prisoner, but she wasn't t allowed to leave, either, and she didn't see herself as someone skilled enough to succesfully escape. And, Oz, she had been so scared. Glinda was always so damn scared.

Shamefully, Glinda found herself resenting Elphie, too, falling back into an old, ugly sentiment: jealousy. Where she was once jealous of Elphie's power, she was then jealous of her courage. If only Glinda had been brave like that, she would have gotten on that broom (maybe it would’ve worked; maybe they both would've died; either way, it would've better than this, she'd decided). And after, maybe, if only she had been brave sooner, she could have fought back, could have made a real difference before she lost everything. If only, if only, if only.

But Glinda was not brave. She had not been when Elphie first left, and she was certainly not now that Elphie was gone. All she was now—all she ever had been, really, but now more than ever—was popular. So when she said she was perfectly fine, people took her word for it. It was for the better. What good would it be if they realized the immensity of her decay? They would only worry and try to make her feel better. Pointlessly, at that, though goodness knew she didn't deserve any consolation anyway.

(Her popularity didn't work with all of them, surprisingly enough. A handful of individuals, like Chistery and Felspur and even Brrr, seemed more genuine in their concern, not so easily charmed by a dashing smile and a clever excuse. But Glinda was nothing but a good peformer, so she convinced them well enough. Or perhaps they simply didn't know how to help her. In any case, they let her be, eventually).

It all worked flawlessly… until it didn't.

The day of the third anniversary, the imminent truth sank in: Elphaba was gone, and she was not coming back.

Glinda spent the entire day moving around like a phantom, her mind disconnected from whatever action her body was mechanically performing. All of the sudden, she was a thing again—a puppet. Lifeless, only appearing to live while being moved by an external force (the Wizard and Morrible then; the force of habit now). She made a mental list of every possible way her Elphie had actually perished that day, her screams of agony playing in the background of every scenario—maybe the bucket somehow had acid in it; maybe that awful little girl was a witch, after all; maybe Glinda never paid a single bit of attention and never knew her roommate had a water allergy. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. In fact, not a single thing mattered anymore. Because Elphie was… dead.

That day, Glinda locked herself in her apartment and didn't come out for thirty seven hours. Half of that time she spent crying until she ran out of tears. During the other half, she wrote down a detailed plan to commit political suicide and issue Elphaba Thropp's official pardon. She didn't actually plan on releasing it, or even telling anyone about it yet. But working it out was the only thing she could do to ease her mind (or not lose it completely). She could hardly sleep anyway, so she might as well do something.

(The idea of a pardon was not brought up in the council until months later, by no other than the Cowardly Lion himself. It caused quite a debate, only managed by Glinda telling her spontaneously invented proposal. Brrr was so nonchalant about it that Glinda suspected the both of them had actually planned the whole thing beforehand and she forgot about it).

That was the first time she let herself slip, when people started noticing something was off. When she finally got out her apartment, looking far from the immaculate girl she was supposed to be—looking as if she had spent nearly two days crying nonstop.

It was a novel thing, not to be consumed by what others might think of her appearance. To feel miserable and to look at least a little bit so, not wasting so much of her energy in pretending otherwise. Even with the constant whispering anxiety in the back of her mind (they'll know you're not perfect, they'll know the real you, they'll know, they'll know, you can't let them know), it felt… liberating. Addictive, even.

She started slipping more often—less makeup, less smiles, less effort in concealing the remnants of her sleepless nights—and she could see that people started getting worried.

Amazingly, Glinda did not care.

Worse than that, she could tell the moment the worry stopped being an individual thing and became public. The increased lingering stares and frantic whispers—it was Glinda's second nature to notice the way of these things. It was no longer a few worried people around her; the gossip had started, and so all of Oz would soon be hearing about her state.

She cared even less.

How exhilarating. Caring about others’ opinions had been a constant companion in her life for as long as she could remember. It started hanging around her when she was a little child and realized the best way to get her busy parents’ attention was to do things they deemed good; behaving a certain way, getting good grades, associating with the right people. Ever since, this need had grown stronger. It clung to her, its sharp nails and teeth sinking deep into her chest until there was no way of getting it off her. It started spreading to every other person in Galinda's life, friends, teachers, even strangers. She cared and cared and cared about everyone else expected, until there was no place for what she cared about.

She lost Elphaba the first time still wrapped in the expectations everyone had of her. Now she had lost Elphie for the last time, and she couldn't seem to go back to caring.

It was still important, Glinda knew, for different reasons: she had to keep a good image so people would trust her, so she could do keep doing real good in the world. But, oh, Glinda was so tired nowadays. It was exhausting, it always had been. Pretending to be happy, to be hopeful. Pretending to be good. Performing had been draining her energy her entire life, and it seemed to be finally taking the very last drops out of her.

At some point, she couldn't take it anymore; not even Elphie's voice in her head could force her mind and body to put themselves together, to get up, to keep doing everything Elphie couldn't do. Oh, that voice—sometimes soft and gentle, urging her not to give up on goodness; sometimes harsh and angry, yelling at her to stop pitying herself and be useful for once. But Glinda couldn't anymore, she couldn't, not even for Elphie, no matter how hard she tried.

And, well, Glinda had never dealt very well with failure. It shouldn't have mattered much, now she that she cared so very little about what people thought. Except it wasn't just the Oz citizens she was letting down. She was letting Elphie down. And failing the only person who ever truly believed in her… That ruined her.

Which led Glinda here. In her dark suite, sitting on the ground right next to her couch. Wrapped in a grey nightgown that had long lost the scent she longed for. Alone, as she believed she should be, finally having scared off the concerned friends and assistants and doctors trying to offer a remedy to her illness. But there was nothing they could offer, truly, since her state was not of a physical nature. Or, well, the source of it wasn't—she was aware that, at this point of her carelessnes, the ailment must've become somewhat physical as well.

There was something about that particular night, a scent of hope carried by the breeze through the broken window and the open balcony doors (always open, just a crack). Glinda would've noticed, had she not been desperately keeping herself from feeling. She was too numb to feel the familiar tingle of magic crawling under her skin. To hear the click of the balcony door, the rustle of fabric, the trail of footsteps. She perceived nothing until the dark figure was standing a mere few meters in front of her.

For a fraction of a moment, she was thrillingly frightened; then, as her eyes focused and managed to recognize who was standing in front of her, the fear turned into annoyance.

"Oh, not again," she groaned, head falling back against the padded couch. The figure didn't move. Glinda put her hands on her head and adressed her brain: "I'm not in the mood for this. Make it go away."

When the apparition didn't dissappear, Glinda groaned again. She stood up, turned on the lights, then turned back to the couch fully expecting the room to be empty again. She flinched when she saw Elphaba very much still there, blinking her eyes as if to adjust to the brightness.

Huh. That was weird. Turning on the lights usually worked for the weakest slips of her mind. Her brain couldn't hold the illusion very well with good lighting, so it worked better in the dark.

That had to be a proper hallucination, then. Glinda shook her head, frowning in confusion.

"This doesn't make sense. I shouldn't be hallucinating," she mused, entirely to herself. She found that addressing the apparitions rarely did any good; it was frustrating when she didn't reply, and even worse when she did, with every cruelty Glinda thought of herself spilling from Elphie's mouth. No speaking to the hallucinations was a big rule. "I ate just this morning, I'm pretty sure. And I have not been without sleep long enough for this to be happening. But… I could swear I'm not asleep, so that means I must be truly losing my mind."

The hallucination looked at her with a troubled expression, very different from what she usually looked at her like. It couldn't be a good sign. So when this fake Elphie opened her mouth, Glinda rushed to interrupt her, "Am I asleep? Maybe I am. It feels different than other dreams, but maybe…"

She pinched the skin of her forearm between her fingers, frowning when she felt the twing of pain. The apparition remained in place, firm and unmoving. Well, pinching was not always reliable, Glinda knew. She'd felt pain in dreams before, it meant nothing. Should she try jumping off the balcony? That should do it. It was a little too extreme, perhaps, but if—

"Glinda," the hallucination/dream said, and Glinda froze.

Because, truthfully, Glinda had a remarkable imagination. Had it since she was a little child —had been chastised for it, even, when it made her too silly or too loud or too un-ladylike, and not even the dread of her parents' disappointment was enough to make it go away. But her imagination was… undetailed, especially when it came to sounds. She could picture a very real, vivid Elphie, but she could never quite reach such an elevated stage of delusion where her words would be so clear, her tone so familiar, the emotion in her voice so raw. This Elphie did not sound angry, or disappointed, or any of the things Glinda always dreamed she would be if they met again; her voice was not an echo of Glinda's own thoughts manifesting through her image. This Elphie sounded… like Elphie.

Glinda had to wake up. She tightened the grip of the pinch with no results.

Jumping it was.

"Do not jump off the balcony," the dream said, sounding entirely panicked.

Glinda screamed. "Get out of my head!"

"You said it out loud, Glinda—Stop that."

Stop what? Glinda followed the direction of her eyes, landing on her own arm. Oh. The pinching, she meant. Huh. That never happened before.

She released her grip. "I'm not asleep."

"You're not," the not-a-dream-apparition confirmed. "It's me."

"You? How could you be you? You—No! No, I'm not talking to you. Oh, goodness, have I finally lost it?"

"No, Glinda, this is real. I'm here."

"No, you're not! You can't be! Please, please, just—," she let out a pathetic whine, "just leave, leave me already. I can't do this again."

In a sharp movement, Elphaba closed the distance between them and grabbed Glinda's shoulders.

Glinda gasped. The hands on her were firm, their grip almost painful. It was unlike any touch her mind had cojured up before—in her dreams, Elphie was either heartbreakingly soft and gentle, or so disgusted by Glinda's cowardice that she refused to touch her at all.

"Are you," asked Glinda, voice low in a confidential whisper, "a real ghost?"

Ghost-Elphie frowned. "A real ghost?"

She looked so confused Glinda almost laughed. She refrained from it only not to hurt the ghost's feelings. "Not a very good one, I think. No offense; you are positively haunting me, but you're too… solid. Pretty, not scary enough. I have a few notes—"

"I'm not a ghost, Glinda. Listed to me. This is real. You are not hallucinating or—or dreaming."

Glinda believed her. Like the fool she was, she believed every word Elphaba ever said, whether it was the real living one, the one made up by her imagination or the one coming from the grave. A glint of something dangerously close to hope glistened in Glinda's eyes. "Am I dead, then?"

How peculiar. Glinda didn't remember dying. She never gave much thought to what happened after death. She avoided thinking about death in general. Thinking about her loved ones being somewhere else (or worse, being nowhere at all and simply gone for good) made her too sad, and thinking about dying herself was… dangerous. Too alluring at times, when there was still too much to be done.

So, she never considered what could happen after she died. She wondered now, for a brief moment, how she died, but she brushed the thought off immediately. It didn't matter. If this was the afterlife, she couldn’t care less about the circumstances of her death.

"No, you're not dead," the not-a-ghost told her, and there was an inflection in her voice, a strange weight in it that held an unspoken meaning: And neither am I.

Glinda processed this part by part. It was out of sheer curiosity at first that she dared to lift her hands and place them on the crook of Elphaba's elbows, fingers digging into the flesh there—warm, solid flesh. After a moment, she moved one of her hands up, slowly, tentatively, fearing the woman would start to disintegrate as soon as her fingers grazed her face. Her skin was very dry, Glinda noted, the rough texture unfamiliar under her fingertips. Her lips were chapped, too, cracked skin scratching Glinda's thumb as it brushed over them.

(Elphie shuddered at that, her breath caught in her throat. Glinda was too focused to notice).

There was something slightly different about this Elphie's face—did she had more fleckles? Wrinkles? Was her skin a different tone of green? Glinda couldn't quite point it out, but it made this person in front of her all the more real. Because this was not the same version of Elphaba she said goodbye to, or the one she let go on the broom, or the one she danced with at the Ozdust. She was not the Elphie that haunted her. This Elphie had changed. At this revelation, Glinda at last dared to lift her gaze, and she took in a sharp breath as she met the intensity of Elphie's green eyes.

Elphie's eyes. Her eyes. This Elphie had changed, yes, but she was still undoubtedly her. Elphie. Elphaba. Not an hallucination, not a dream, not a ghost. No, certainly not a ghost. Because ghosts were dead. And Elphaba was, impossibly, inexplicably, very much not dead.

Maybe it was the shock, or simply the current state of numbness she'd forced herself into, but the revelation didn't quite hit Glinda as it should have. Although her body reacted for her right away—threw her arms around Elphid's neck, practically collapsing against her—she didn't feel the whirlwind of emotions she ought have. Perhaps it was her mind's way to protect her; perhaps the emotion would've killed her.

Elphaba gasped out a surprised oh, but her arms were around Glinda's waist in a heartbeat, pulling her as close to her as it was physically possible. For a moment, that was all there was—all that mattered. Just the two of them, wrapped around each other as though as they were one.

"You’re alive," said Glinda, her voice a breathless whisper.

"I'm sorry."

During an infinite minute, Glinda could only feel her. There was no grief, no anger, no abandonment. Only Elphie, Elphie, Elphie. Her arms around her tight enough to hold her up as her knees buckled, her nose nuzzling into Glinda's hair. Glinda burrowed her face into Elphaba's neck, breathing in her scent, gasping as if she'd been drowning. And she had, hadn't she? For months, for years, drowning in despair and sorrow and loneliness, because her Elphie was gone. Dead.

She was dead.

Not right now, no. Now she was warm and solid and all around Glinda.

"You’re alive."

"I'm sorry, Glinda," Elphaba kept saying, and the small corner of Glinda's mind that was still slightly aware of what was happening thought it was silly. Why would she apologize, as if dying had been her fault?

Dying.

The screams, the smoke, the absence. She had died, Glinda was sure. Did one come back from dying? She didn't think so. If such a thing was possible, someone surely would've figured it out sooner. Although, if anyone were to figure it out, it would be Elphie. Smart, resourceful Elphie certainly would have found a way to come back to her, because she was that powerful. Unlimited. It must have been difficult, of course, otherwise it wouldn't have taken her so many years to achieve it, and she didn't have the Grimmerie, so naturally…

The more plausible alternative dawned on Glinda little by little, along with the emotion. Elphaba was not dead right now, but she had been. Five minutes ago, even, she was dead. As she had been for the past three years.

But that, of course, was not true.

One of Elphaba’s arms moved up, her hand going to cup the back of Glinda's head, and Glinda allowed it for exactly five clock-ticks, her traitorous body melting—melting, melting—into the touch.

Then, she willed herself to react properly; she recoiled, pushed herself off the hug with enough force to make Elphaba stagger, taking a few steps back to regain balance.

Emotion hit Glinda all at once at the sight of Elphaba's remorseful expression. Which emotion, she wasn't certain, but it was something searing, corrosive, that made her chest hurt and her hands shake. But, like every emotion she experienced in the past years, this one didn't burst out. Glinda kept it at bay, safely contained inside her own body.

Her voice was steady and controlled when she asked, "How are you alive?"

"Did you really believe water could kill me?" Elphaba said, the corners of her mouth twitching. Her tone was almost teasing, like she was testing the waters, offering the start of a little bickering to start with.

It was a terrible thing to start with, Elphaba realized immediately. Her smirk vanished the second Glinda’s face went from cold and measured to disbelieving and pissed.

"So it's my fault?!" The blonde yelled. So much for keeping her anger at bay. Leave it to Elphaba Thropp to shatter Glinda's facade and get genuine reactions out of her. "It's my fault I believed you died?!"

"No! No, that's not—"

"I heard you scream and I saw your shadow dissolve into the ground and then you disappeared forever, but I'm a fool for assuming whatever was in that bucket actually killed you?!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"What was I supposed to think, Elphaba?!"

"Glinda—"

Elphaba moved, hand stretched out to touch Glinda, but Glinda staggered away from her reach. A pained emotion crossed Elphaba's face, so anguished that Glinda almost threw herself into her arms and apologized.

Almost.

"I'm sorry," Elphaba said again, dropping her hand. "I didn't mean to say—It's not your fault. I'm sorry."

Glinda closed her eyes, dug her nails into the flesh of her palms. She willed herself to breathe slowly in an attempt to rein in her temper, her entire frame shaking with the effort of it.

"You don't have to do that," Elphaba said after a beat.

Glinda opened her eyes again, not feeling particularly calmer after being interrupted. "Do what?"

Elphaba waved a hand vaguely in her direction. "That. You're allowed to… react. You have every right to be angry, I—"

"I'm not angry," snapped Glinda, somewhat…well, angrily. Defensiveness wasn't the most prideful reaction, but she was not about to acknowledge the exhilarating feeling of being seen by agreeing to Elphaba's validation. "I'm… confused. I need to understand."

"It was a trick—an illusion," Elphaba said. "I needed to make people believe I was dead so I could escape."

Glinda only looked at her, waiting for her to continue. Because, surely, that couldn't be the whole story. That much Glinda could have guessed on her own. That much Glinda was convinced had to be the truth during the couple of years she deluded herself into believing Elphaba didn't actually die, before she convinced herself it just couldn't be. Elphaba wouldn't just…

No, there had to be more to it. When Elphaba didn't continue, Glinda urged, "And?"

"And I… escaped."

Perhaps Glinda was dead, after all, and this was her punishment for every bad deed she ever committed. Or a test for entering Heaven, and the challenge was not to commit yet another bad deed—like murder. She took another deep breath, tried to force her voice to remain steady and devoid of emotion when she asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Elphaba's expression fell a little. "I hoped you'd find the note—"

"Oh, of course, the note, how could I forget. My mistake, I must've missed the part of the cryptical, confusifying piece of paper that said 'I didn't really die'". Glinda scoffed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't."

Okay, that was more like it. Maybe Elphaba had been forced to stay away without letting Glinda know she was alive. Maybe she accidentally casted a spell that made it physically impossible for her to reach out to Glinda. Yes, that sounded like a real thing that could happen. Or maybe—

"I couldn't tell anyone, Glinda, it was too dangerous."

Oh, Glinda would not make it into Heaven.

"I don't understand."

"Glinda, I had no other choice. They were coming for me. I had to leave. I needed to get away from Oz. Away from the Wizard and Morrible and—"

"They're gone, Elphaba. They have been gone for years. I got rid of them."

Was it possible that Elphaba hadn't known? That she escaped so far away from Oz so quickly that she didn’t get to hear the news? How sad it would have been, to realize all of the time they had lost because of that. But it wasn't nearly as heartbreaking as if—

"I know," Elphaba said, and Glinda lost the last grip she had on her temper.

"Then why?"

"Glinda—"

"Why? Why didn't you tell me?"

"We—I couldn't risk it. Glinda, I'm sorry—"

"No. No!"

She was angry, she realized with a wince. What an awful emotion; she could feel it bubbling in her chest, spreading to every part of her body, making her want to hit and scream and hurt. She pushed it down, let it burn her insides instead.

"Stop apologizing and explain your plan to me," Glinda asked, desperate. "Y-you faked your death, you left Oz and—and then what? You couldn't possibly know how it would work out, with me and the Wizard and Morrible. What was the plan?”

Because there had to be a plan. It couldn't be just that, it couldn't. Glinda couldn't have endured all those years on her own for it to be all that it was.

"I didn't have a plan," Elphaba confessed. "It wasn't even—Glinda, I wasn't gonna accomplish anything anymore. But you—you could, I knew that."

"No, no, no." Glinda needed to do something with her body. She started pacing around the room. "I wasn't even supposed to be there. What if I wasn't? You were really just gonna leave Oz like that, give everything up?"

"No—I don't know! But you were there, and I knew you could—"

"No, Elphaba, you did not know! You didn't have a clue of what I could do! You just left me to deal with it blindly!"

Elphaba shook her head. "I trusted you. And I was right to, Glinda. You've done so much—"

"No, stop. Stop. You didn't know what would happen. What if the Wizard hadn't left? Or—or if Morrible just went ahead and took his place and made everything worse?"

"I knew you wouldn't let that happen."

"You couldn't possibly know that, Elphaba! I had nothing in my favor. What if—?"

Something in Glinda's mind managed to halt her spiraling—maybe a sudden spark of self-consciousness, maybe just exhaustion. She was just arguing for the sake of it. She had accepted the risk and responsibility when Elphaba—quite literally—put it in her hands. Glinda herself had no way of knowing how everything would unfold, back then, but she took it all willingly. It was the least she could do, so she never held it against Elphaba at all.

But, well, Glinda was angry and hurt and all sort of ugly feelings. So she was throwing all of those scenarios and possibilities in Elphaba's face, simply because Elphaba's face was right in front of her to throw things at. At least it wasn't something tangible and heavy, which Glinda seriously considered. A vase, perhaps.

As her brain worked through these utterly complicated thoughts and feelings, Glinda managed to take in another few deep breaths, and grabbed back a hold of her temper enough to stop the accusations—for now.

Elphaba took her pause as permission to plead her case. "You had so much in your favor, Glinda. This—this power you have, your understanding of the world and how to—to make it work the way you want it. I knew you were going to figure things out, you were the only one who could. And you did. Oz, Glinda, I always knew what you were capable of, but you exceeded all of my expectations. You did so much more than I could've imagined. I'm so proud of you, of everything you've done."

Glinda wanted to throw up. Each word from the green woman's mouth made her sick, for some reason she couldn't point out at the moment. None of her words were malicious. On the contrary; they were soft and charged with admiration and praise, but Glinda couldn't—It was just—The idea of Elphaba, of all people, having expectations of her… And Glinda had spent almost four years wondering if Elphaba would be happy with everything she was doing, and now she was in front of her, telling her she was proud, and Glinda wanted to throw up.

Once she was sure she could keep inside the single meal she'd had that day, she spoke again, "Okay. So, you left Oz."

"For a while," Elphaba confirmed. "The plan was to get as far away from Oz as possible fast, there wasn't much time to think about what to do next. The Deadly Dessert was the closest way out, so we traveled through The Vinkus to—"

Glinda tried to listen to the whole story, she really did, but her attention was snatched away by that one little word.

We.

It was a slip, that much was clear. Elphaba had used the plurar pronoun before, but she corrected it right away.

"—word that it was real, that it was safe enough to move closer to the border, but it took us a few months to get—"

There it was again. But Glinda would not ask. No, she couldn't. It was easier like this. She could live with not knowing. It was most certainly not all she could think about while Elphaba kept going about—places and directions or something.

We. Us. We. Us.

Focus, Glinda.

"—didn't love the idea of staying in one place. I told myself it was for safety reasons, but, honestly, I just couldn't settle down. It never felt right. So we—"

Ah, hell and Oz.

"Wait," Glinda said, more reluctant than anything else. After a sigh, asked, "Who's we?"

Elphaba hesitated. Glinda's entire body tensed with anticipation, bracing herself.

"Fiyero and I."

And Glinda honestly wished she'd had a more dramatic reaction. Had she had a tad more energy, she would’ve faked one; a shattering scream or a fainting spell or, at the very least, a theatrical gasp. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of pushing back the betrayal—of refusing to believe the truth she already knew—that left her without a drop of energy in her body.

"Of course, that's—Mh-huh,” Glinda mumbled, breath quick and shallow, dropping herself onto one of her couches. "Yep. Naturally, you—and him and—The—the scarecrow. Mhh."

Elphaba didn't move from her spot. "You… knew?"

Glinda was silent for a beat, as her mind rushed through a painful numer of possibilities, just to delay the obvious truth.

"Of course I knew," she said then, a revelation even to herself. Admitting it set something loose inside her chest, something frenzied and bitter. "Oh, I'm so, so stupid. But you always knew that, didn't you? You both did. Stupid, clueless Glinda, who only ever uses her head to display her flawless hair."

"That's not true," Elphaba argued.

"No. No, you're right. It's not true. I'm not stupid. And that's the worst of it. I knew." Glinda rose to her feet. She couldn't stay still for too long, her achy and tingling body demanding activity. "You were right, actually. That hasn't changed, I see, you're still always right. Of course I knew how utterly ridiculous it was, that you would be defeated by a bucket of water."

"Glinda—"

"And the note and then this—this mysterious man made of straw that just so happened to show up after Fiyero was taken, and sounded like him and looked like him and became unreachable just after you died. It had to be him, how could it not be?"

She stopped her pacing, coming to stand in front of Elphaba again. The mask had fractured at some point during her admission, leaving her expression vulnerable to Elphaba's gaze, heartbreak and resignation in plain sight for her to admire.

"I knew, Elphaba," she told her, defeated. "But I couldn't believe it. I couldn't trust my own judgment, because it was just… unthinkable. Of course you had to be dead, because you two wouldn't be so cruel to do this."

Elphaba clenched a hand in front of her, as if actively fighting the urge to touch the other girl.

"Surely, the man I almost married and my–my best friend wouldn’t care so little about me to let me believe they died for so long. Perhaps they would fake their deaths and run away together, they would choose each other and leave me behind, I'd understand that—”

"That's not what—"

Glinda paid her no mind. "—but they would find a way to let me know, at some point. They would not just abandon me, leave me all alone, thinking they were both gone forever. They would not let me grieve and suffer for the rest of my life. Because, if they did that, it would mean they simply did not care about me at all, that I meant—nothing to them."

“No, it wasn't like that!” Elphaba said, desperate, moving towards Glinda with her arms outstretched.

Glinda stepped back. "But it was."

"No." This time, Elphaba wasn't hurt by Glinda's rejection. Determined, she reached for her hands, grasped them firmly between between her own and pulled them against her heart.

Glinda wanted to shake her off, to put some distance between them, but her body, too, betrayed her, freezing under Elphaba's warm touch.

"It was cruel," said Elphaba, voice thick with emotion. "And you have every right to feel angry and—and betrayed, you're allowed to hate us. But you can't—Glinda, you can't believe for a second that any of this was because we didn't care about you, because that's not true."

Oh, Oz. Glinda had been doing such a great job at keeping herself from crying, but right now there was absolutely nothing she could do to get rid of the pressure behind her eyes, the lump in her throat, the undignified quivering of her lip.

"We care about you. I care about you," Elphaba went on, kind enough not to mention Glinda's blatant attempt to blink away the tears. "I was dishonest about a lot of things, but I've never once lied to you about how much you mean to me. Glinda, you are so important to me. You are part of me, the most precious part of me, how could I not—?"

Her voice broke, and Glinda thanked goodness for it, because she didn't think she could keep herself together much longer if Elphaba kept going. She felt angry and betrayed, like Elphaba said, and she wanted to hate them, just as badly as she wanted to believe everything she was saying was true. Even then, after everything, Glinda's first instinct was to believe her.

But she knew she wasn't worthy of that truth. So, when Elphaba pressed her hands tighter against her chest, started saying, "Glinda, I lo—", Glinda rushed to cut her off: "Don't."

Elphaba's eyes were fixed on hers, so earnest and honest, filled with so much concern and care and, yes, love.

"Please, don't."

Don't make me believe you again. Not when I don't deserve it.

And Elphaba didn't. (Not because it crossed her mind that Glinda would think herself undeserving of her love, but because Elphaba herself believed the words would mean nothing after what she did). Still, she didn't let go, her thumbs moving of their own accord to caress the back of girl's hands.

The subject could have been dropped after that. Silence stretched long enough that Glinda could have simply moved on to a simpler topic. She could've asked about Elphaba's time traveling, maybe, or made conversation about the weather (though this wasn't Glinda's favorite topic, for obvious Morrible-related reasons, and she doubted Elphaba would like it any better).

But, of course, Glinda didn't do that. Ever the masochist and too bitter to help herself, she retrieved her hands from Elphaba's and said, "I guess congratulotions are in order, then."

What an idiot. When Elphaba frowned, she continued, "Terribly sorry I missed it, I'm sure it was a lovely occasion. I mean, it would’ve been terribly awkward for everyone involved if I was there, but, well, I'd like to think I would've been able to rise above it and be a delightful addition to the ceremony."

"What in the world are you—?"

"Nevermind all that, though, what's done is done. Now, to atone for my absence, I'll send you the most beautificious wedding gift—Oh, I have the perfect idea! Don't ask, it'll ruin the surprise. I'll have to figure out the logistics, with the delivery and installation, but…" She trailed off with a hum, index finger tapping her chin, pretending to think of a suitable solution for this serious predicament.

"Are you done?" Elphaba asked, equals amount of exasperation and amusement mixing in her voice. Glinda dropped her hand. "We're not married."

"Hm, I suppose it makes sense. I figured you'd be against the institution of marriage. I mean, Fiyero never showed much interest in it, either, but I assumed it was a me problem. It's for the better, really, all things considered. I'm sure it'd be dreadfully complicated, legal-wise, with your whole dead-to-the-world situation. Though you could always—"

"Glinda, Fiyero and I are not together."

That stopped Glinda's rambling at last. She shot Elphaba a skeptical glare. "What do you mean?"

"We are not together," Elphaba repeated, pronouncing each word pointedly.

"But—" She was silent for a beat, processing. "I don't get it. You were in love. He left me to be with you, and then you both left me to be together. What do you mean you're not?"

"It wasn't like—" Elphaba groaned, frustrated; it was very much like that, she knew, from Glinda's perspective. She tried again, "Yes, we left, but we weren't—We barely knew each other, Glinda, we were never in love."

"Well, you've clearly had more than enough time to get to know each other now, so…"

"We have." Glinda's throat tightened, but Elphaba went on before she could react, "And that's how we realized we're not in love with each other. And that is why we're not together—I mean, we are together, physically speaking, but—”

Oh, Oz. Glinda should have talked about the weather. She turned away abruptly, halting Elphaba's explanation.

"I can't do this!" She announced and hurried away across the room.

"What?" Elphaba stood there for a second, confused, before she realized what set Glinda off. "Wait, no, I didn't mean—"

“No, no, no, I can’t hear this."

Elphaba ran after her. “No! That's not what I meant!"

It was quite an image: Glinda scurrying around the apartment, hands pressed tightly over her ears, while Elphaba jogged behind her, trying to speak over the other woman's high-pitched screaming.

“Glinda!”

“I'm not listening! I'm not lis-ten-i-i-ing!” Glinda sang out, practically flying up the stairs. Her legs were going to regret that later.

“For goodness’ sake, stop!”

Glinda ran to bedroom, paused and panicked for a beat, then rushed into the closet and panicked for another beat because, "why aren't there any doors on this darned place?!" before sneaking through her clothes into one of the nooks. She settled on the ground, knees pulled to her chest and hands still over her ears.

It was an entirely ineffective hiding place, of course, just as pointless as covering her ears, since Glinda culd very much hear how Elphaba stopped her tracks, let out a deep sigh and sat down right outside the spot.

She didn't try to get in, though, mostly to respect in some way the distance Glinda needed at the moment. Instead, she waited a few seconds before adressing the clothes. "Glinda."

"Leave me alone!"

"Will you please listen—"

"No, I don't want to listen to the details of your physical relationship with Fiyero!"

"We do not have—"

"I'll throw up on my winter gowns, Elphaba!"

"That's not what I meant, Glinda, I meant we live together."

"Because you're married and in love, yes, I got that."

"That is literally the exact opposite of what I said." Elphaba paused, listened to Glinda's labored breathing, waited until it slowed down. Only then, she said, "It's not like that."

"You keep saying that," Glinda snapped immediately, "but you never explain what it is actually like."

Elphaba scoffed. "Well, I can’t really explain if you run away from me and hide yourself in your ridiculous, gigantic closet."

"You can very much explain while I'm in my stylishious, perfectly-sized dressing room."

"I'm trying, but you're not listening."

"Go on, then," Glinda said. "I'm listening."

"Get your hands off your ears," Elphaba ordered.

Glinda didn't move. "Okay."

"Glinda."

"I did!"

"Glinda."

"Fine!" She dropped her hands to her sides with a thump.

Elphaba sighed, made another heavy pause before starting, "I care about Fiyero, and he cares about me. We went away together, yes, and we still live together, but we're friends. Just friends, nothing more."

Unable to help herself, Glinda interrupted, "You can't possibly expect me to believe there was never nothing romantic between you two."

"I don't. I'm not saying that. We had… something. You might call it romantic, but it was hardly so. It was just—lust, I'd say."

"Ugh, Oz." Glinda pressed her hands against her eyes with a groan.

"Did you cover your ears again?" Elphaba asked after a second.

"Of course not. What am I, a child?"

Elphaba snorted. "Well, that was all it was. A fleeting moment. There was no future for us as a pair, we always knew it. It was over before it even started, really. But we decided to stick together anyway, if only because the alternative was being on our own and we enjoyed each other's company."

Glinda let her words sink in, trying not to think too much about how she felt about it. Dealing with those emotions was a problem for future-Glinda.

"Let's say I believe you," she said after a minute. "Why are you here, then? Why now? You finally got bored of Fiyero and decided to come looking for a more engaging company?"

"No, of course not."

Glinda tried to sound offended. "Well, that's rude. I mean, I do admit I'm not in the most enchanting of moods, but I highly doubt he's that much better. He's charismatic, I give him that, but more so than me? I think not."

"Fiyero doesn't have anything to do with it," Elphaba said, audibly amused.

Glinda could hear Elphaba's smile as she talked, and she was filled with a youthful thrill all of the sudden.

"But I am more charismatic, righ?" She pushed, letting the weak part of her that wanted to chase a laugh out of Elphaba take over for a moment. "Don't take into account my lack of hospitality tonight, which I hope you agree is rather reasonable. That face of his was half his charm, so I don't believe for a second he could—"

A short chuckle from the other side of the door made Glinda trail off. Victory! Wait, huh? No.

"Your charisma remains unparalleled," Elphaba agreed, and Glinda smiled a little. "But it's not the reason why I came."

There was another silence—Oz, there were so many silences, it was unnerving. Glinda tapped her finger on the back of her hand as she waited, keeping herself from asking again.

"I was worried about you," Elphaba said at last. She talked slowly, as if she herself was trying to figure out what brought her there as she spoke. "There's been some rumors. About your health. That you were sick. That you were dying—" Her voice broke; she cleared her throat. "I needed to see that you were—I needed to see you."

Glinda didn't quite know what to make of that explanation. She stopped the tapping of her fingers, wringing them together instead.

"Ozian gossip is truly something," was all she could manage to say in response. "Are you not supposed to be in exile? Where did you even hear that?"

Elphaba chuckled dryly (and Glinda's heart skipped a beat). "I'm not as isolated from the world as I used to be."

"Hm. Good thing, I take it? You were never much of the gossiping type, but I'm sure it must've been dreadfully boring before. Did you even get some books with you? Magazines? A pamphle, at least?"

"Some. But you're deflecting."

Glinda sighed. "I don't know what you want me to say. People love gossip. Rumors are always hyperbolistical. I'm not sick or dying, so you came here for nothing, I'm afraid."

"Don't say that," Elphaba chastised. "I'm glad you're not—I knew you weren't sick or dying. But I also know it's not… just rumors." A beat. "Is it?"

Yet another silence. Glinda couldn't take it anymore. She pushed herself onto her knees and hastily shoved the hanging clothes out of the way, coming face to face with Elphaba.

"You died, Elphaba," she said, her voice a broken, trembling whisper.

Elphaba let out an equally trembling sigh through her nose, eyes shining with remorse. "I know."

"No, I do not think you do," Glinda argued, sitting on her heels, still half-hidden between her clothes. "You died. Both of you. Both of the people closest to me. You two were—the most important people in my life, Elphaba. I-I was never in love with Fiyero, I know that now, but I cared about him, I truly did, he was all I had for years. And you, Elphaba, I—"

Glinda paused. Oh, how many times she had dreamed of a moment like this—quite literally, dreamed. At times, mind would give her breaks from the screams and the anger and recriminations, and would conjure the sweetest, gentlest moments. Dreams of warm words and warm hands and warm lips, where Glinda could finally tell Elphaba everything she only ever admitted to herself once it was too late.

Of course, it was easier to be brave within the safety of one's subconscious. So, instead of any words she ever dreamed of saying, she stammered, "I told you. I told you how much you meant to me, and then you—I was there. I was—You said he was gone, and then you—I heard you scream. Oz, Elphaba, how did you even—? I was right there."

"I know."

"I called for you."

"I know," Elphaba said again, her voice so low Glinda almost missed it.

Was she still there, then, when Glinda sobbed and begged and threatened? Did she hear Glinda's cries at night, like Glinda heard her screams? Was that what she was thinking about, as a haunting sadness darkened her eyes? Glinda couldn't bring herself to feel bad for her.

"And I waited," Glinda went on. "For years, I waited for another message, a signal, something, but nothing came. What was I supposed to think? And—and even if I was certain you didn't die, Elphaba, how was I supposed to react? How could I not fall apart?"

"I thought—" Elphaba exhaled, shaky and desperate. "I thought you'd be fine."

"How could I ever, Elphaba?"

"I thought… you'd be sad, for a while. But you'd move on. Your life would be good again—better. I hoped my absence would become insignificant, eventually, against everything else."

"Everything else?" Glinda echoed, confused.

"This life." Elphaba gestured around her, arms extended to her sides. "The glamour, the adoration. Glinda, this was… the life you always wanted."

The words felt like a slap across Glinda's face, or perhaps a harsh grip on her wrist.

Elphaba was right, of course. This was the life Glinda had always wanted—Glinda had convinced herself of that long ago.

To this day, she couldn't tell how much of her life as Glinda The Good she truly enjoyed. The gorgeous outfits, of course; the attention, sometimes, although it was always linked to a deep uneasiness, as it had since she was a little girl; the idea of bringing people hope; even the bubble had been fun at first. It was easy, too easy, making herself believe it was her dream life as a whole, and it was easier still to let others believe it.

Her parents believed it straight away. It was the life they raised her to have, after all, what they expected from her; any attempt from Glinda to even imply she wasn't utterly delighted with her new life had been promptly shut down with accusations about ingratitude and lack of judgment. Those who called themselves her friends never even considered she would be anything other happy with her position, so they didn't need convincing whatsoever.

Fiyero had been an slightly more complicated case; he always seemed to almost see beyond Glinda's veneer, as if he knew something was off but couldn't fully get it. She never told him the full truth, of course, because it was too dangerous, but also because she was convinced he would never undestand. So she played her part, didn't argue much when he directed his frustration at her, let him believe she was indeed the shallow girl she presented herself as.

But she'd thought, at the very least, Elphie understood. She saw Glinda for who she truly was, even if Glinda herself did not. She was the only person Glinda could ever be her real self with, leave behind all acts and pretenses and still be accepted.

She had been wrong, it seemed. Maybe Elphie—her Elphie, the Elphaba she thought had known her—had been an hallucination, after all. A person Galinda's mind made up to deal with the loneliness she didn't admit to feel. Glinda wasn't sure if the thought made sense; not many of her thoughts did these days.

Suddenly, this Elphaba—real, of flesh and bone instead of dreams and wishes—felt so far away. Farther than she had been, farther than death itself. She was there, right in front of her, yet Glinda was still alone. And she would be alone for the rest of her life, that was certain; because if Elphaba never saw her… nobody ever would.

(A voice roared in Glinda's mind: You wanted this from the beginning. And now you’re getting what you want! So just smile and wave and shut your mouth!)

"Of course,” she said, forcing herself to smile. "You're right. I have everything. The crowds, the status, the—love. I should be thrilled. Who wouldn't be?"

Elphaba shook her head, a mournful expression crossing her face. Glinda made an effort to lighten her smile, trying to make it look more genuine. She didn't think it worked, but maybe, hopefully, Elphaba indeed didn't know her as well as she'd thought and bought it.

"Don't do that. Glinda, I'm sorry."

It didn't exactly sound like she bought it. But what was Glinda to do, if not keep the act on?

"Whatever for? I'm perfectly alright." She stood up, brushed off some imaginary dust from her clothes. "I've always been bad at seeing what's right in front of me. silly me. Of course you'd have to be the one to bring me back to my senses."

Elphaba scrambled to her feet, tried to grab her hand; Glinda gracefully twirled away from her reach.

"I have everything I always dreamed of," the blonde went on, airy and spurious, as she wandered to her bedroom. "And now I know for sure my dear friends are actually alive. This—this might just be the joyoustest day of my life! Truly, I… couldn't be happier."

"No. No, Glinda, it was stupid." Elphaba was a little frantic as she trailed after Glinda.

"None of that, dear, you were right". Glinda fluttered around the room, grabbing random things she found lying around and moving them to equally random places, very actively ignoring whatever Elphaba was saying as she followed her.

"No, I wasn't."

Oz, why did Elphaba have to make things so difficult? Glinda had come to terms with the fact that she would die alone (a very logical and very objective reality, obviously), why did she keep insisting? Why couldn't she just take the easy route, pretend she believed her act like everyone else and go on with her life? Instead, Elphaba kept looking at her with this expression—what was it? Guilt? Compassion? Care? Whatever it was, Glinda wanted (deserved) none of it. It was aggravating. She needed her to stop.

"Would you please stop and listen?" The growing frustration in Elphaba's voice gave Glinda an idea.

"It's fine, Elphaba. You have nothing to worry about." She pulled open a drawer and shoved a sparkling shoe inside. "You have informed me of everything. As you can see, I'm perfectly happy now. So, please, just go, so we can both carry on with our perfect, happy lives."

That did it. Elphaba stopped her tracks.

"Are you serious?" Elphaba said, her voice tight, annoyed. Yes. Good. "Your life isn't perfect, but mine is?"

"I just said my life is perfect, too," said Glinda, provoking. "Pay attention, Elphaba."

"You think my life is perfect? Hiding from the world, away from everything I ever knew and loved? You think I'm happy?" Elphaba sounded something very close to angry now.

Good. Angry was better than whatever pitying expression she had on before. Anger was easy, expected—desired, even. Glinda would feel awful about it later, but part of her reveled in Elphaba's anger; it satisfied a horrid feeling in the bottom of her stomach that wanted to make her angry, wanted to be cruel. Oh, how easy it was, and how utterly disgusting she felt.

(Glinda had thought she'd left that part of herself behind, that she was better. But oh, she wasn't, not really. She wasn't better, and she sure wasn't good).

"Well, I should hope so," she said coldly. "After all the trouble, at the very least the life you chose for yourself should be one that makes you happy".

"You're being unfair," Elphaba told her. "I didn't choose this. I never asked for any of this. And yes, I know I hurt you, I know I screwed up, but I had no other choice, you know—”

"Of course you had another choice!"

“Oh, please, enlighten me, then, wonderful Glinda The Good, what was that choice?”

Oh, but Elphaba was also good at this game, Glinda remembered as fury bubbled inside chest. She might have been better at it, even. Elphaba knew exactly what to say, what buttons to push to get under Glinda's skin. How easily she made her loose her composure during those early days. Good old days.

“I don't know!" Glinda shrieked, disarmed. "But we could've figured something out. I could've helped you! If you—if you'd told me, I would have done everything I could to help you, everything!"

"I know that!" Elphaba shouted, and there was a peak of energy around them.

Glinda felt Elphaba's magic tingling on her own skin—an itchy, uncomfortable sensation. Vaguely familiar, too, but heightened in a way that puzzled her. She expected things to rattle, to break, judging by the intensity of the feeling.

But nothing rattled, nothing broke; the magic sort of deflated and then dissappeared, leaving Glinda baffled. She didn't have time to mull over it at the moment, but it was a curious thing indeed, to be able to feel Elphaba's magic even when she didn't lose control over it.

Elphaba sighed, let herself drop on the edge of Glinda's bed. Her voice was quiet and bleak when she said, "I know you would've helped me, of course I know. That's why I couldn't—Glinda, don't you see all the good you've done these years? You've built a better world. If you knew if I was out there, you would've dropped everything to look for me, to protect me, even if it put you and the possibility of helping Oz in danger."

Glinda was silent for a long while, not in agreement or dissent, simply deep in thought. Then, she just muttered, "That's an awfully big assumption on your part."

"Is it untrue?"

"I don't know, Elphaba." She sat down on her bed as well, not too far, though the circular shape of the furniture made it feel like they were almost on opposite sides. "Perhaps it isn't. It probably isn't. I might just be as selfish as you know me to be—"

“That's not—”

“—and I would've made it my priority to make sure you were back here by my side. I just said I would've done everything, and I meant it, so it's very much likely that I would've ditched the whole thing just to have you back."

It did sound like a very strong possibility, saying it out loud. Glinda had been willing to throw everything she had away to try to protect Elphaba, even her own life. What wouldn't she have done to have her close to her again?

"But perhaps the incentive of making a better world for you to return to would've made me do a better job," Glinda continued. "Perhaps working without the giganticle pain of my best friend being dead would've made me more productive. At the very least, it would’ve made the job a little more bearable."

Elphaba looked increasingly more distressed as Glinda talked, but Glinda still couldn't find it in herself to feel bad. Anger—what a dreadful emotion.

"I don't know what would've happened, Elphaba. All I know is that I've been nothing to you but another piece of your agenda."

"What? No—"

"Yes. And it's fine, really, I understand." And Glinda meant it, damn it. It was the right thing to do, as much as it hurt her. "Everything was falling apart, so I was your last resource to achieve your goals. I suppose it is better than you just—abandoning me simply because you didn't care about me. My feelings weren't as important as the cause, it's perfectly reasonable."

"That's not what happened."

"Of course it is." Her voice raised a bit, from resignated to mildly resentful. "You used me. You deceived me and you—you made me make that stupid promise and then you—"

"Oh, please, Glinda," Elphaba spat out sharply.

The sudden intensity of her voice made Glinda pause and look up at her. She sounded angry, even though Glinda wasn't trying to make her so. Huh.

"Are you really bringing that up? The promise?" Elphaba taunted. "Do you think I haven't heard people talk all this time?"

Oh?

"The rumors about the Wicked Witch of the West not being wicked after all have reached everywhere."

Now, this Glinda was not expecting. "Really?: She asked, her tone accidentally proud. Then, she shook her head, tossed her hair back once with poorly faked disinterest. "I mean, oh, that is news. Very interesting news I had nothing to do with. I'm on shock, truly."

Despite herself, Elphaba chuckled. "In shock."

"Under it, even."

"I'm sure." The almost-smirk faded from Elphaba's face. "There are rumors about a pardoning… Glinda, if it's actually a thing—"

"It's not," Glinda said. "Yet."

“You can’t."

Okay, so they were doing this now. There was too much to unpack, it seemed, and Glinda was getting dizzy by the constant change of subject. She jumped back to her feet and mercifully didn't sway.

"Hah! Of course I can. Haven't you heard? I am Glinda The Good!" She waved an arm gracefully up in the air. "I can do anything I want."

"You promised," Elphaba reminded her (as if Glinda would ever forget), rising from the bed as well. "Finding a loophole with the rumors is one thing, but something like this… You cannot do this."

"Okay, first, why are you blaming me? You don't know the rumors was my doing."

The roll of Elphaba's eyes made Glinda feel ridiculously warm inside. She pushed down the feeling.

"Glinda—"

"And second, as I said, I absolutely can."

“You promised.”

Glinda went back to rearranging her things, on her vanity desk this time. "Yeah, well, you died. For every intent and purpose, you're dead, so the promise doesn't count anymore."

"That's not how promises work."

"Oh, says you? The expert promise-keeper?"

Elphaba had nothing to say to this, apparently, face scrunching in contrition. She went for a different, more desperate aproach.

"Please, Glinda," she begged, frenzied and urgent, coming to stand right behind Glinda but not daring to touch her. "Please, don't do this. People will turn against you."

Glinda clicked her tongue, waved a dismisive hand at her.

"You'll get hurt, you—Please. Please, Glinda, just—" Elphaba trailed off, took in a shuddering breath. "If I ever meant anything to you—"

Glinda flinched violently, the movement causing many bottles and trinkets on the vanity to be sent tumbling to the ground. She turned so quickly she felt light-headed, so it was rather convenient that her body immediately crashed against Elphaba's. Green hands went to grab her arms to steady her.

"If you ever meant anything to me?!" Glinda raged through clenched teeth, a hand coming to grab a handful of the front of Elphaba's clothes. "Elphaba, I loved you! I never stopped loving you! You—you were everything to me, everything. How can you say such a thing? How dare you question my feelings to get what you want?"

Elphaba was stunned into silence, chest heaving, gaze locked on Glinda's. Her eyes were wide and desperate and brimming with so much emotion and they were so damn close. What was Glinda thinking, pulling her close like this? Now she had those emerald eyes right in front of her, staring right into her own eyes, right into her sould, probably, and Glinda couldn't seem to decide which eye to look at, so she looked into one, then another, then Glinda's eyes flickered down, for one tantalizing instant, to her lips, and—

She released her hold on Elphaba's clothes.

"I won't change my mind," Glinda declared. "You can oppose this all you want, but it won't work. I'm doing this. Deal with it."

The silence stretched long enough that Glinda thought the topic was settled. She stepped aside, crouched to pick up the spilled objects from the ground, but then:

"Glinda, it's a terrible idea—"

"Oh, for Oz's sake, enough!" She rose again (oh, her poor knees), holding a hairbrush in her hand. "Is this why you came here?"

"What? No!"

"Yes!" Glinda gasped, pointed the brush accusingly in Elphaba's direction. "That's why you really revealed yourself!"

"That's not true!"

"Of course! You came to make sure I wouldn't move forward with the pardon." Glinda started pacing, arms flying around her in dramatic emphasis. "So I wouldn't ruin your—your perfect plan and you could keep on living your secret life with your amazing husband—"

"For the last time, he is not—"

"Partner! Companion! Whatever you want to call him is not the point! You only came here to stop the pardoning, otherwise, nevermind silly old Glinda, you would've let her rot in her own misery."

"That isn't—"

"Well, miss Elphaba, you should have done exactly that, because I do not care if you want it or not, I will get you that stupid pardon or die trying!"

“Yes, that's the problem! You could die!”

"So be it!" Glinda snapped, and Elphaba took a step back as if she had been pushed.

There was an instant of incredulity on her face, just before a realization of sorts twisted her features into something so raw and vulnerable and just so unbearably sad that it cut through Glinda's barrier of anger.

"I'm not going to die," Glinda backtracked, voice softening. "That's just dramatic. Nothing's gonna happen to me. I'm not rushing into this, Elphaba, I've thought it through. I know what I'm doing. Don't worry about me."

Quiet and distraught, Elphaba muttered, "Of course I worry, Glinda."

She held out a hand palm up in Glinda's direction and waited. It was such a patient, non-expectant offering, unwavering through the several instants that Glinda didn't move and stared at the hand in front of her as though as it was a shotgun. Glinda pursed her lips to the side, considering just a clock tick longer before placing the hairbrush on the vanity and putting her hand on top of Elphaba's.

Elphaba interlocked their fingers, pulled her to sit on the bed again. "All I ever wanted was for you to be safe. I left so you could be safe, I asked you not to clear my name so you could be safe. I wanted—I needed to protect you, and it was the only way I could think of. I left convinced that you'd be fine as long as I stayed away."

It was a testimony of her self-restraint that Glinda remained silent even when Elphaba paused. There was so much she wanted to say about all that—to yell about it, actually—but she knew Elphaba wasn't done talking, so she didn't interrupt.

A medal-worthy effort, really.

"I never considered," Elphaba continued, thumb tracing slow circles across the side of Galinda’s hand, "the cost my protection could have on you. Until I heard…" Her voice petered out.

"That I'd become a public crisis?" Glinda supplied.

Elphaba ignored her. "What I'm saying is that I am worried about your safety, about whatever plan you have going on that could put you in danger. But that's not why I came."

Glinda's eyes burned; she kept them fixed on the ground, trying to focus on the countless objects on the floor (she really needed to tidy up) instead of Elphaba’s words.

"I came because I needed to make things right. I made a mistake, Glinda. I never meant to hurt you like this."

It was almost hard to believe. Glinda did believe that Elphaba wouldn't intentionally cause her pain, but… What did Elphaba expect? Had she really believed Glinda could endure the rest of her days in a world without Elphaba? She either had too much faith in her (and Glinda failed, failed) or she indeed hadn't known her as much as Glinda believed.

Glinda chose the option she could handle best. Too defeated to sound resentful, she said, "Well, I'm sorry for not living up to the heartless, frivolous version of me you have in your head that would simply move on from you, Elphaba."

Elphaba opened her mouth to argue, but she was struck dumb when Glinda pulled their joined hands to her lap, using her free hand to play with Elphaba's—gently tapping her nails on hers, grabbing her fingers, rubbing her knuckles. Once upon a time, when they were still young and blissfully unaware, Elphaba would hold her hand with the sole purpose of allowing Glinda to fidget with it instead of twisting her own fingers.

She'd hoped it would feel different somehow, but no, it was as soothing as it was before. How mortifying. How utterly marvelous.

Defenses abruptly lowered, Glinda allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. "I tried, Elphie. I really did. I tried to keep going—I tried to hold out. But I just… couldn't."

(I failed. I failed Oz. I failed you).

"Sweet girl," Elphaba cooed, so soft and heartbroken and full of affection. "You did so good. You've been so strong, Glinda, it's not—" She sniffled. "I'm so sorry."

It seemed that Elphaba's soothing hands somehow brought Glinda's sympathy back, for the sight of Elphaba's distress suddenly made her want to rip her own heart out again. When a tear rolled down Elphaba's cheek, Glinda simply couldn't help but reach out to catch the tiny drop with her thumb.

"Don't cry," Glinda pleaded. "It's alright. I'm okay, I—Well, I'm still a little upset, but I'll get over it. I understand. It was an impossible situation and you—you did what you had to do." She wiped the corners of her own eyes. "I'll be fine, I will. It's alright"

She smiled, just a little, not a genuine smile but a genuine attempt at comfort. Once again, it didn't seem to work. Elphaba opened her mouth to reply and—

A loud melodic chime rang suddenly around the place, and they both leapt to their feet. It was automatic: while Elphaba stepped back, Glinda jumped in front of her, facing the bedroom entrance, an arm stretched back to grab her middle, protecting Elphaba from—the doorbell, apparently.

"It's fine," she said after a moment. "It's probably just the weekly designated person to check on me. Pfannee, if I remember the schedule right."

Elphaba nodded. Glinda felt her heaving breath against the back of her head—Oz, they were close. Glinda's heart beat wildly in her chest, not only thanks to the startle.

"Just… stay quiet," she said, missing her position as Elphaba's shield as she walked towards the door intercom speaker, a little square gold device installed on the wall on the left side of her bed. She cleared her throat before pushing the button. "Yes?"

The voice on the other side of the speaker—very distinctly Pfannee's—muttered, "Oh, thank Oz, she's alive", under his breath. Then, louder, "Hi, yes, Glinda? It's Pfannee!"

"I see that—or, hear. Hello, Pfannee."

"Hi."

A pause. Glinda looked back at Elphaba, flashed a comforting smile. I got this. "It's rather late, dear, did you need something?"

"Oh, no, just—The lights were on, so I thought to say hi. So… Hi."

"Yes, you said that already. Hi."

"Right, yes, it's just—" Pfannee kept going, his tone slightly more honest, "We haven't, uh, seen you much these days, so I was just—just checking you're okay."

"I am," Glinda promised, making sure a smile that wasn't on her face was audible in her voice. "I was actually doing some reading about the latest assembly, I lost track of time. I'll be going to bed shortly."

The man sounded taken aback. "Oh. You—Well, you do sound… alright."

"Just alright?" Glinda gasped theatrically. "You wound me, Pfannee."

Just like Glinda intented, the man let out a flustered giggle. "Lovely, I meant! You have the voice of an angel, obviously." He hesitated, mumbling to himself like he was trying to remember why he was there in the first place. "Um, what else did—Oh! Did you eat already?"

"Of course," Glinda said, like it was obvious. "Like I said, it's late. I had dinner a while ago."

"Right! Right, of course."

Glinda could practically see the gears turning in his head through the speaker. She cleared her throt, "Would that be all? I need to get my skincare done before I go to sleep, and you know how long my routine takes…"

"Yes! Yes, sorry. I'll leave you to it. Happy moisturizing!"

"Thank you!"

Glinda let go of the button with a satified huff. Not her greatest performance, but a decent one; he was convinced enough, Glinda could tell, much more so than other times, which meant she still had at least a little control over the narrative if she cared to try. She could turn things around easily with—

Her satisfaction evaporated when she turned to face Elphaba, who was looking at her like she'd never seen her before.

"What?" Glinda asked, defensive.

Elphaba shook her head. "Nothing."

Oh, but her eyes—those knowing, gorgeous eyes—told Glinda enough. She was seeing her. Beneath the act, beneath the pretenses. And she was judging her, Glinda was certain, even though her expression was far too sad to be critical. She was judging her for lying. For manipulating yet another poor soul to get what she wanted. For being such a mess that she had people checking on her in the middle of the night.

"You should go," Glinda blurted out, before Elphaba could decide to say those things out loud. (Things Elphaba was surely thinking and weren't a fabrication of Glinda's own insecurities. Obviously). It came out a little harsher than she intended, so she tried to amend, "I mean, because it's safer to travel at night. You should get going soon so you can get as far as possible before dawn breaks."

Elphaba nodded slowly. "Right." A pause, awkward and skin-crawling. She still looked like she wanted to say something, lips pressed together tightly. Instead of the judgement Glinda expected, her voice was gentle when she said, "You should eat something."

Which took Glinda aback a little. She wanted to refuse, just to start another little fight to lighten the mood, but she was too tired for that, so she compromised. "I'll have a snack before bed."

Elphaba's eyes stayed on hers for a long time, apprehensive, like she was searching for traces of deception in them. Glinda wanted to argue that it was true, she was planning to eat now (she actually was hungry enough to eat, after all that running and sitting and standing), but she doubted it was the only thing Elphaba was still worried about.

"Elphaba, I mean it, I'll be fine" Glinda said, landing her tone between her previous performatic reassurance and real tiredness. "I haven't been great, it's but now it's—You're alive. That's just—It's—it's enough. I'll pull myself together, I promise. I'll keep working, I'll—"

"It's not about about the work," Elphaba interrupted, frowing. "You know that, right? That's not what I care about. I care about you."

Glinda only hummed. "In any case, I'll be just fine. Just… go home."

At that, Elphaba looked away from her eyes, to the floor between them. Her lips moved faintly, as if she said something, but Glinda didn't catch any sound.

(Home?)

During the silence that followed, as Elphaba adjusted her clothes (more of a stalling resource than an actual need to fix anything), Glinda managed to take the fist proper look at her… attire. A ragged brown tunic and matching pants made out of a scratchy-looking lightweight fabric, with a thin black cloak on top.

"Oz, why are you wearing?

"Well, excuse me for not having a lot of options while being on the run," Elphaba retorted.

Glinda rolled her eyes. "Please, your lack of fashion sensitivity is hardly anything new."

"Excuse—"

"I meant it's thin as it is hideoteous, Elphaba. You'll freeze like grass on a winter morning."

"Grass doesn't—"

But Glinda was already gone, venturing with renewed purpose back into her dressing room. She searched through the racks carelessly, tossing garments and accessories to the floor with a frustrated tut, as if they had personally offended her by not being suitable to save Elphaba from the relentless spring chill. Until finally—

"Ah-hah!" She grabbed a long wool swing coat—fitted at the top with a double-breasted front, triangularly shaped to widen at the bottom—of a deep purple that Glinda knew would compliment Elphaba's complexity wonderfully, and rushed back into her room.

"Take the cloak off," she instructed.

Elphaba looked wary—an all too familiar look that made Glinda want to cry. "I don't think—"

Glinda made a displeased noise and surged forward, grabbing the black cloak and taking it off in one smooth pull and throwing it over her own shoulder. Elphaba just stood there and let Glinda put her arms through the sleeves of the purple coat and button it up, embarrassingly flustered by the ease the blonde handled her.

Her hands lingered for a moment as she fixed the collar and the lapels, fingers brushing against the skin of Elphaba's neck. Elphaba shuddered.

Glinda stepped back for an instant to admire her choice. Almost absent-mindedly, she muttered, "I knew you'd look magnificent in this color."

And what was Elphaba supposed to say to that? She couldn't have managed a reply if she spent the rest of her life trying. Luckily for her, Glinda kept moving right away, grabbing the cloak again and throwing it on over the coat. Once she fastened it, all color—purple and green—dissappeared.

"There," Glinda said, satisfied. "Mysterious on the outside, stylishious underneath. And warm all over."

Elphaba had to blink several times and clear her throat before replying, "Thank you. This is… very sweet of you."

"Well, I can't have you freezing just when you came back from melting, Elphaba."

Elphaba laughed, short and half-hearted, but the sound warmed Glinda's heart regardless.

A pause. Elphaba fidgeted with of of her sleeves. "So, I guess I should…"

"Right…"

None of them moved, just stared at each other in silence. What else could they do to stretch the moment? There wasn't more to say—or there was so much more, too much to allow it without wrecking them entirely—so silence was all they had. At this point, it was no longer awkward, only gloomy and heavy with inevitability.

Elphaba was the first to break it.

"Walk me out?" She asked shyly—bravely.

Glinda smiled, just a little, a subtle turn of the corners of her lips that made her dimple pop. (Elphaba's heart soared). She offered her arm and Elphaba placed her hand on the crook of her elbow, a hesitant hold, not tight and clingy as it once was, but familiar enough for both of their hearts to skip a beat in unison.

They walked in silence, dread creeping in with every slow and careful step they took down the stairs and towards the balcony.

After a beat, Elphaba said, "I know I have no right to ask for anything. But… please, take care of yourself."

"I will," Glinda promised, and she meant it, she truly did. But, of course, saying thing was easy.

(I won't leave you behind again).

Following through… that was the tricky part, no matter how much one meant it.

"Will—" Glinda bit her own tongue. Will you come back? Will I see you again? She wanted to ask, but she didn't. To preserve her nonexistent pride, in part. Because she knew it would not be fair to ask, too, to pressure Elphaba into taking undeserving risks. But, mostly, she didn't ask because she could never handle it if the answer was no. So instead, she said, "Be safe."

They locked eyes one last time. Unlike their previous goodbyes, Glinda's eyes were now filled with unguarded sorrow—no encouraging smiles, no badly-faked courage. Elphaba’s gaze was just as broken, only slightly more put together with a poor attempt at reassurance.

Glinda turned away the second Elphaba moved, walked quickly towards the stairs. She couldn't watch her leave, not again. She couldn't bear to witness once more how easy it was to leave her behind. She barely managed three steps up before she broke down, the sharp edges of the steps biting into her body as she curled up against them.

And so, Glinda didn't see Elphaba walk through the balcony doors—she didn't see her waver, take one final conflicted look inside just as Glinda walked away. She didn't see rush outside and slump against the nearest wall next to the balcony doors.

Right there, for the firt time in years, Elphaba allowed herself to fall apart. She cried openly, with no pretense, no restraint other than the hand pressed to her mouth to muffle the sounds (which didn't do much, considering how the distant sound of Glinda's cries from inside fueled Elphaba's). She cried with guilt and hurt and love and everything she'd felt and didn't let out in the past years. She cried over Glinda's pain and her own, over how cruel the world had been to the both of them.

It's my fault, she thought, but also Why would this happen to me and This isn't fair and I don't want to leave.

It was as cathartic as it was draining, and once she finally stopped crying—hours later ,when Glinda's sobs subsided, when the dark blue of the sky started bleding into a indigo shade that fortold tomorrow was near—she felt somehow both refreshed and deeply tired. The journey back to exile was numb, mechanical, like her body went ahead but her mind and soul didn't quite catch up yet. Silent tears ran down her face from time to time, and she let them.

Glinda's coat kept her warm throughout it all.