Chapter Text
“It’s not a vacation, Mother. It’s a fair,” Galinda says, rolling her eyes as she wedges the phone between her ear and her shoulder and rummages through her handbag.
“A fair by the lake,” Larena Upland corrects smoothly. “Don’t pretend you won’t have time to make a few connections. I’m sure there’ll be some fine young men—”
“I—”
“And don’t tell me a charming little lakefront isn’t the perfect spot for romantic feelings to spark. Gentle breezes, sunsets, a bit of wine...”
Galinda sighs and unearths a file from the depths of her bag. She starts fussing with her nails, filing the edges back into being perfectly presentable. Early mornings combined with train rides are a personal affront, and missing not one, but two alarms has made this morning an outright crime.
“I’d rather focus on the actual work part,” she mutters.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Larena sighs, full of theatrical martyrdom. “Is this still about Fiyero?”
Galinda makes an inarticulate sound, something between a cough and a wounded duck. Of course her mother brings him up. Prestige matters to Larena Upland the way oxygen matters to everyone else.
“I am over Fiyero,” Galinda hisses, clipping each word like it offends her. Which it might. Everyone—her mother, her friends, half the office—acts like she’s only pretending. As if it’s impossible to be over him before the next fiscal year. In truth, if he hadn’t ended it first, she would have done it a clock tick later. She would have.
“Of course you are,” Larena says kindly, which somehow makes it sound anything but. “Any woman would still be devastated months later. Especially after such a promising match—”
In Larena’s vocabulary, a “promising match” means wealthy, well-connected, and charming enough to distract from a lack of substance. Bonus points if he’s an actual prince.
“Mother—”
“I only worry about you, darling.”
Galinda stills. She knows precisely what her mother worries about—and it’s not Galinda’s heart. It’s the neighbors’ commentary over gin and canapés.
“I know,” she says, and gives her reflection in the window a slow, resigned shake of the head.
“Just be a little… open? You never know where you’ll find someone who’s good for you,” Larena says.
That’s when the booth door slides open with a metallic clang. Galinda turns her head just in time to watch a stranger trip over one of her perfectly arranged bags. The woman stumbles forward with a curse, flails for balance, and lands squarely at her feet.
“Hell and hell,” she mutters, already pushing herself up and swatting at her black jeans. Her bag thuds against the seat behind her, and Galinda stares, momentarily frozen, file paused midair above her nails, phone forgotten. It’s not just the audacity of barging into her booth—it’s her skin. A deep, improbable shade of green that no amount of lighting trickery could fake. It takes her a moment to decide whether it’s off-putting or oddly… striking, in an exotic sort of way.
Unfortunately, any potential effect is utterly wasted on the rest of her presentation, as her wardrobe basically screams Do-Not-Engage. It’s a fashion crime, really.
“What was that?” her mother’s voice crackles through the phone.
“Someone just—” Galinda starts, then catches the woman’s eyes and very nearly recoils.
The look she receives is less a glare and more a high-caliber threat. “—stumbled in.” She ends the call with a sharp tap and a brittle, hostess-worthy smile that feels like it might snap off her face any second.
The woman sweeps the booth with a glance, pausing briefly on the mountain of perfectly color-coordinated luggage that Galinda has very carefully arranged for aesthetic and strategic comfort. Then she sighs and presses a hand to her forehead like this is all too much. A bit melodramatic, Galinda thinks.
“Would you mind moving these?” the woman asks, not bothering to hide her irritation.
Rude.
“Yes,” Galinda says, blinking. “I would, actually.”
The woman folds her arms. “There’s nowhere I could sit.”
“Try another booth, then,” Galinda replies, lifting her chin. “This one’s private anyway.”
“Private?” the woman scoffs. “I have a reserved seat here. Which I’d gladly give up if the rest of the train weren’t full.” She plants her hands on her hips. “So, if you could move your things a little?”
Galinda stares at her, stunned by the sheer nerve. Barging into someone else’s booth is bad enough. Barging into hers, which was curated for comfort, aesthetics, optimal leg extension, and, most importantly, an aura of exclusivity? Unforgivable.
“Show me your reservation,” she says sweetly, “you must have gotten something wrong.”
The woman arches a brow, already pulling a ticket from her coat pocket. “All right. Let’s settle it. But you show me yours too, in case you’re the confused one.”
Galinda’s spine straightens like she’s been yanked upright by an invisible thread. Confused? “Excuse me?”
“It’s a long train. Mistakes happen.”
Mistakes. Galinda Upland does not make mistakes. Not with wardrobe planning, not with packing logistics, not with anything—well, maybe with romantic partners. Ugh. But certainly not with something as simple as booth assignments. And now she’s forced to rummage through her clutch like some common, unprepared traveler while her uninvited guest looks on with her yet again folded arms and barely disguised amusement.
Galinda tilts her head, indignant. “You show me yours first.”
“Same time.”
She sighs. “Oh, really now. How like a child.” Honestly—what an exhausting person. “Fine.”
They hold out their tickets at the same time, arms crossing awkwardly in the narrow space. Galinda flicks the other woman’s paper out of her hand, ignoring the smug look that practically shouts told you so. She scans the top line.
“Elphaba Thropp,” she reads aloud, tasting the syllables like they might be toxic.
“Galinda Upland,” the woman replies, perfectly neutral in a way that’s somehow still insulting.
They lock eyes over the swapped tickets, each wearing the same look of reluctant acknowledgment.
“Well,” Galinda says stiffly, “you seem to be in the right booth.”
“So do you,” Elphaba replies, equally unamused.
“Wonderful,” Galinda mutters, rising with forced elegance.
She begins rearranging her luggage with deliberate, dramatic reluctance. If that Elphaba person had even the faintest concept of manners, they’d be done already. But of course she doesn’t so much as twitch toward helping. And Galinda would sooner sacrifice one of her perfectly shaped nails than ask.
She hoists a particularly heavy suitcase and, for theatrical effect, makes sure her struggle is both visible and audible. The bag hovers uncertainly near her shoulders, an image of tragic perseverance, while she sneaks a glance at Elphaba, who is scrolling through her phone with what can only be deliberate detachment. Galinda swears she catches the faintest twitch of a smile, like her misery is a form of entertainment.
But her pride finally cracks when her arms start to shake. “Uh… could you help me with this one… please?” she groans, the please tumbling out like it physically hurts to say.
Elphaba studies her for a moment, then pockets her phone. Without a word, she shrugs out of her black coat in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the seat. She tugs at the sleeves of her black turtleneck, shoving them up to her elbows in two brisk motions, revealing lean, strong forearms, the same deep green as the rest of her, before stepping forward into that awkward space somewhere between beside and behind her.
Galinda stiffens.
Elphaba reaches up and over her head, catching the suitcase with both hands and muscling it toward the overhead shelf. Galinda lets go immediately. Being slightly shorter, she’s now relegated to the role of decorative bystander. Which leaves her standing stock-still, pinned between the wall and Elphaba, who is muttering soft curses as the suitcase refuses to cooperate.
Galinda’s arms hang useless at her sides. She’s suddenly—and horribly—aware of how close Elphaba is. How her body presses lightly into her back. How she catches a faint scent of something like cool air and sandalwood, like wind slipping through a forest. How this entire position is deeply improper, completely humiliating, and very certain to be misinterpreted should anyone walk in at this exact moment.
Her cheeks flush, hot enough to notice, and she tells herself it’s from embarrassment. And that’s also why her heart is racing. Obviously.
“Finally,” Elphaba mutters, with a satisfied exhale that Galinda unfortunately feels against the side of her neck. Then she steps back, clearing her throat.
Galinda tucks a blonde curl behind her ear—mostly to buy herself time. Time for what, exactly, she’s not sure. To regain her dignity? To come up with the perfect cutting remark she’ll never actually say?
“Thank you,” she says at last, in the tone of someone paying off a debt she resents. When she turns, Elphaba is already absorbed in her phone again, dismissing her with nothing more than a vague wave.
Galinda smooths the hem of her blouse and gives her head a quick shake, as if trying to dislodge… something.
Then she returns to organizing what little space remains in the now disastrously cluttered booth. Once finished, she stands back to assess the damage and grimaces. Well, it can’t be helped. At least she’s come prepared. At least some people know how to travel with grace.
She throws Elphaba another glance. Just one bag. Aesthetically indistinct, practical and grim. Her coat is black. Her turtleneck is an even darker black. Her jeans are black. Her shoes—black. Her black hair is tied back in a strict, no-nonsense ponytail like she’s actively trying not to be spoken to.
Galinda looks down at her own ensemble: pale pink blouse and skirt, dark pink jacket, white ballerinas. Coordinated, crisp, and, of course, stunning. She probably looks like candy next to her.
“There you go,” she announces, sitting with a small, dignified huff.
Elphaba nods and sits across from her, taking the only remaining seat by the door, as far away as possible.
The train rattles on in what feels like an uncomfortable silence for a while. Galinda crosses her legs, uncrosses them, then recrosses them the other way. She checks her nails. Smooths her skirt. Adjusts her hair. The quiet is unbearable.
“So,” she says brightly, in the voice she reserves for awkward dinner parties. “Do you travel often?”
Across from her, Elphaba doesn’t look up from her phone. “Only when I absolutely have to.”
“Oh,” Galinda says, still smiling, because she’s nothing if not polite. “But train rides are so… charming, don’t you think? So nostalgic.”
Elphaba raises an eyebrow without looking up. “Charming,” she repeats flatly. “Right. Between the noise, the crowds, and the overpriced coffee, it’s practically a fairy tale.”
Galinda blinks. “Well. I suppose that depends on the fairy tale.”
Another beat of silence stretches between them, thick with mutual judgment. Galinda shifts in her seat, biting the inside of her cheek and deciding this is clearly one of the darker stories.
She doesn’t expect deep emotional bonding. Just a little civility. Oz, is that too much to ask? She glances out the window with a huff, chin tilted high. With any luck, Elphaba will get off at the next stop. Or she herself might jump off. Or the train might explode. Any of those options sound delightful.
The silence grows roots after that. At first, she passes the time scrolling through her phone. Then by pretending to be deeply fascinated by the countryside flashing past the window. But after two stops, one nap, one coffee, and an embarrassing moment where she almost offers Elphaba a mint, she gives up entirely.
That is, until the door slides open and a man in a neatly pressed uniform steps inside.
“Good day, Ladies,” he says, glancing between them with a polite smile. “Just checking in to make sure everything’s to your satisfaction?”
Galinda brightens immediately, straightening in her seat. A person with decent manners! Perhaps there is still good in the world. “Oh, yes,” she says, in the same tone she might use when praising a five-star hotel concierge. “The ride is perfectly adequate. Though honestly? The coffee service could use a touch more… flourish. And perhaps a garnish. A cinnamon stick maybe—something that shows a bit of effort.”
The man blinks, his smile faltering just a fraction. “Right. I’ll… make a note of that.”
Across from her, Elphaba’s book—swapped in at some point for the phone—lowers just enough for Galinda to catch the arch of a brow and the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she’s trying very hard not to enjoy herself.
“What?” she asks, lifting her chin.
Elphaba shakes her head with a quiet scoff. “A garnish. On train coffee.”
“Yes, and? It’s all about presentation,” Galinda says primly.
“It’s about caffeine,” Elphaba counters. “The point is to be awake, not… dazzled.”
“I happen to think both are possible.”
The uniformed man, clearly regretting stepping in, mutters something about continuing his rounds and slips out, leaving the door to rattle shut.
Galinda leans back with a huff. She’s really had it with this woman. “Well, that was rude.”
“What, me?”
“Yes, you. Making fun of someone’s perfectly reasonable suggestion.”
Elphaba’s lips quirk and it makes her look like she’s humoring a child who insists the sky is pink. “Perfectly reasonable?”
“Completely,” Galinda insists. “A journey should be... pleasant. Aesthetic, if possible. Memorable, at least.”
“Well, this one’s certainly memorable,” Elphaba says dryly.
Galinda refuses to rise to that. Instead, she crosses her legs, smooths her skirt, and—feeling in a challenging mood, because that’s at least something to do to pass the time on this ride for Lurline’s sake—tilts her head to try and read the title of the book in Elphaba’s hand.
Unfortunately, the angle is all wrong, and the lighting isn’t helping. She leans slightly one way, then the other. Ugh, impossible. She starts to think that woman is doing it on purpose.
Elphaba doesn’t look up, but Galinda swears she sees the tiniest shift that is enough to keep the cover hidden. “Are you… craning your neck to read my book?”
Galinda straightens at once, feigning affront. “Of course not. I was simply adjusting my posture. Long journeys can be terrible for one’s spine.”
“Mhm.” Elphaba flips a page without looking at her. “You could’ve just asked, and maybe I would’ve told you.”
“Maybe? What is it, classified?”
“No.”
“Well. Not that I even care, because for all I know, you’re reading something dreadful. Like—like a train timetable.”
“Thrilling, but no. And you wouldn’t like it anyway.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because you just asked for garnish.”
“So? That’s not a fair metric of literary taste!”
“Seems accurate enough from where I’m sitting.”
“And from where I’m sitting,” Galinda says, her temper slipping through at last, “it seems accurate to say you’re the rudest, most exhausting, and least charming person I’ve ever met. And I cannot wait for you to leave this damn train.”
But the train rolls on and on, and of course, when it finally begins to slow for her stop, Elphaba Thropp is still there. Naturally. Of course she wouldn’t have gotten off before her.
But then comes the final insult: She doesn’t just linger. She gets off at the same stop.
What Galinda did to deserve this particular brand of punishment, she really couldn’t say. At least it’s over now and she will never have to spend another minute of her life in the company of that impossible woman again.
She steps onto the platform and inhales deeply, savoring her first breath of freedom like it’s the opening note of a spa retreat. The bliss lasts exactly four seconds.
A station attendant in a navy uniform starts toward her with a clipboard. “Miss Upland, I presume?”
“The very same,” she replies with her best public-facing smile, gesturing to the booth. “The luggage is mine—all of it.”
As the attendant disappears back into the train, Galinda smooths her jacket and casts one last, perfectly dismissive glance over her shoulder. Just in time to see Elphaba hop down with her single, utterly depressing bag and walk off without so much as a glance in her direction.
Not that Galinda expected one. And certainly not that she cares. The very idea.
She turns and heads in the same direction—the only direction, unfortunately—watching as Elphaba moves ahead with a stormy stride. Galinda trails behind at a safe distance, perfectly content to admire her own poise and self-control. Until a group of travelers swarms in front of her, forcing her to pause. When the crowd finally clears, she resumes walking, and now, to her complete dismay, she’s nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Elphaba again.
Brilliant, she thinks, lips pressed tight.
They walk in stiff, parallel silence for several paces, each clearly pretending the other doesn’t exist, until Galinda’s face lights up in sudden, unfiltered relief. There she was. Mrs. Morrible.
Finally. A familiar voice, a friendly face, a lifeline.
Galinda raises her hand in a graceful wave. “Mrs Morrible!” she calls, smiling. “How lovely—”
But in the corner of her eye, just past her own lifted arm, another hand rises. Slowly, she turns her head. Elphaba has frozen mid-step, her own hand caught halfway into a wave like she’s just realized the floor has vanished beneath her.
Their eyes meet and they blink at each other a few times. And then, in perfect, horrified unison:
“What?”
“What?”
Elphaba lowers her arm very slowly. Galinda does the same.
From the end of the platform, Mrs. Morrible beams. “Ah, wonderful!” she calls, waving both arms now. “You’ve already found each other!”
Galinda feels something inside her go very, very cold.
No. No, no, no, no.
She has survived a hectic morning, a sticky train, a shared booth with a social faux pas dressed head-to-toe in black—and now this? She stares straight ahead, heart plummeting somewhere past her shoes. She’s going to be stuck with Elphaba Thropp for the entire fair, at least.
And in that bleak, spiraling moment, it occurs to her that she really should have jumped off the train to potentially tumble into a ditch somewhere, when she’d still had the chance.