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.

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing Galinda has mastered, it’s pretending she’s perfectly fine when she is, in fact, screaming internally. The skill comes in very handy now, she muses, as Morrible walks between them, cheerfully chattering about what’s to come over the next few days. The last thing Galinda wants is to make a bad, unprofessional impression on the COO of Emerald Press—her employer.

She even keeps her smile in place, without so much as a twitch of the eye, when Morrible says, “Oscar will tell you in more detail himself later, but let me say this much: you both have been assigned to work together on an absolutely unique project!” She pauses to beam between them. “It’s called: Bridging Branches, Building Brilliance.”

Galinda swallows the hot lump of panic forming in her throat and glances past Morrible’s neatly coiffed head toward Elphaba, who, unsurprisingly, isn’t bothering to hide her feelings. Whether it’s annoyance, disdain, or simply a general loathing for Galinda and the world at large, she can’t say.

What she can say, however, is that such blatant grimacing in front of upper management is… sloppy. Sloppy in the same way that bringing tuna salad to a board meeting is sloppy. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’ll get Elphaba reassigned, or better yet, escorted away from the fair entirely with her little bag.

“And if the branches refuse to be bridged?” Elphaba then asks and Galinda hates to acknowledge that the possibility hadn’t even crossed her mind.

Unfortunately, Morrible takes it as a good-natured joke and simply laughs. “Oh, Miss Thropp,” she says, patting her on the shoulder, “your humor will be quite the asset on this project. You’ll keep us all in good spirits.” And Galinda manages not to point out that good spirits would require Elphaba to first locate one and then somehow not scare it off.

They stop in front of what appears to be a small fleet of… carts? Buggies? Whatever the polite corporate term for those tiny little vehicles is. Each one has a flat bed for luggage in the back and just enough room for two passengers in the front.

“This will take you to the fairgrounds,” Morrible says, gesturing toward the nearest cart. “There’s a pathway through the woods, just follow the blue arrows. I’ll stay here and head back to the station. The last of our expected guests should be arriving any moment.”

Before Galinda can reply, a station attendant materializes at her elbow, hefts her suitcases and boxes like they weigh nothing, and deposits it onto the cart.

“Oh,” she says faintly, watching in dawning horror as Elphaba’s sad bag joins it. “I don’t suppose we… each get our own?” She tries to make it sound casual, as if it’s about weight distribution or some other equally boring, technical nonsense.

Morrible blinks. “No… but these are perfectly comfortable for two.”

Perfectly comfortable, Galinda thinks, for two people who don’t mind sharing air molecules. She forces a brittle smile, feeling the walls of inevitability close in as Elphaba steps up to claim the driver’s seat.

Then she watches Morrible head back toward the station and inhales slowly. Right. Stay calm. Be professional. She’s an adult, she can do this. All she has to do is—

“Are you coming or do you plan on walking?”

Galinda blinks at her. “Excuse me?”

Elphaba tilts her head toward the path. “The lake’s a good two kilometers away. By all means, if you’d rather…”

“I wasn’t planning on walking,” Galinda says, climbing up into the seat with as much dignity as possible in a vehicle that really doesn’t offer space for that.

Elphaba glances sideways at her and Galinda pretends not to notice, fixing her gaze firmly ahead. But the silence just stretches and for whatever reason, Elphaba still doesn’t start the cart.

Galinda turns sharply. “In Lurline’s name, what are you waiting for?”

“You might want to hold onto that handle,” Elphaba says, nodding to the small metal bar beside her seat.

Galinda laughs and waves a hand. “Please. I think I can manage a leisurely trundle to the lake.”

Elphaba shrugs. “Suit yourself.” And then she hits the accelerator.

The cart launches forward with far more enthusiasm than Galinda anticipated, jolting her back against the seat. Her hand shoots out to grab the handle—which is, frankly, far too small to qualify as a safety feature, she thinks—as her knuckles whiten and they rocket down the path.

“Must you drive like we’re fleeing a crime scene?” she yelps.

“We’re just having a leisurely trundle.”

Galinda would roll her eyes at that if she weren’t so focused on not flying out of the cart.

That’s when her phone starts ringing in her coat pocket. With her right hand welded to the little handle for dear life, she fumbles with her left until she finally drags it out. “It’s my mother,” she mutters out of habit. No reason Elphaba needs to know, but it slips out anyway. “Hello, Mother.”

“Galinda, darling! Have you arrived yet?”

“Not quite,” she says, bracing against a turn. “We’re still on the way—in a… funny little death trap.”

“What?”

“In a cart.”

“With whom are you driving?”

Galinda keeps her voice airy. “A coworker.”

Elphaba leans slightly toward the front. “Is that a blue arrow up there?”

At the exact same moment, her mother asks, “Is this coworker handsome?”

“Yes,” Galinda says.

“Ohhh,” Larena swoons, in that tone that means she’s already mentally planning a wedding.

Galinda’s eyes go wide. “No! I meant—” But her words are swallowed by a sharp lurch as Elphaba swerves right to follow the arrow, cutting her off and sending her clutching the handle again while her mother’s delighted humming fills the line. Before she can recover, they hit a bump that sends the cart briefly airborne.

“Hmppf!” Galinda blurts. She scrambles for her phone. “Now really isn’t a good time!”

“Oh, I can hear that, sweetheart,” Larena says, sounding positively delighted. “I’ll call you later!”

The line goes dead before she can explain, leaving her with only the wind in her hair and the possibility she might not survive the next five minutes.

Those odds—at least in her opinion—drastically rise when the path forks ahead and there’s no blue arrow in sight. Elphaba brakes hard enough to jolt Galinda forward in her seat, then swings out of the cart without a word. Fallen leaves carpet the path, damp and clinging, swallowing whatever sign they’re supposed to be following.

Galinda watches her stalk a few steps ahead, scanning the ground like she’s tracking prey. But she has a better, far more distinguished idea. She takes out her phone to open the map and find their location. No signal. Perfect. Getting lost in the woods, stuck with this impossible woman, was exactly what her day had been missing.

She shoves the phone back into her pocket and watches as Elphaba crouches, pushes aside a drift of leaves, then straightens and turns toward her. “Would you be so kind as to get out and help?”

Galinda blinks. “Me? Oh, I—well, I’m not exactly dressed for—” She gestures delicately toward her perfectly white shoes.

“The sooner we find it,” Elphaba says, “the sooner we get to the fair. And the sooner we get to the fair, the sooner we can have our peace.”

Galinda opens her mouth for a rebuttal, but finds—annoyingly—that she doesn’t have one. It’s a fairly convincing argument. So, with a martyred sigh, she steps down onto the leaf-strewn path.

She spots a thin branch by the side of the path, picks it up delicately, and begins prodding at the leaves in slow, careful arcs. There was no universe in which she was sacrificing her shoes—or her manicure—by digging around the way Elphaba is now, crouched and pawing through damp leaves like a bloodhound.

Galinda wrinkles her nose. Some people just aren’t disgustified by anything, apparently.

“You know,” Elphaba says without looking up, “archaeologists work faster than that. And they’re digging up entire civilizations.”

“Yes, well, archaeologists have little brushes and a team. I have this stupid stick and you.”

“At least I’m doing something useful.”

“Wha—”

“Just keep searching the arrow, will you?”

Galinda huffs and rolls her eyes, shoving the leaves around with a newfound, anger-fueled kind of energy. The stick scrapes over damp earth, scattering clumps of brown and gold, and if this weren’t so entirely terrible, the scenery might make for a really glamorous autumn photo shoot.

Or, if this were a movie, this would be the part where the heroine’s hair somehow stayed perfect and whimsical music played while she “discovered herself” in nature. Instead, her coat smells of wet leaves, her shoes are on the verge of ruin, and her only companion is the least likable supporting character in cinematic history. She pushes at another stubborn pile of leaves, straightens—and freezes.

“Uh… Elphaba?”

Elphaba’s tone could not be less impressed. “What now? Broke a nail?”

Galinda swallows. “Don’t panic,” she says, eyes locked on the hulking, fur-covered shape ambling toward them, “but there’s a wolf behind you.”

“What?” Elphaba whirls around so fast her coat flares. Her gaze lands on the animal, and her shoulders drop. “That’s not a wolf. It’s a dog.”

“A wild dog!” Galinda counters, taking a careful step backward toward the cart. “Which is practically a wolf, or like a—a dogwolf!”

“There’s no such thing as a dogwolf.”

She edges sideways, very slowly, keeping her eyes on it. Unfortunately, the dogwolf’s eyes are on her, following her every move. Not watching where she’s going, she’s somehow ended up behind Elphaba—but now that she’s here, she might as well use her as a very annoyed human shield.

Elphaba glances over her shoulder, brows knitting. “What the hell are you doing?” she asks, rolling her shoulders as if to shake her off.

Galinda only tightens her grip on the back of her coat. “Why is it looking at me? Does it want to kill me? Oh Lurline, please, I’m far too young and pretty to die.”

“Maybe it just wants you to throw the damn stick.”

Oh… Well. Now that the... dog is closer, it really doesn’t look that intimidating. Its tail wags, head tilting left and right in anticipation. Relief seeps through her and she even laughs at the sheer absurdity of it all. Before she can throw the stick, though, the distant sound of an engine grows louder. Another cart barrels down the path, scattering leaves in its wake. Two figures ride in the front—one in a service-worker uniform, the other perched beside him with a camera glued to his face, filming like this is some thrilling nature documentary. The cart skids to a stop, and the cameraman lowers his camera.

“Elphie!” he calls out with a grin and jumps out of the cart.

Galinda blinks. Elphie? For a baffled moment, she scans the path for some other unfortunate soul who might answer to that. But then Elphaba turns toward him, and the penny drops.

Elphie. It’s… cute. Sweet, even. The sort of name you’d give a kitten or a lost baby deer you rescued, not… Elphaba.

“Boq.” Elphaba’s mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “Still stalking people with that camera, I see.”

“Only the interesting ones,” he shoots back, before nodding toward the dog. “Yours?”

And it’s only then that Galinda realizes she’s still holding onto the stick and Elphaba’s coat. Mortifying. She clears her throat, releases the fabric, and tosses the stick. The dog tears off after it at once.

“No. Though apparently Galinda’s stick-waving skills are irresistible,” Elphaba says and then turns toward their cart without waiting for a response. “Mind if we follow you to the fairgrounds?”

“Sure!” Boq says, but instead of heading straight back to his own cart, he steps toward Galinda with a bright, easy smile. “We haven’t met yet,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Boq. Elphie and I go way back.”

Galinda’s smile is polite but tight, her brain still catching on that Elphie is, in fact, Elphaba. “Galinda,” she says, shaking his hand. “And our… timeline is very recent.”

Boq pauses, blinking like he’s not quite sure what to do with that, then glances at Elphaba and back to her. “All right,” he says finally, swinging himself back into his seat. “Try to keep up.”

They climb back into their cart, and this time Elphaba’s driving is civilized. She has no choice, really, because their “escort” ahead is rolling along at the speed of a scenic funeral procession.

Galinda lets herself relax a fraction—until movement catches her eye. She glances to the right, and there’s the dog again, stick between its teeth, happily trotting alongside their cart like it’s part of the convoy.

Wonderful. She’s got a pet now.

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head. As if today wasn’t strange enough already.

By the time Galinda arrives at the fair, people are still coming in a slow, elegant migration across the manicured grounds. A massive pavilion sits at the lake’s edge, its white canopy billowing faintly in the breeze. Inside, a buffet stretches along one wall, full of silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and crystal pitchers of all sorts of drinks. Soft music drifts from a loudspeaker in the corner, and tasteful garlands hang between the columns.

Tasteful, that is, except for the Emerald Press logo, which is printed, engraved, or embroidered onto nearly every conceivable surface, from the napkin rings to the water jugs. A little exaggerated, in her opinion. But nobody asks her, so there’s that.

She’s curious and excited about all the people she’s going to meet, visitors from every corner of Oz. People who are, hopefully, nothing like Elphaba. It occurs to her then that she doesn’t even know where Elphaba is from. Since Biq—or was it Boq?—looks like a Munchkinlander, maybe she’s from Munchkinland too. Not that she looks like one. But then again, someone with green skin doesn’t exactly look like they’re from any specific region. At least, not one Galinda knows of. Not that it matters anyway, she decides, giving her head a little shake.

She glances at her watch. 3:15 p.m. In about fifteen minutes, she’s supposed to meet Mrs. Morrible and Mr. Diggs by the pavilion. She isn’t exactly sure what the meeting is about, but there had been a handwritten note waiting in her room that was signed by Morrible herself, asking her to come. Maybe they’ll finally talk to her about that promotion she’s been waiting (and hoping) for far too long.

Her City Sparkle columns are nothing if not well written, witty, and most importantly, popular. She knows because readers have gone to the trouble of writing actual letters to tell her so. If she were promoted to head editor of The Emerald Times, the Emerald Press’ flagship paper with the biggest circulation in all of Oz, her parents—or, mostly, her mother, who never misses an opportunity to bring up her reputation—might finally acknowledge that Galinda can accomplish something and be someone without the aid of a rich man with influence.

So naturally, she isn’t still in her traveling clothes. Now she wears a pale blush tea dress with a structured waist and a skirt that catches the light when she moves. The neckline dips just enough to suggest charm without scandal, the short sleeves ending in neat cuffs. A matching silk headband sweeps her hair back in a glossy halo, and she carries a cream clutch that completes the outfit as if it had been made for her alone. Her shoes are dainty slingback heels in soft ivory that click pleasantly against the polished marble pathway.

It’s not the most practical outfit for a fair. It is a little cold, in fact, and if there’s grass, gravel, or the faintest hint of a strong breeze, she’s in trouble. But style is about priorities, and Galinda knows exactly where hers lie.

From a bit of a distance, she spots Elphaba walking toward the buffet. Still in her traveling outfit. No wonder, really. If you insist on going through life with one single bag, you’re bound to ration your outfits. She shudders at the thought.

Elphaba doesn’t see her. Or doesn’t want to. Both are perfectly fine with Galinda, obviously. She keeps walking, taking only a few more steps before that dog appears again, trotting straight toward her with its tail wagging like they’re old friends. One look at the dirty, muddy paws and Galinda instinctively throws her hands up in self-defense.

“Oh no, no no, don’t come closer. Be a good…” She glances around to make sure nobody is watching before leaning down just enough to tilt her head and check. “…boy. Yes. Be a good boy and go play with somebody else, will you?”

But he just sits there, panting, staring at her like she’s supposed to do something about it. She takes another quick look around.

Elphaba. Yes.

“Go play with Elphaba,” she tells him, adding a firm shooing motion with her hand.

To her surprise, he actually glances back over his shoulder, then trots off in Elphaba’s direction as if he’s understood every word.

Huh. Would you look at that. Galinda Upland: whisperer of the animals.

She giggles to herself at the sight of Elphaba’s surprised, confused expression at the unexpected company she’s just acquired. But her moment of satisfaction is short-lived. Too late, she turns her head forward, just in time to hear a sharp, “Watch out!” before colliding with someone. And not just anyone.

Fiyero.

“Ooh, it’s you!” he greets her cheerfully.

Oh. It’s you, she thinks, hitting the opposite end of the emotional scale. But she wouldn’t be Galinda Upland of the Upper Uplands if she couldn’t swallow it down and produce a perfectly polite, positively surprised smile instead.

“Fiyero! How lovely and unexpected to bump into you here!” she beams.

Somewhere behind her, someone says something that sounds suspiciously like, “Probably very accidental, am I right?” followed by the tinkling laughter of a few women who sound like silly schoolgirls.

Her perfect smile holds, though her right eye gives the faintest twitch, which is the only sign that the commentary has struck a nerve.

That’s when Boq appears, stopping just behind Fiyero with his camera perched on his shoulder. “Don’t mind me,” he says. “Just talk as if I’m not here.”

Galinda frowns, but recovers her composure almost instantly. “What are you doing here?” she asks Fiyero. Because really, why is he even here? He doesn’t work for the Emerald Press. He doesn’t work for anyone. He’s a prince. He doesn’t work.

Fiyero points to a tiny microphone clipped to his olive-green shirt, a shade that matches his skin and eyes perfectly. He’s always known how to dress. That had been one thing she liked about him. Maybe it had been the thing she liked about him. But this is not the time to philosophize about that.

“EP hired me,” he explains, “to do a little marketing campaign. Starting with this fair, I’m supposed to interview people from each branch’s team and put together a fun prototype for a promo movie.”

“A promo movie,” Galinda repeats, nodding thoughtfully. “But everybody knows us.”

“Sure. But as you know, the image has suffered quite a lot ever since that mix-up with the Munchkinland election coverage. Oscar wants to polish that by making the company look modern, fresh, open-minded… you know, that kind of thing.”

Oscar. Of course a celebrity like Fiyero gets to call Mr. Diggs by his first name, while she’s seen the CEO exactly twice in her five years of working for him.

“I see. Well then… interview away,” she says with a light laugh, quickly adjusting her hair. “What do you want to know?”

Fiyero steps closer with that silly, smug smile on his face, the one she knows never means anything good. “First of all, are you seeing someone?”

Her smile freezes. Oh, for the love of— “I don’t think that’s the company’s business,” she says, keeping her tone breezy.

“No, you’re right. Of course it’s not,” he agrees, fumbling with his microphone. “There. Turned off. So?”

“Fiyero… it’s honestly also none of your business.”

From somewhere in the nearby women’s group, she catches a stage-whispered, “Of course she’d deflect…” followed by a ripple of smug little laughs. Galinda grinds her teeth but keeps her expression perfectly intact.

Fiyero quirks an eyebrow, his grin deepening. “Touchy. Now I’m even more curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, haven’t you heard?”

“I’m just looking out for you.”

Great. Now he sounds like her mother. Galinda lets out a soft sigh. “You really needn’t—wait, are you still recording this?” she asks, suddenly aware that Boq is still pointing the camera at her. He’s really far too easy to forget and overlook.

He lowers it a little, looking at her with mild offense. “Ah, no. Just keeping it in frame so I’m ready.”

Fiyero continues as if there’d been no interruption at all. “I mean, I’m sure you were absolutely devastated after our breakup…”

One of the women behind her gushes, “Knew it,” followed by another’s smug, “Oh, she’s totally still hung up on him.”

Galinda’s patience snaps. She turns to Fiyero with a bright, brittle smile. “All right. I am seeing somebody. There. Happy?”

“Yes,” Fiyero says easily. “Yes, I am happy! Now, who’s the lucky guy? Is he here at the fair, maybe?”

“It’s not somebody you know.”

“At least tell me his name?”

Before she can answer, her phone rings again. For once, she’s grateful for her mother’s excessive calling. “Excuse me,” she says, already turning away, and answers with an exaggeratedly cheerful, “Hellooo, Mother—” that quickly turns into, “Ooh—oh, wha—” as she startles when the dog suddenly barrels toward her from across the grass. In a flash, he leaps at her, and she drops the phone, accidentally hitting the speaker as it clatters onto the marble pathway.

“No! Bad boy. You’re a bad boy!” she scolds, holding him at arm’s length to keep his muddy paws from her dress. He lets out a little whimper and immediately drops back to the ground, sitting beside her with the most tragic, sad puppy-eyes expression.

Lurline, what else does she have to endure today? She bends to retrieve her phone— but too late to stop her mother’s voice from ringing out, loud and clear for everyone nearby to hear:

“Darling, are you still busy with that handsome coworker of yours?”

A few of the women behind her break into delighted gasps and stifled giggles, clearly living for the spectacle. Fiyero, of course, now smirks like the universe has personally handed him a gift.

Galinda snatches up the phone. “Call you back later,” she says in one breath, hanging up before her mother can add anything else.

“So it is someone who’s here,” Fiyero says.

Honestly, just to shut him up already and because she really has no time for this nonsense—her meeting starts in five minutes—she takes a deep breath, collects herself, and puts on her best fake-happy face. “I wanted to keep it to myself a while longer, it’s still fresh, you see. But… it looks like fate has other plans for me. So yes, it is a coworker and it’s—” Lurline help her— “she’s over there.”

Every head nearby—even the dog’s—turns toward the buffet.

And there’s Elphaba. Completely oblivious, standing with one hand on her hip and the other shoveling a massive piece of sandwich into her mouth in the least graceful manner imaginable.

Of course. Of course she couldn’t look remotely elegant for five seconds.

Fiyero blinks at the sight, dumbfounded. “Her? You’re with… her?”

“Yes,” Galinda says, turning back with her most radiant, dreamy smile. “She’s the… best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

One of the women chokes on her drink, Fiyero stares at her with his mouth hanging open, and Galinda has won the upper hand. All is well.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a schedule.” She turns, smooths the front of her dress with a graceful sweep of her hand, allows herself a smug little smile, and walks toward the pavilion where Mrs. Morrible and Mr. Diggs will be arriving soon.

And indeed, a short while later, Mr. Diggs arrives with Mrs. Morrible in tow. “Perfect,” he says, clapping his hands together. “We’re all here. I love a well-timed team.”

Galinda’s smile couldn’t be wider. “Punctuality is the backbone of any successful enterprise,” she says in her smoothest, most gracious tone that could be mistaken for genuine enthusiasm if you didn’t know her well enough.

“Miss Thropp,” Mrs. Morrible says, beckoning. “Come, we’ll sit over there.”

Galinda is hit by several realizations at once. This won’t be a talk about her promotion. This will be about that project. The one she’d almost forgotten about, or rather, deliberately pushed from her mind. And now people are watching the four of them head toward a table together.

Making it look like… like something.

The thought curls unpleasantly in her stomach. She hates how exposed it feels, as if every glance from the onlookers is quietly pinning her down, fitting her into some narrative she didn’t choose. Or rather, one she had chosen to shut Fiyero up… which only makes it worse now.

Out of the corner of her eye, Elphaba glances her way, wearing the exact expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else. And for the first time, Galinda can honestly relate to her.

And then they sit, the four of them, at a small round table. Galinda crosses her ankles neatly under her chair, arranging her expression into something that looks politely interested. Across from her, Elphaba sits with her arms folded, her jaw set, and looking like she’s bracing for impact.

Mr. Diggs doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care. “This project,” he begins, “is something new. Something truly unique. I believe it will serve the company as an excellent image boost.”

Galinda’s smile stays fixed. Of course it will. That’s what they always say before asking you to do something dreadful.

“Since you two work in very different branches— Miss Upland in the Emerald City, Miss Thropp in Munchkinland— we thought it would be… invigorating… for you to visit each other’s offices. Two weeks in Munchkinland to start, then two weeks in the Emerald City. Miss Upland, with your column, you’ll provide a short, heartfelt report each day—just as you always do.”

“Of course,” Galinda says smoothly, though the word Munchkinland echoes in her head like the toll of a bell.

“And Miss Thropp, you’ll participate and take photographs. We want the public to see that the city branch values the rural branches every bit as much as it does the heart of the Emerald Press.”

Galinda glances sidelong at Elphaba. Elphaba glances back. At the very least, they are united in the shared understanding that they’d both rather be lost in woods again. Separately, of course. But they nod along anyway, because what choice do they have?

“And this… project,” Elphaba asks carefully, “when exactly will it start?”

“Right after the fair, at best,” Morrible answers.

“I see,” Elphaba says with a firm nod and a face that isn’t betraying anything except, perhaps, the faintest shadow of defeat.

By evening, the fair has shifted indoors. Everyone is gathered in a grand hall, seated in neat rows facing a stage. A huge screen is on the wall behind it, framed by emerald-green curtains and flanked by tall vases of white lilies. The murmur of conversation floats through the room along with the sound swelling and dipping as people settle into their seats. Up front, a technician fiddles with cables and then, the screen presents the Emerald Press logo.

A minute later, Mr. Diggs steps onto the stage to a round of polite applause. He beams at the crowd.

“Welcome, everyone! From every corner of Oz at the Emerald Press, and to our esteemed guests from other publishing houses and media: The Shiz Chronicle, Munchkinland Messenger, Gillikin Today, and many more. A fair is always about connecting with people,” he says, “and that is something we at the Emerald Press truly cherish.”

Well, Galinda thinks, definitely not with everybody, considering she’s only seen him twice. Okay, thrice, if you count today.

“And so,” Diggs continues, “I also want to take this opportunity to show that our company is a colorful mix of people, perspectives, creativity, and drive. A place where ideas meet opportunity, where passion fuels progress, and where we value every voice in our chorus.” Then, as if suddenly inspired, and not in the least rehearsed, he adds, “But you’d best just see for yourself.”

The lights dim, prompting another round of applause. The screen behind him flickers to life, and a video begins to play. Emotional music swells, and then there he is: Fiyero, flashing his best celebrity smile. Galinda inwardly rolls her eyes.

“Hi, I’m Fiyero Tigelaar, and today, I’m meeting with the creative minds at the Emerald Press. But this video isn’t about the work. No... This is about connecting with people and getting to know them.”

Within seconds, she’s already bored of his easy charm and rehearsed pauses. The video cycles through awkward little conversations and moments so obviously staged they might as well have been scripted. She lets her gaze wander, idly wondering what she might get from the buffet for dinner once this is over. And then—

“And most importantly,” Fiyero’s voice says over the music, “at Emerald Press, we celebrate... love.”

The screen cuts to a slow-motion shot of her from earlier that day, laughing as she holds onto the fabric of Elphaba’s coat. She hadn’t even realized Boq was zooming in on her and recording at the time. Now the moment is set to romantic music, as if the dog were merely an accessory to some sweeping love story.

Galinda feels all the blood drain from her face— and like she might throw up. She doesn’t know where Elphaba is sitting, and she doesn’t dare to look, because if she does, she might actually combust, or faint, or both in rapid succession.

Fairy Queen Lurline, please just take me. Smite me with a decorative light, roll me into the lake—anything!

The video cuts again. This time to her standing on the pathway, looking over toward Elphaba, then back and saying, clear as day, “She’s the… best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

A warm ripple of awwws runs through part of the audience. And then the shot jumps to a close-up of Elphaba at the buffet as she’s taking an unapologetically huge—did she absolutely have to eat it like that?— bite of the sandwich. The room bursts into laughter, and Galinda thinks how tragic it is that there’s no such thing as actually dying from embarrassment, because that would be a merciful release right about now.

Chapter Text

Galinda is never leaving this room again. Ever. This is where she lives now. She has drawn the curtains, turned the key, and retreated to the farthest corner, where she sits in a chair, swinging back and forth in nervous little bursts.

Her face still burns. Her stomach feels sick. The cursed promo video plays on an endless loop in her mind, especially the part in which it looks as though she has publicly confessed that Elphaba is the best thing that has ever happened to her, and that they are, in fact, together.

Together.

Everything after that moment is a blur, a frenetic haze of nightmare scenarios and imagined headlines:

FROM PRINCE TO MYSTERY WOMAN: GALINDA UPLAND MOVES ON

REGIONAL REPORTER SWEEPS CITY COLUMNIST OFF HER FEET

WEDDING BELLS IN MUNCHKINLAND?

She hadn’t seen Elphaba in the hall, or on her absolutely calm, entirely dignified, more-or-less-unnoticed exit. A few guests had actually smiled at her as she passed. Encouraging smiles, pitiful smiles, admiring smiles. And there were remarks too, hushed but perfectly clear all the same: “Ugh, good for her, I guess.” “Attention seeker, if you ask me.” “Maybe she’s lost her mind.”

She groans into her hands. She’ll have to go to Mr. Diggs and explain this was all a stupid, extremely unlucky misunderstanding. But that would require her to leave the room. Unless… She shoots up from the chair and digs her phone out of her bag. Scrolling through her contacts until she taps Mr. Diggs’ office number, silently begging the universe for automatic call forwarding.

The line rings. And rings. And rings. Nothing happens. At least, not on the phone. Because at her door, someone is knocking now.

She ends the call, lets the phone slip back into her pocket, and swallows. “Who—” her voice catches in her throat. “Who is it?”

“Galinda, open the damn door.”

Oh no. It’s her.

Galinda’s pulse is doing something strange and entirely unpleasant. Her palms feel clammy. She glances at the window, calculating how bad the fall would be. Death? Or just a sprained ankle?

“Hello?” Elphaba calls.

How does she even know where her room is? Did Elphaba secretly stalk her from the hall? Ask around? Hack into the guest list? All of it seems absurd… but then again, not nearly as absurd as Galinda publicly revealing a relationship they don’t have.

She takes a few deliberate deep breaths as if that ever really helped anybody, and opens the door. Elphaba stands there—in her travelling outfit—tall and intimidating. Or maybe she only looks intimidating because Galinda’s brain is currently in full panic mode, magnifying everything like a funhouse mirror.

And at her ankles, padding in with the confidence of a long-time tenant, trots the dog from the woods. He noses past Galinda’s legs and flops dramatically onto the carpet with a groan, as if he has been personally carrying the weight of her humiliation.

One of Elphaba’s hands is braced on the doorframe, very woe-is-me, as if she’s been standing there for hours. Honestly. The melodrama again. Elphaba doesn’t say a word. Just stares at Galinda with vividly green eyes and a look that reads, I have thoughts, and none of them are kind.

Galinda clears her throat and summons what she hopes is a breezy smile, the kind that usually works on difficult editors. “Well,” she says brightly, “I suppose you’re here to talk about… about that, uh… that video?”

Elphaba’s eyebrow lifts the barest fraction, but she keeps silently staring. Galinda shifts, feeling uncomfortable. The staring is as impolite as it is unbearable—like being X-rayed by disapproval itself. Which she would never admit, of course. So she does what any skilled conversationalist who refuses to be rattled would do: she turns it into a joke at her opponent’s expense.

“Honestly, what is this? A staring contest? Because if it is, I should warn you—I’m undefeated.” She flutters two fingers between their eyes. “So stop. People will start thinking you’re creepy.”

“I’m just looking for signs of insanity,” Elphaba says, entirely serious.

Galinda’s eyelids flutter like startled butterflies. “Excuse me?”

“Are you? Insane, that is.”

Goodness, how rude can one person be? “If I were insane, I would still say that I’m not, wouldn’t I? Which means you’d never actually know, so really, that’s a rather stupid question.”

Elphaba blinks once, finally taking her hand off the doorframe. “…Right.” She rolls her shoulders and frowns. “Then maybe you can explain why any sane person would say… the thing you said.”

“You’d have to be more specific. I say a lot of things,” Galinda says in an effort to make another joke. But it doesn’t land, of course. Elphaba sighs. The dog lets out a small, pitiful whimper, as though even he knows that was a bad one. It’s one of her unfortunate symptoms when she’s nervous. And now she’s nervous in front of Elphaba, of all people. Not because of her, obviously. But because of her own glorious fail and the dreadful task of having to fix it somehow. She isn’t used to being in this kind of position. She’s used to charming people with a smile, to having them agree without question that she could do no wrong. But of course Elphaba Thropp was immune to such charms.

Couldn’t it have been someone else standing by the buffet in that moment? Someone easy? The weather desk intern whose glasses always fog up, or that cheerful woman from the gardening column who smells of fertilizer, or even the cartoonist with the funny walrus mustache.

Some guy passes in the hallway, catches Galinda’s eye, and gives her a big grin and a thumbs-up, chuckling as he keeps walking. And in the unbearable half-second of silence that follows, her mind spirals. This is it, the day her career ends, her dignity dies, and her obituary reads “Known for one regrettable sentence on a promotional video.”

She grabs Elphaba’s sleeve and yanks her into the room, shutting the door for any further potential witnesses or unhelpful commentary.

“Listen,” Galinda begins, holding up a hand like she’s conducting a meeting, “this is just as mortifying for me as it is for you. But we’re going to—”

“We?” Elphaba cuts in, incredulous. “I had nothing to do with this! I didn’t say that!”

“Me neither!” Galinda fires back. Then hesitates. “Well… I said that, yes, but I didn’t want to! Okay, I wanted to. But only to shut Fiyero up! I didn’t want it recorded and broadcast in front of everyone!”

“Then you shouldn’t have said it in front of a camera?”

Galinda throws up her hands. “Well this Biq or Boq, or whatever, said it wasn’t recording, and Fiyero said the mic was off! How is that my fault? And honestly, the tiny Munchkin was very easy to forget—practically pocket-sized—so really, if you think about it, I’m really not to blame here.”

“Mm. You’re right. It’s the words’ fault for falling out of your mouth against your will.”

Galinda gasps. “Exactly! Thank you—wait, no, that’s not—ugh, you’re making fun of me. That’s incredibly unhelpful, and very rude, and frankly the last thing I need right now—”

“Couldn’t you have said literally anything else?” Elphaba interrupts.

The truth is, there hadn’t been much else to say. Not with the pressure, the constant judgment, the unspoken of course she’s not over him that seemed to hang in the air. Elphaba wouldn’t understand. She didn’t have to sit through the pitying looks, the whispered commentary, the subtle head-tilts that screamed poor Galinda, still pining.

So instead of launching into all that—which would take a while, and possibly charts—she gives her the short version. “No. You see, we were a thing once, and now he thinks he’s entitled to a full report on my romantic life.” She lifts her chin as if that explains everything. Because it does, obviously. Any sensible person would understand.

“But—”

“There really was no other option in that moment,” Galinda cuts in, voice rising in pitch and drama. “Believe me. It was either say that or stand there looking like a joke, and I refuse to look like a joke.”

Elphaba huffs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “So… you lied to your ex-boyfriend and decided I would be the collateral damage?”

“It wasn’t a decision!” Galinda protests. “You just happened to be standing there like a tall… ominous…” She trails off, eyes narrowing as she searches for a fitting word.

“Just my luck then,” Elphaba says flatly, not bothering to wait for her to find one.

“Yes, well, mine too! Now the entire fairground thinks we’re—” Galinda waves her hands vaguely in the air, “—we’re…” She can’t bring herself to say it out loud. Not to Elphaba’s face. And especially not now, when a horrendible realization strikes her like a smack in the face with wet newspaper.

Everyone who saw Elphaba come to her room… and then saw her go into said room… and then saw the door close… now probably has confirmation that they’re exactly what she can’t bring herself say.

“Oh Oz, I… I think I need to lie down,” she murmurs, swaying like a tragic heroine. The dog scrambles up onto the blanket first and plunks himself down right in the middle, as if to say, Go ahead. I’ll warm it for you.

She takes a wobbly step toward the bed, but Elphaba catches her by the elbow before she can collapse in a heap of tragedy. “No. You’re going to Mr. Diggs, Fiyero, and every guest at the fair for all I care—now—and you’re going to fix this.”

“I can’t possibly!” Galinda exclaims. “Do you have any idea what will happen if I walk out there right now? My dignity’s already dangling off a cliff. Why shove it the rest of the way?”

Elphaba glares. “Because newsflash, this isn’t just about you. Every minute you don’t fix it, the story gets bigger. And I’m not spending the rest of the fair as your plus-one.”

“And of course, Miss Thropp will be your plus-one for the entire run of the project and beyond, if necessary,” Mr. Diggs announces, clapping his hands together like the matter is officially closed.

He had, to his credit, shown some understanding for the misunderstanding. But when it came to making any kind of public revoking statement or anything that might actually clear the matter up, he grew suddenly vague. He had the air of a man who felt he’d indulged quite enough of Galinda Upland’s silliness for one evening and was now eager to shake her off like an annoying fly, free to tend to more interesting guests and weightier matters.

But Galinda was not willing to give up. Not when her reputation, her very identity as an adored, admired, untouchable aspiring columnist and soon to be head editor—yes, maybe she was exaggerating a tiny little bit—was slipping through her perfectly manicured fingers. “But Mr. Diggs, sir, just another minute, please?” she calls, practically trotting after him across the grass.

He turns back toward her and for a split second she hears, “Dear girl, your voice is like a fork in a garbage disposal.” She blinks, realizes that’s just her imagination being cruel, and in reality he only exhales a sigh so faint it might be mistaken for a draft before saying, “Yes?”

She clasps her hands in front of her like she’s about to present a thesis. “The thing is, Mr. Diggs, Miss Thropp and I… well, we’re not exactly on the best of terms. In fact, we’re hardly on speaking terms. Barely even nodding terms. And with this project being so vital, wouldn’t it—wouldn’t it be in everyone’s best interest to, ah, clear things up? For the sake of harmony. For the sake of teamwork. For the sake of—” She casts her eyes about, as though inspiration might be hiding in the curtains or the punch bowl, and of course spots Elphaba striding toward them. Galinda’s voice wavers. “—of world peace.”

Mr. Diggs presses his lips together. “Our brand thrives on authenticity, Miss Upland, and authenticity means never admitting we staged it. Do you want to ruin us?”

Before Galinda can sputter a defense, Elphaba reaches them, placing her hands on her hips. “So. Is this… going to be dealt with?” she asks, fixing Mr. Diggs with a stare.

A stare! Galinda nearly faints. Honestly, does this woman have no concept of timing, of tact, of the basic art of pretending to be agreeable in front of one’s superior? Apparently not. She breezed straight past all of it. Quite literally, in fact; she wouldn’t even look at Galinda, as though her eyes might catch fire if they did.

Mr. Diggs clasps his hands behind his back, his smile polite but firm. “Yes, you will deal with it, because we won’t take it back now. To issue a correction would make us look unreliable, and if there’s one thing we cannot afford at this moment, it is unreliability.”

Galinda opens her mouth, but he sails right over her. “In fact, the feedback on the prototype video was so positive that I’ve decided we’re moving forward immediately. It will be going on air for the public tomorrow.”

Galinda’s jaw drops. “O-On air? As in—people at home? In their tiny living rooms?” She clutches at her necklace like widow at a funeral. “Oh Oz.” She squeezes her eyes shut, already picturing herself years from now, hunched and bitter, sipping sherry, flipping through old photo albums from the time before she was reduced to that woman from the promo. “This is my legacy, this is how I’ll be—”

“Absolutely not,” Elphaba cuts in. “I did not agree to this, and I am not starring in your circus.”

Galinda blinks, startled. She’d fully expected that scathing tone to be aimed at her. But no—Elphaba was glaring at Mr. Diggs. And Galinda’s the insane one? Yeah, sure.

Any second now, Mr. Diggs will explode, toss them both out by their hair, and their careers will die side by side. But after all this, maybe it doesn’t even matter anymore.

To her shock, he merely adjusts his cufflinks, looking completely unbothered. “I’m standing by my decision. You’re adults, you’ll manage. It won’t be forever—people forget. After the project, give it some time and then you can… amicably part ways. It happens.”

Galinda gapes at him, half-offended, half-relieved. Amicably part ways? That would require them to be anything resembling amicable in the first place.

“And in the meantime,” he adds, turning his gaze on her with that oily politeness, “if the two of you do well—if you show dedication—I will be inclined to look with a generous eye at that promotion you’re so eager for, Miss Upland.”

Galinda’s heart leaps despite herself. Promotion. A light at the end of this dreadful tunnel. If she weren’t currently trapped in a living nightmare, she might almost cry from relief.

Then he turns to Elphaba. “And as for you, Miss Thropp—surely you wouldn’t want to cause your father any more trouble by losing your job?”

Galinda watches as Elphaba’s jaw tightens, the muscle flickering like a warning. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to let the skeletons out of your closet?”

He doesn’t so much as blink. “Ha. Think about it. If you did, whom would you cause sorrow, really?”

The silence that follows hums like a live wire. Then Elphaba exhales sharply, spins on her heel, and stalks away across the grass without another word.

“Glad we agree,” Mr. Diggs says brightly, dusting off his hands and leaving with a firm nod towards Galinda who blinks after them both, rooted to the spot.

What is she supposed to make of that? Was this some sort of coded conversation in a language she doesn’t speak? And more importantly, what in Oz is going to happen next?

Then the slow realization creeps in. Tomorrow, the promo video would air. Which meant her friends would see it. And her father. And—Oz help her—her mother.

Larena, who once cried actual tears when Galinda wore the wrong shade of pink to brunch and clashed with the centerpiece bouquet.

“Oh Lurline,” Galinda whispers. “She’s going to die. And then she’ll kill me.”

Her pulse spikes. She needs air, so she slips away from the center of the fairground and drifts down the gravel path toward the lake. The water glitters weakly in the fading light, framed by trees whose yellow and red leaves flutter in the wind. She veers left, further from the strolling guests, until she finds a little alcove half-hidden by bushes, a place where the world feels less likely to peer in. A bench waits there as if it’s been saving her spot.

She sits, smoothing her skirt, trying to steady her breath, and then fumbles her phone out of her bag with trembling fingers and dials home. The line clicks, and before she can even speak: “Sweetheart!” Larena trills, her voice like champagne fizzing out of the receiver. “How’s the fair going?”

Oh, you have no idea. “Great! It’s—It’s going great…” She clears her throat and takes a deep breath. “Mother, I need you to promise me something.”

“Of course, darling. Anything.”

“That tomorrow, when you see a certain… video, you won’t—well, you’ll just… keep calm. Very calm. Serene, even.”

“A video?” Larena sighs. “Oh Galinda… tell me you didn’t let that man film you like that? No matter how handsome—”

“What? No! Oz, it’s nothing like that!”

“Because men always say the camera’s off when it isn’t, darling. Always. Your aunt Florinda learned that the hard way—”

“Mother!”

“Well then what is this video? Have you taken up singing again? You know your voice carries oddly over speakers.”

“No, it’s not singing either. But it’s… well, it’ll come as a surprise. The company made a promo video which is going to air tomorrow and I’m part of it… sort of.”

“But that’s wonderful! Think of the exposure, dear, everyone in Oz will see you! I’ll invite the Tenmeadows over so we can all see you together! We’ll make a little evening of it.”

Galinda grips the phone tighter, panic prickling her spine. “No, don’t—don’t make an evening of it! Don’t even make a moment of it. In fact, don’t watch television at all for the next six months?”

There’s a pause on the line, then Larena’s voice, cool and suspicious: “Galinda. What’s wrong?”

If her mother were anybody else, Galinda could simply say it was all a misunderstanding, that what she’s about to hear isn’t true, but the company insists she play along. Unfortunately, Larena Upland is not anybody else. She’s the kind of person who cannot keep a secret to save her life. If Galinda told her it was staged, the entire population of Gillikin would know before the video even aired, and she could kiss her promotion goodbye forever.

So she does what she has to, and improvises. “Well… the thing is, I may have been… seeing someone. For a while. And I may have… accidentally confessed my feelings on camera.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Seeing someone? Your coworker from earlier? And you didn’t tell me? Galinda Upland, how could you keep this from your own mother? I am wounded.” A pause follows, punctuated by the most theatrical sniff. “When will I see him then? Is he tall? Please say he’s tall. It simply doesn’t photograph well, otherwise.”

Galinda squeezes her eyes shut. “He’s not—there’s no he.”

“No he…?” A horrified gasp comes through the speaker. “Oh, sweet Lurlina. But… everyone in Oz will see you!”

“Yes. So you’ve said.”

“I… I need a drink for this.”

There’s a sharp click and suddenly Galinda is serenaded by the tinny strains of what can only be hold music. She blinks at the phone in disbelief. Larena had actually put her on hold.

Mournfully, she sets the phone on speaker beside her on the bench and buries her face in her hands. How, in all of Oz, was she supposed to get through this?

Footsteps crunch somewhere on the gravel path. Then… panting. Familiar panting. Galinda peeks up through her fingers. It’s the dog. Still following her, loyal or simply confused, she can’t say. Maybe she ought to give him a name. Something dignified. Sir Fluffles? Baron van Sparklepaws? Something with gravitas.

“Killyjoy!” Elphaba’s voice cuts through the air before Galinda even sees her.

The dog’s ears perk, and he bolts toward the sound. A moment later, Elphaba comes striding into view, long-legged and purposeful. When her eyes land on Galinda, her expression flickers to something between not quite anger, not quite confusion, before settling into a glacial stare.

Galinda straightens the folds of her skirt, and Elphaba looks like she’s considering turning right back around.

Then her gaze drops to the bench. More specifically, to the phone lying there, its tiny speaker still piping out the hold music.

“If you’re trying to call the Emerald Press and beg them not to run the promo,” she says, “don’t bother. You won’t reach anyone. I’ve tried.”

Galinda waves her hand dismissively. “No, that’s just my mother.”

Elphaba blinks. “I see.”

An awkward silence settles between them, filled only by the dog’s happy panting and the phone line’s music. Galinda presses her lips together. If they kept this up, the glaring, sulking, and monosyllables, they’d be busted before sundown. Ugh.

So she reaches for something to talk about. “Why, exactly, are you giving my dog a name? And why does it have to be something awful like Killyjoy? Why not something elegant, at least?”

“Your dog?” Elphaba arches a brow.

“Well, yes. He’s been following me around. That rather implies ownership, doesn’t it?”

Before Elphaba can retort, the phone crackles to life on the bench. “Galindaaa~,” Larena’s voice calls through the speaker, as if no time has passed at all. “I’ve decided a gimlet will do. So. About this—”

Galinda snatches up her phone, switching to the normal speaker so only she can hear. On the line, there’s the click of a lighter, a drag, and a long, smoky exhale. Larena had sworn off cigarettes years ago, parading her restraint at brunches as though it were a medal.

“Are you smoking?” Galinda hisses, watching Elphaba walk down toward the lake with the dog—with Killyjoy. Oz, she couldn’t have picked a more horrendous name if she’d tried.

“And drinking,” Larena adds primly. “Now, tell me about her.”

“…What?”

“Her. The woman. If you’re going to disgrace the family name, I at least want details. Is she fashionable? Well-bred? Does she summer?”

Galinda pulls the phone away and stares at it in disbelief. “Well, she’s…” She glances sideways, where Elphaba is crouched by the lake, prodding at the muddy edge with a stick while Killyjoy watches her in rapt devotion, “…not exactly what you’d call conventional.”

“Do you mean bohemian, or criminal? Be specific, darling.”

“Neither.” As far as I know, Galinda realizes. Wonderful. She really does need to get to know Elphaba better if they want to sell this. Oh, joy. “She’s—Oz, Mother, she’s just… she’s just herself, I suppose.” She massages her forehead with two fingers, then softens her voice. “Look, can you please just… stay calm if you see the video?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll bear the shame with dignity.”

Galinda can only hope for that. She straightens her shoulders. “Thank you. I have to go now—talk soon.”

She ends the call and lets out a deep sigh. It could have gone worse, she tells herself. Then again, her mother hasn’t actually seen Elphaba yet. Oh well. One step at a time.

She slips her phone back into her pocket and starts slowly toward the lake. Before she even reaches her, Elphaba speaks, eyes fixed on the lake, not bothering to look up.

“Just so we’re clear. I’m not doing this for you. And I’ll never forgive you for dragging me into your silly little relationship drama. We’ll pretend, for a few weeks, then we’ll call it off and go back to never seeing each other again.” When she finally does glance up, her stare is cold enough to stop Galinda mid-step. The sharpness of it makes her pulse skip. “You said you refuse to look like a joke. Well, I refuse to look like the punchline.”

Galinda swallows, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. It’s not as though Elphaba is wrong. Oz, that makes it worse. She opens her mouth, searching for something clever, something disarming—but all that comes out is, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Just how exactly are we supposed to look authentic?” Elphaba cuts in and shrugs, her gaze sliding back to the lake.

Galinda lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh, I don’t know… maybe you could start by looking at me as though you were in love, and not on a mission to end me?”

Elphaba looks back at her. “That would require some world-class acting.”

“Fine, then keep looking like you’re plotting my demise. I’m sure that’ll scream romance.”

Elphaba exhales through her nose. “All right... I can’t believe I’m even asking this, but how does one look like… they’re in love, or whatever?”

Galinda lifts her chin. “Well, you simply do what you’d do if you actually were. Honestly, how should I be the expert?”

Elphaba actually looks at her then, a steady, unnerving gaze that makes Galinda shift on her feet. “What?” she asks.

“Well,” Elphaba says evenly, “shouldn’t you be?”

Galinda blinks at her. Once. Twice. Then she remembers— oh, right, Fiyero. “Oh, um, yes. Of course. Because I’ve been in love before. Obviously.”

She clears her throat and lets her mind drift quickly—not to Fiyero, not to anyone human—but to the prettiest pair of shoes she ever saw in a shop window. The way the dark red material gleamed, the delicate stitching, how impossibly elegant they’d looked perched on their display. How good it had felt to imagine them on her feet, hers alone. How beautiful they were. How much she wanted them, longed to touch them, to have them.

Her voice softens without meaning to. “It’s like… when you see something so perfect, you can’t look away. And you can already imagine how it would feel to hold it, how you can’t wait to touch it, how it would be yours. And you think… Oz, nothing could ever be more beautiful or better than this.” She sighs dreamily, entirely lost in the memory.

When she looks back, Elphaba’s eyes are still on her. For a moment it feels like being pinned in place, seen and measured in a way Galinda can’t name. Then Elphaba blinks hard and brushes off her sleeve as though dismissing the entire conversation. “Yeah,” she mutters. “This is never going to work.” Without another word, she strides off back to the fairground center.

Galinda is left staring after her, until she feels Killyjoy’s expectant eyes on her.

“Oh, don’t you start,” she tells him, ruffling his ears. “She’s the most insufferable woman alive. You must agree with me.”

The dog wags his tail and tilts his head, entirely unconvinced.

“Ugh. And Killyjoy, really? What sort of name is that? You deserve better. Do you like… Sir Fluffles?”

He huffs and lowers his head.

“Sparklepaws?”

He whimpers.

“Puddlefuzz?”

He growls.

Galinda stares at him. “…Really? Killyjoy?”

He barks and pants happily.

She sighs. “Traitor.”

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, you didn’t know?” Galinda hisses, trying to keep her voice low despite the heat in her chest. “You either record or you don’t. And the way you shot those frames looked quite deliberate.”

Fiyero and Boq exchange looks, both of them wearing the expression of schoolboys caught smoking behind the gym. Boq even blushes, brightly enough that Galinda can see it in the glow of the lanterns strung from the pavilion ceiling. She’d only come here because her stomach had finally calmed down enough to make demands. She was hoping for a bread roll, maybe a pastry if the universe was merciful. Instead, she found: Fiyero, Boq, and half-congealed pasta salad.

“I meant, I didn’t know it would make it into the final cut,” Fiyero says, lifting his hands. “We showed Oscar the raw footage and he was absolutely taken by it. Said it was authentic, exactly what he was aiming for.”

Authentic. Galinda nearly snorts. Nothing about this was authentic. She stabs her fork into the pasta salad with unnecessary force and shoves a mouthful in before she says something unladylike. Killyjoy sits loyally at her side, gazing up at her with wide eyes and a strategic little whimper.

“Oh, you little menace,” she mutters without any real bite behind it. The dog really is unfairly cute, she has to admit. “Here.” She breaks off a sausage from the sad buffet platter and offers it.

Killyjoy devours it like it’s fine dining, tail thumping happily.

“I’m sorry,” Fiyero says quietly, watching the dog with a kind of guilty reverence. “I shouldn’t have agreed to using the footage, but you know how Oscar can be.”

“M–Me too,” Boq adds, nodding so quickly it looks like his head might fall off. “Sorry.”

Galinda glances between them, then back at Killjoy, who has licked his mouth clean and is giving her the same pleading look. Three pairs of puppy-eyes trained on her.

“Oh, Oz,” she sighs, leaning back against the buffet table. “What karmic disaster did I cause to deserve this?” She’s always been too soft, she knows that, but how could she keep holding a grudge when anyone, dogs included, looked at her like that? And… maybe it also helps that she’s never been closer to getting her promotion than she is now, thanks to this ridiculous video.

“All right,” she concedes at last. “What’s done is done.” She smiles to show that the apologies are accepted.

Boq flashes a sheepish one in return, cheeks coloring again. “Okay, I… I think I’ll just—” he gestures vaguely toward the building, then clears his throat. “—call it a night. Long day. You know.”

Galinda raises her brows, but before she can reply he dips his head in a quick nod and scurries off, his movements oddly stiff.

“What’s gotten into him?” she asks with a chuckle.

“I’d say poor guy’s got a crush on you,” Fiyero says, smirking.

Galinda laughs, but it dies quickly. The air feels different now that Boq’s gone—quieter, a little heavier somehow. She finds herself fiddling with her fork, twirling it through the pasta longer than necessary just to keep her hands busy before she finally takes another bite. Fiyero’s watching her with something she can only describe as hesitation.

“For what it’s worth…” he says then and clears his throat, gaze dropping for a moment. “I did kind of wonder if maybe you were, you know… into women. And if that’s true… then I’m glad you’ve figured it out. I mean, I’m happy for you.”

Galinda almost inhales a piece of pasta the wrong way. She coughs into her napkin, eyes watering, and sets her fork down with a clatter.

Into women.

The words hit sharper than she expects. She’s never thought of herself that way before. Why would she? There were parties to attend, skirts to twirl, reputations to uphold, boys to smile at, and even Fiyero himself for a time. And now, suddenly, here he is, saying it so plainly, like it’s obvious. Which is funny, really, because this accidental thing with Elphaba couldn’t be further from real feelings.

Her cheeks feel warm. She dabs at her lips with the napkin, trying to recover her poise. “Well,” she says finally, a little too tightly, “that’s… very kind of you to say.”

He gives a small nod, eyes steady on hers. He doesn’t even smirk or tease this time, just means it for once, and Oz, that makes it worse. “So…” he says then. “Elphaba, right? That’s her name?”

Galinda’s fork stills against the plate as she nods. Lurline, she’s not prepared to talk about her like that.

“She seems… different,” Fiyero goes on, searching for words. “Not in a bad way. Just—different from the crowd. From us.” His gaze darts briefly toward the pavilion lights before returning to her. “Uh, I don’t mean her skin, though, that’s—”

Galinda lets out a sharp laugh before he can dig himself in deeper. “Oz, Fiyero, relax. I know what you mean.”

He winces, looking sheepish, but it softens into a grin. “Good. Because it’s just, she doesn’t seem like the type who’d care about the usual games. And… maybe that’s good for you.”

Galinda blinks at that. Elphaba. Good for her. Elphaba, who is rude, impossible, and frankly exhausting to be around. Fiyero, bless him, simply hasn’t spent enough time in her company.

She forces her smile a little brighter and tips her head just so. “Careful. I’m starting to think you’re quite taken with her yourself.”

To her great surprise, Fiyero actually fumbles and blushes at that. He laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ha, can you imagine how awkward that’d be?”

Galinda’s own smile falters for half a second. Oh. She hadn’t expected that. It was supposed to be a jab, a clever deflection, not… whatever this is.

“Yeah,” she says airily, tossing her hair back for good measure. “That would certainly be something, wouldn’t it?”

Fiyero smirks. “So how’d you two meet, anyway?”

As if on cue, Killyjoy lets out a small whimper at her feet. Galinda glances down, grateful for the distraction, really, and takes the other half of the sausage. “Adorable little beggar,” she murmurs, handing it over.

“What’s his name?” Fiyero asks.

“Killyjoy.”

Fiyero blinks. “Really?”

“Yes. Elphaba named him,” she adds quickly, then flutters her hand in a vague circle. “She has a thing for… odd names.” Unnecessary, but out it tumbles anyway.

He lets out a low whistle. “Wow. You must really be in deep, huh.” He chuckles lightly. “You usually like to have things your way.”

Galinda clears her throat. “It’s not— I mean, it’s more like… our dog. Or, well, whatever. His name is Killyjoy and he seems to like it, so...”

As if to prove her point, Killyjoy pants happily while she scratches his chin. Then, with the abruptness only dogs possess, he bounces to his feet, gives a bark, and tears off across the grass.

Galinda watches him go, then exhales, smoothing her skirt. “Well… Boq wasn’t wrong. It really has been a long day.”

“Yeah.” Fiyero nods, eyes following the dog before returning to her. “Got the hint. I’ll let you get some rest. But... we’ll talk tomorrow?”

“You’re… not leaving?”

He grins, hands sliding into his pockets. “Of course not. I was booked for the whole weekend. I’d be crazy to leave now—with all this delicious food.” He jerks his chin toward the tables. “And don’t forget the party tomorrow night. Wouldn’t miss that.”

The party. Galinda feels her stomach swoop. She’d almost managed to forget. Which means tomorrow there will be more time with Elphaba—more time to keep up appearances, to smile and laugh and pretend. If they didn’t want rumors of a break-up flying by morning, they’d have to pull together.

“Right. See you tomorrow then.”

When Fiyero finally drifts off, Galinda turns back to scan the buffet one last time. At the far edge of the table, like a hidden treasure, she spots tiramisu. There’s not much left, but it will do. She scoops a portion onto a plate. Then, after a pause, she takes a second.

Because if she and Elphaba are going to survive tomorrow without a public catastrophe, they’ll need at least a truce. And nothing says truce quite like dessert.

Galinda stops in the hallway, staring down at Killyjoy. “Are you sure this is her room?” she whispers.

The dog whimpers softly and sits right in front of the door, staring at it with the unwavering patience of a saint.

She exhales. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Then she balances the two plates of tiramisu on one arm so she can free a hand to knock. For a moment there’s nothing—only muffled sounds elsewhere in the building. Then the door opens a crack.

Elphaba peers through the gap, she’s wearing glasses now, perched low on her nose. Her hair hangs loose with a few thin braids tumbling over one shoulder. The sight makes Galinda blink. She looks… different. Less strict. Almost approachable. Killyjoy’s tail wags furiously.

Elphaba’s eyes flick down at the plates balanced on Galinda’s arm. Her brows knit. “…is that… cake?”

“Much better,” Galinda blurts, a little too quickly. “It’s tiramisu. And before you ask, I only brought it because I thought we might need to—” She stops, lifts her chin, and declares, “—to talk. And it’s easier over dessert.”

Elphaba blinks at her like she’s offered to sell her swamp land in Munchkinland.

“Don’t look at me like that, you know I’m right,” Galinda insists, trying for breezy but hearing the wobble in her own voice. Her pulse is skittering. Anyone could walk by and see her like this, standing at Elphaba’s door, plates in hand, as if she were apologizing, as if she were begging to be let in. Elphaba really should know better than to leave her… her girlfriend standing there like that. Not that Galinda is about to say any of this out loud.

“If we don’t want to mess this up in less than a day, we can’t spend the whole time avoiding each other. And we need at least the basics. You know, like favorite color, allergies and whatnot. How not to look like we can’t stand each other.” She extends one plate slowly toward the crack, the way one might coax a skittish animal. “So. Dessert?”

Elphaba’s gaze shifts from Galinda’s determined expression to the slightly trembling plate of tiramisu, then to Killyjoy, who offers a hopeful wag and small whine, as though casting his vote.

Finally, she sighs, opens the door a little wider, and takes the plate. “This is absurd.”

“At last, something we agree on,” Galinda says, walking past her into the room with the second plate in hand as though she’s been invited. Killyjoy slips in right behind her, tail going like a metronome, and then bounds onto the rug and circles twice before flopping down with a sigh.

Elphaba shuts the door behind them with a resigned thud. “You know that this doesn’t change anything,” she says, setting the plate down on the desk like it’s evidence in a trial.

“Obviously,” Galinda answers, already perching on the nearest chair with her own portion.

Her eyes flick quickly around the room. It couldn’t be more different from hers. Aside from the bed, where the sheets have been pulled back in preparation for sleep, the space looks barely inhabited. Elphaba’s small bag slumps in the corner, no clothes draped over chairs, no personal clutter. The only thing breaking the barrenness is a single book on the desk beside the plate of tiramisu. She recognizes it instantly as the same one Elphaba had buried her nose in on the train.

Her gaze comes to rest on Elphaba last—and only then does she notice she’s wearing a bathrobe. “Oh.” The sound escapes before she can stop it. “That’s… unexpectedly domestic.” She lets out a fluttery little laugh, as if it’s all a joke, a silly observation. Before Elphaba can retort, she tilts her head toward the desk. “Is that the same book from the train?” she asks, though she knows perfectly well that it is, and promptly scoops a forkful of tiramisu into her mouth.

“Yes,” Elphaba answers.

Galinda gestures with her fork in slow, deliberate circles. “And…?”

Elphaba squints at her. “And what?”

Galinda swallows quickly. “We’re trying to have a decent conversation. What is it about? Is it good? Do you like it? Goodness, do I have to do all the work here?”

Elphaba pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger. “You dragged us into this performance. Forgive me if I don’t feel obliged to carry the script.”

Galinda gives a pointed little laugh. “This is simple preparation. And unless I’m mistaken, there are things at stake for you too if this fails. So let’s start with a polite little chat? Think you can manage that?”

Elphaba shrugs. “Sure. And after that, trust falls? Maybe a round of ‘two truths and a lie’?”

Galinda presses her lips together, briefly wondering if she really wants this promotion badly enough to suffer through this. “Why are you always like that?”

Elphaba holds her gaze, then finally takes the plate of dessert and lifts the tiniest piece, as if testing it. She chews, swallows, and nods once. “Not bad.” Another bite follows, less tentative this time, almost approving. “All right... It’s a collection of essays. Political theory.”

Galinda shifts slightly. “And… do you enjoy that sort of thing?” she asks.

Elphaba shakes her head. “Enjoyment isn’t the point. It’s not entertainment, it’s necessary.”

Galinda wrinkles her nose. “Mm. That settles it. I’ll never ask you for a book recommendation.”

“Told you that you wouldn’t like it.”

Galinda opens her mouth for a retort—something witty, surely—but the words evaporate when she catches movement below the desk. Elphaba shifts in her chair, uncrossing and crossing her legs. For the briefest moment, green skin flashes in the lamplight: smooth knees, the bathrobe falling just enough to reveal a glimpse of equally smooth thigh before she readjusts it.

The impropriety of such a display, accidental though it may be, sends heat rushing into her cheeks. Whatever clever thing she’d been about to say vanishes, lost entirely, leaving her staring at the last bit of tiramisu.

Elphaba’s voice cuts through the silence. “And that’s what you’re into, then?”

Galinda freezes. For a hot, horrible second she’s sure Elphaba has caught her, has somehow seen where her eyes just were. Her heart lurches, panic bubbling in her throat. When she risks a glance up, Elphaba is calmly eating another bite, her gaze expectant. She even gestures vaguely toward her, and for one awful beat Galinda is convinced the next word will be Women?

Instead, Elphaba says, “Fashion?”

Relief floods her, followed by a sudden, absurd spark of delight. “Oh, yes!” she says, her voice a little too high, “I’m so glad you asked!” She sets down her plate and straightens in her chair as though preparing to address an audience. “Fashion isn’t just clothes, you know. It’s communication. It’s identity. It’s how you tell the world who you are without saying a single word. Colors, textures, cuts—they all speak their own language.” She waves her hand dramatically. “Do you know how many doors in life open or slam shut based on the right pair of shoes? Imagine, entire destinies balanced on a hemline!”

Elphaba blinks at her, swallowing the last bite of tiramisu. “Isn’t that a little exaggerated?”

“Not at all! There are actual studies on this—first impressions, decision-making, human psychology. Fashion might as well be a science of its own.”

Elphaba sets down her empty plate and hums thoughtfully. “Tell me then, Professor Upland, what does fashion say about me?”

Galinda hesitates as her mind flashes back to the outfit Elphaba had worn before: all black, sharp lines, her hair scraped back so severely it looked like even a breeze would’ve thought twice about disturbing it. No accessories, no softness, nothing to invite anyone in.

She clears her throat delicately. “Well… your ensemble was… very dark, very severe. It gave the impression of someone who prefers to keep the world at arm’s length. Which is valid, I suppose, though it makes you perhaps a little…” She pauses, sifting through possibilities. “Unapproachable.” She lifts her chin as if proud of her diplomacy, as though she’s just handed over a compliment rather than a criticism.

Elphaba arches a brow, but there’s the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth. “That was the idea.” She leans back slightly, studying Galinda as though reassessing her. “Maybe you do know what you’re talking about, after all.”

Galinda’s eyes light up. “Was that—oh, how thrilling—the first of many compliments I’m to receive in our relationship?”

Elphaba snorts. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“We’ll see,” Galinda says, tilting her head. “But why would you want to be unapproachable?”

Elphaba glances at Killyjoy, then back to her. “We haven’t reached that stage of our relationship yet,” she says coolly, “where I tell you that.”

“Well, let’s hope we get there fast,” Galinda replies lightly, “because we really have to do something about your style.”

Elphaba’s brows draw together. “What?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Galinda says quickly, fluttering her hand as if to wave it away. “I only mean… nobody at home, least of all my mother, will believe I’m with someone who looks— I mean, who dresses… well… like that.”

Elphaba’s shoulders stiffen. “I see.”

Galinda clears her throat, realizing too late she’s stepped into quicksand. “It’s just, you know—strict, dour, very… black. I’m not saying it’s bad, exactly, just… not very convincing.”

Elphaba’s mouth twitches, but it looks rather humorless. “Not very convincing that someone like you could end up with...,” she gestures at her own face, “...this.”

Galinda’s eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant! I only—”

“Of course not,” Elphaba interrupts. She gets to her feet, crosses to the door, and pulls it open. “Thank you for bringing dessert, but I think we’ve gotten to know each other enough for one evening.”

Killyjoy looks between them, tail lowering, and lets out a soft whimper.

“You too,” Elphaba says quietly, nodding toward the hallway.

He hesitates, ears drooping, before padding sadly outside.

Galinda pushes herself up, smoothing her skirt. “For the record,” she says tightly, pausing at the threshold, “it might do you some good to listen to what people are actually saying—not what you think you hear.”

“Noted. I’ll add it to the list of your advice I didn’t ask for.”

Galinda huffs, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reply. She steps into the hallway, Killyjoy trailing at her heels, and hears the door shut with a little more force than necessary.

As she walks away, her irritation only sharpens. Really, she’d gone out of her way—brought dessert, even—and this is how she’s rewarded? And yet… the words still echo in her head. As if that’s what she’d meant. Honestly. But even as she bristles, a sliver of truth worms its way in. She cares about looks, of course she does. She always has. She hates when her mother judges people that way, and yet here she is, doing pretty much the same. Galinda Upland, who can’t help but fret over what people whisper behind her back.

Being officially with a woman is scandal enough. Add Elphaba into the picture, who couldn’t care less about fashion or manners, and who, on top of it all, happens to be green. It isn’t Galinda’s fault that such a skin color is… unusual, is it?

And yet guilt prickles under her skin, stubborn and unwelcome. Ugh. It’s not enough that she can’t stand Elphaba half the time—now she has to feel guilty about her too? Perfect. Just perfect. She exhales sharply through her nose, patting Killyjoy’s head when he bumps against her leg.

“Guess we’ll try again tomorrow,” she mutters, more to herself than him.

The knock comes like a cannon blast. Galinda jolts awake, thrashes blindly at the covers, and swings her legs out of bed—straight into her discarded heels from last night. She hisses, grabs her foot, and nearly topples sideways.

“Ow—oh, for Oz’s sake!”

She stumbles forward, hair in wild curls that have somehow escaped their pins in the night, her silk nightgown tangled around her knees. Killyjoy lifts his head from the pillow, yawns extravagantly, and then flops right back down, utterly unbothered.

The knock comes again.

“Coming!” she croaks, though it sounds less like her usual sparkling soprano and more like a rusty hinge. She manages to shuffle across the room, blinking blearily, and cracks open the door.

Elphaba stands there. Already dressed, not a hair out of place. She’s wearing a light blue blouse, dark grey vest, black trousers and polished shoes. The glasses from last night are gone, her hair is tied back, looser than the day before but still tidy. She looks like she’s been awake for hours. Galinda grips the edge of the door for balance, suddenly acutely aware that she must look like she just crawled out of a hedge.

“We’ll miss breakfast if you don’t hurry,” Elphaba says, even pointing at her wristwatch for emphasis.

“Ugh.” Galinda presses a hand to her temple, squinting at her. “You’re one of those dreadful morning people, aren’t you?”

Elphaba’s mouth quirks faintly. “I’m dreadful around the clock.”

Galinda huffs. “Well, at least you admit it.”

Killyjoy has trotted over, tail wagging, clearly thrilled to see this other human.

Galinda sighs and pulls the door a little wider. “Fine. Give me fifteen minutes.”

Elphaba’s eyes flick briefly over Galinda’s tangled hair, the nightgown, the general disaster of her current state. “Will that be enough?”

Galinda rolls her eyes as Elphaba steps in. “Watch me.”

Elphaba blinks. Galinda blinks. Killyjoy blinks.

“Oz, not— not literally!” She lets out a flustered little laugh, swats the air, and quickly vanishes behind the bathroom door.

She leans back against the bathroom door and lets out a deep breath. She can do it. She’s collected and perfectly composed. Then she glances down at herself—still in her nightgown, nothing else—and realizes, with a jolt of horror, that her clothes are all out there.

“Oh no,” she whispers. Her heart skips, then races, embarrassment (and absolutely nothing else) tightening her chest.

For a moment she considers simply staying in the bathroom until Elphaba gets bored and leaves. But she does need to get dressed, and the only way to do that is to march back out there and collect her things.

With all the dignity she can muster, Galinda opens the door a crack, peeks out—and there’s Elphaba, sitting calmly in the desk chair, arms folded, watching her like a dispassionate judge at a talent show. Killyjoy is perched on the rug, tail sweeping side to side in eager anticipation.

Galinda clears her throat. “Don’t you dare say a word.”

Elphaba lifts a brow. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Which is somehow worse. So Galinda does the only reasonable thing: she darts across the room to snatch her blouse from the chair. Then spins, nearly colliding with the bedpost, and dives for her skirt draped over the footboard. Killyjoy barks, delighted, and bounds after her like it’s a game of chase.

“Not now, Killyjoy!” she squeals, sidestepping the dog as she lunges for her stockings.

Elphaba, maddeningly, watches her and doesn’t move a muscle.

“Shut up,” Galinda pants into her direction—even though she hadn’t said a word—clutching half her outfit in her arms as Killyjoy makes a successful leap and snatches one stocking in his mouth, prancing away proudly.

“Bad boy!” she squawks, snatches the stocking back on her third attempt, and gathers the rest of her clothes to her chest. Flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly defeated, she huffs toward the bathroom. “You’ve seen nothing,” she declares over her shoulder, sweeping inside and slamming the door shut.

She drops her clothes onto the closed lid of the laundry bin, smoothing each piece with deliberate precision. When she lifts her head to the mirror, she’s greeted by the sight of flushed cheeks, flyaway curls sticking in every direction, and wide eyes still bright from the chase. She groans softly, pressing her palms to the porcelain sink.

From the other side of the door she faintly hears Elphaba’s voice, “We both know she’s going to take more than fifteen minutes, right?”

There’s a pause, and then the muffled sound of Killyjoy letting out something between a bark and a huff. Galinda blinks at her reflection and to her own surprise, sees the woman in the mirror smile.

When she steps out of the bathroom some time later—certainly more than fifteen minutes, but who’s counting—she feels ten times lighter. Her hair is brushed and smooth, her outfit fabulous, her pearls in place. Perfectly restored. Perfectly Galinda again. She’s halfway to announcing her triumphant readiness when her eyes land on Elphaba. Who… isn’t looking up. Who’s reading. Not her book, though, but a piece of paper.

The piece of paper.

Galinda freezes mid-step, blood draining from her face as she recognizes the unmistakable pink stationery with her own handwriting scrawled across it. She had left it on the desk last night and promptly forgotten—until now.

Elphaba lifts the page slightly, brows knitting. “Favorite flower: peonies. Favorite drink: champagne. Biggest weakness: shoes, compliments, puppies… What is this?”

Galinda nearly chokes on air. “That— that is a perfectly normal facts sheet! Everyone makes one. Really, where have you been?”

Elphaba flips the page, eyes flicking down. “Favorite side to be photographed from: left. Favorite topic of conversation: me. What on earth—”

“Stop reading that! It’s just a draft!” Galinda squeaks, darting forward, but Elphaba leans back, holding the page just out of reach.

“And you’ve left a second sheet blank.” She taps the corner of the desk where another page waits. “What, am I supposed to fill this in?”

“Obviously!” Galinda huffs, her cheeks burning. “It’s called being prepared. Honestly, you’re welcome.”

Elphaba shakes her head, but the glint in her eyes betrays her amusement. “This is ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Galinda declares, snatching the filled sheet out of her hand at last, “you’ll thank me when someone asks what my favorite flower is and you don’t humiliate us both by guessing daisies.”

Elphaba blinks. “…Are daisies bad?”

Galinda gasps as though she’s been stabbed. “Daisies are basic!”

Killyjoy barks loudly as if in agreement. Good boy.

Elphaba throws up her hands. “Of course. The great floral hierarchy. How could I forget?”

Galinda huffs, folding the rescued facts sheet with as much dignity as she can muster and tucking it primly into her bag. “Well. Now that we’ve established that… shall we?”

Elphaba gestures toward the door with mock formality. “By all means.”

Killyjoy yips, already trotting ahead as if he’s leading the charge.

Galinda lifts her chin and sweeps past, pearls glinting in the morning light. “And don’t think I won’t be quizzing you on your own sheet later.”

Elphaba exhales a long-suffering sigh as she follows her out.

The hallway widens ahead of them, opening into the bright clatter of the breakfast room. Galinda glances down at Killyjoy and sighs.

“Darling, this is where you must be on your very best behavior. Dogs aren’t allowed in there.” His ears perk, tail still wagging hopefully.

She crouches, smoothing his head with one hand. “Go on, find a nice patch of sun. I’ll bring you something later.”

Killyjoy lets out a small huff, but after a moment’s hesitation, he pads off toward the doors. “If only people listened to me like that…” she mutters as she straightens and rolls her shoulders as if bracing herself for what comes next.

Voices and the clink of cutlery drift into the hallway, and she spots the first few guests lingering by the door. Her stomach tightens. They need to look convincing now.

She slows her step, tilting her head toward Elphaba. “Don’t freak out,” she whispers.

Elphaba’s brows draw together. “Why would I—”

Galinda reaches down and slips her hand into hers before she can finish, fingers intertwining firmly.

Elphaba stops dead. “What are you doing?”

“Making us look believable,” Galinda hisses, giving her hand a little shake as if to demonstrate. “Couples hold hands.”

“…Couples do all sorts of things.”

Galinda nearly trips over her own feet. “Not at breakfast.”

Elphaba glances down at their joined hands as though they’ve been cuffed together, but she doesn’t pull away.

Galinda, cheeks a little warmer than she’ll admit, guides them both toward the dining room. “Now smile. You’re thrilled to be here with me.”

“I’m not thrilled to be here with you.”

“Which is why faking it was invented,” she whispers back, plastering on her own dazzling smile as they cross the threshold.

They step inside, and Galinda immediately feels the weight of eyes on them. Some older women in smart suits glance up from their fruit bowls, whispering behind their hands; two men in elegant shirts pause at the buffet, giving them a curious once-over. Galinda straightens her spine, lifts her chin higher, and beams like the sun itself. If there’s gossip, she’ll see to it that it’s flattering. She squeezes Elphaba’s hand tighter without thinking—too tight, apparently, because the other woman suddenly winces.

“Ow?” she says under her breath, giving her a pointed look.

Galinda startles and lets go at once, covering the fumble with an overly brisk rub of Elphaba’s arm, as though she meant to do it all along. “I shall fetch us coffee,” she declares grandly, then leans in just a fraction closer. “How do you drink yours?” she asks in a lower voice.

“Just black.”

“Of course. Lurline forbid you allow yourself the tiniest bit of luxury.”

“Maybe luxury isn’t the answer to everything.”

“It is and it’s always the right answer.”

“Except when it isn’t.”

Galinda huffs before she remembers to smile. “You’ll thank me when you’re older.” With that, she sweeps toward the buffet like a queen on parade.

A few minutes later, equipped with coffee and a modest selection of breakfast, they turn toward the tables. Galinda spots a cluster of familiar faces from her office. One of them waves, and she flashes a bright smile, nodding in return.

Her eyes flick around the room. “Where’s the Munchkinland group?” she asks lightly. “Do you want to sit with them or…?”

“I am the Munchkinland group,” Elphaba says dryly.

Galinda blinks, then lets out a nervous little laugh. “Oh. That’s… efficient?”

So they make their way toward the Emerald City table instead. Elphaba slides into the chair beside her without hesitation, and Galinda feels the collective shift of her coworkers’ curiosity like heat against her cheeks. Their eyes are everywhere; at their nearly brushing shoulders, at Elphaba, at her clothes, at Galinda herself.

She can feel her blush rising, so she rushes in with the first diversion she can muster. “So! I don’t suppose anyone knows the agenda for today’s sessions?” she chirps.

One of her colleagues begins obligingly, “Well, first there’s the keynote from—”

But before he can continue, Milla from lifestyle—ambitious, irritating, and forever circling Galinda’s column like a vulture—leans forward, eyes sparkling. “Sorry, sorry, I just have to interrupt,” she blurts out. “I heard Elphaba’s based in Munchkinland. How do you two manage a long-distance relationship?”

Her blush, which had just begun to ebb, comes roaring back full force. “Oh—well—” she begins, her laugh just a touch too high. “That’s—that’s quite the question before coffee, isn’t it?”

Beside her, Elphaba calmly takes a sip of hers. “It isn’t that complicated,” she says at last. “Trains exist.”

The table titters.

“Yes,” Galinda cuts in quickly. “But it’s more than trains, of course—it’s about commitment, and making the time, and—”

“Mutual tolerance,” Elphaba adds dryly.

Galinda gives her a nudge under the table, then recovers with another bright laugh. “Isn’t she a riot? Always joking.” She flutters her hand as if swatting away an inconvenient fly.

For a moment it seems to work. Plates clink, coffee spoons stir, and Milla even looks as though she’s mulling over what she’s just heard. Galinda’s shoulders start to loosen—until Milla, naturally, ruins it.

“That’s just so romantic! If I may ask, how did you two meet?” she asks, eyes shining.

The question drops like a stone into the middle of the table.

“It’s, um,” Galinda begins, her mouth suddenly dry, “it’s actually quite a sweet story, isn’t it?” She shoots Elphaba a side glance.

Elphaba sets her cup down. “She stole my seat.”

Galinda’s smile wavers for a second. “Yes, because it was on the train,” she explains brightly. “We were seated together by complete chance—destiny, you see—and, well…”

Milla’s pen has actually appeared in her hand, as if she’s ready to take notes for her next article.

Elphaba tilts her head. “She was pretty insufferable.”

“What she means is, she found me utterly captivating.”

“She wouldn’t stop talking.”

“And she hung on every word,” Galinda insists, flashing the table her brightest smile.

A ripple of laughter runs through the group. Someone asks, “So it really was love at first sight?”

Galinda hesitates, mouth opening—only for Elphaba to cut in, a little softer this time. “Not quite. But… it was memorable.”

Galinda turns her head toward her, startled, and Elphaba is already looking back. For a beat too long they just hold each other’s gaze, smiles tugging at their mouths at the same time. Galinda barely remembers to think about how convincing they must look.

A soft chorus of “aww” rises from around the table and she snaps her attention back to her plate, cheeks burning hot. She clears her throat and spears a piece of melon as though it requires all her focus. No one presses them further, the conversation drifts to safer topics at last. They eat in peace, while Galinda keeps her gaze fixed meticulously on her breakfast.

That is, until the phone in her bag won’t stop vibrating in short bursts. The spot must have aired. People must have seen it. Her heart hammers as she fumbles to pull the phone free, fingers trembling, only to drop it on the floor between her and Elphaba.

Of course, only Lurline knows why now of all times that woman decides to be chivalrous, leaning down at the exact same moment Galinda does. Their foreheads bump with an audible thud.

“Ow!” Galinda hisses under her breath, clutching her brow. She’s ready to snap—but then she catches a few curious glances from the table. “Don’t mind us, we’re just so in sync it’s dangerous.”

Beside her, Elphaba is just as stiff, rubbing her own forehead. “Fatal, some would say,” she says evenly, though her eyes flash with annoyance.

The table chuckles, apparently charmed, while under the linen Galinda’s heel finds Elphaba’s ankle with a warning press. She doesn’t flinch and only nudges her ankle back, sharp enough to make Galinda’s smile strain for a second.

She dips quickly to retrieve her fallen phone, cheeks still burning. New messages light up the screen—from Pfannee, Shenshen, and of course, her mother. Oz, was everyone watching the same channel at the same time?

Pfanncakes [08:14]: GIRL you're on tv?! you didn't tell us??

Shensational [08:15]: I'M DEAD

Shensational [08:15]: who's the tall GREEN WOMAN???

Mother [08:15]: Call me. Immediately.

Pfanncakes [08:16]: GALINDA??

Shensational [08:16]: ?

Galinda stares at the screen, heat prickling up her neck, before she locks the screen with a snap of her thumb, as though that could shove them back into their little digital prison. Not now. Absolutely not now. She cannot deal with them all while sitting at a table full of coworkers and Elphaba at her side, who glances at her, a faint crease between her brows, as if she’s already deciphered the tension radiating off her.

Galinda waves a hand. “It’s nothing,” she insists. “Nothing at all.”

The phone in her palm immediately buzzes again, longer this time. Her stomach sinks when she sees the name flashing across the screen. Her mother is calling, of course. She’s nothing if not relentless.

Galinda knows she won’t give up. She never does. Better to take it now and somehow control the scene. She clears her throat, putting on a bright smile. “Excuse me just a moment,” she chirps to the table, then rises with what she hopes passes for casual elegance. Not out the door—that would look dramatic—but to the row of tall windows along the wall. Enough distance to keep her talk private, not enough to suggest scandal.

From there she risks a glance back. Elphaba sits stiffly among her coworkers, shoulders straight, every inch of her reading awkward interloper. Galinda’s chest tightens, and she can’t even say why.

She turns back toward the window, inhales, and presses accept. “Good morning.”

“Galinda!” Larena practically yells down the line, far too loud, as though projecting to an audience. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Your father practically leapt off the sofa, and he hasn’t leapt since 1973! Half of Gillikin has already called me, asking if it’s true about you and your… your woman!”

Galinda squeezes her eyes shut. “Please—you promised to stay calm—”

“I can’t stay calm, darling, the entire country has seen you declare your feelings on camera! And for a woman who looks…” Larena finally lowers her voice, “…decidedly unfashionable. Is it supposed to be a statement? Is she part of the campaign, like a— a mascot? I thought the Emerald Press would choose something less… literal than painting a girl green.”

“It’s not a costume,” Galinda says tightly, turning back toward the room. “That’s… just her skin.”

She spots Fiyero striding in with his usual confidence and careless charm. He catches her by the windows, and his smile flickers into something between pleased and puzzled. She lifts her phone in a vague little gesture—occupied—and he nods, grin widening. She watches him drift easily toward the EC table, collecting glances and smiles as naturally as breathing. How simple it would be, she thinks, if she were sitting beside him. If this whole charade were with someone like him.

But then, a quieter voice intrudes: she’s been through that already, hasn’t she? The perfect picture everyone approved of. And had it really been easier?

On the line, Larena’s voice slices through her thoughts. “Galinda, have you lost your mind? Are you protesting me?”

“Protesting—what?” Galinda sputters. “Not everything is about you.” The hypocrisy burns even as she says it. Isn’t this whole performance for her promotion and her mother’s approval?

“I’m just saying, sweetheart,” Larena presses on, “if you absolutely had to fall for a woman, couldn’t it have been a chic brunette? Or a blonde with proper heels? But no—you choose an emerald-hued… person in black. Galinda, black is for waiters and undertakers. I truly thought you knew that.”

Galinda pinches the bridge of her nose. “All right, I understand—you disapprove. Frequently. We can end this conversation now—”

“So,” Larena interrupts. “When will I meet her?”

Galinda blinks. “…Meet her?”

“Of course, darling, don’t be absurd. I’m not some mannerless cave woman. Your father and I will host this emerald woman of yours properly, over dinner and cocktails.”

Galinda nearly drops the phone again. “Mother, this really isn’t—”

But Larena has already gone misty with self-importance. “Oh, I can just imagine it. My daughter and her… partner. Naturally, I’ll be perfectly gracious. People will admire me for it, perhaps even nominate me for something.”

Galinda exhales, the fight going out of her shoulders. Trust her mother to make this all about polishing her reputation. “Wonderful. I suppose we can… look at timetables after the weekend.”

“Perfect!”

She snaps the call shut, slips the phone back into her bag, and glances toward the table just in time to spot Fiyero leaning in toward Elphaba. He says something she can’t hear, but it must be funny, because to her astonishment, Elphaba smiles... and then she actually laughs. A real laugh, wide enough that Galinda catches the small gap between her front teeth she hasn’t noticed before.

If this were a real relationship, she thinks, this would be the moment she felt jealous.

Chapter Text

Rows of folding chairs stretch out in the hall, all angled toward the stage where the wide screen glows behind the lectern, the lettering of the Emerald Press logo catching the overhead lights. People shift and fidget, the programs are less for following along than for hiding yawns, as a representative from the Glikkus drones on about subscription growth and regional distribution networks.

Galinda tries to look engaged, pretending to take notes, when in fact her program margin is filling up with doodles of small black dogs trotting in circles. Beside her, Elphaba folds herself into the chair with all the grace of a collapsing stepladder, long legs sticking out just enough to make Galinda itch to yank them back in.

“…in conclusion,” the man on the stage says at last, his voice wobbling with relief, “our goals for the next year are continued growth and expansion.” He bows awkwardly to polite applause.

From the stage’s side curtain, Oscar Diggs steps back into view. He loves the spotlight, that much is obvious, beaming at the audience like he has single-handedly invented publishing. “Thank you very much!” Diggs says. “A fine example of progress in action. And now—” He spreads his arms wide, milking the pause. “—next up, representing our hardworking branch in Munchkinland… Elphaba Thropp!”

Galinda blinks, her head snapping toward Elphaba. “You?” she whispers. Which is a stupid question, really, because Elphaba is pretty much Munchkinland’s entire branch.

Elphaba just nods and rises smoothly to her feet, shoving her hands into her pockets like she couldn’t care less that every eye in the room is on her. Galinda stares after her, thrown by how calm she looks striding up the aisle. The applause ripples again as she climbs the steps to the stage and takes her place behind the lectern.

Galinda fidgets in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of the coworkers in her row and Fiyero leaning forward a few rows ahead. She’s nervous even though it’s not her presentation. Because with Elphaba, you never quite know what comes next. Will she deliver something polite and flattering about her branch? Or will she commit some scandalous faux pas? So when Elphaba looks up and immediately finds her in the crowd, somehow, of course Galinda’s fingers tighten on her program. She’s bracing herself.

Elphaba adjusts the microphone and takes a deep breath. For a moment, there are whispers here and there in the crowd, an occasional giggle, until the hall goes quiet and feels almost expectant.

“Munchkinland’s branch of the EP is… small,” Elphaba starts.

Quiet laughter moves through the audience, uncertain if it’s a joke. Elphaba doesn’t smile.

“We don’t have the glossy output of the Emerald City, or the fancy serializations Gillikin churns out. What we do have is a readership that actually wants the truth. Farmers, factory workers and families who don’t care about clever slogans and lifestyle trends. They just want to know if groceries will cost more next week, or if the railway’s cutting jobs again.”

Galinda sits up a little straighter. This isn’t how presentations are supposed to sound. She glances sideways and sees a few coworkers shifting in their seats, whispering behind their hands.

Elphaba goes on. “Our goals aren’t expansion for expansion’s sake. Our goal is accuracy. Printing what matters to the people who live there, not what flatters the people in charge or fattens their profits. If that sounds unglamorous beside circulation numbers and new imprints, well, that’s because honesty usually is.”

A silence hangs in the hall, people exchanging uncertain looks. Elphaba lets it stretch for half a beat before adding, “But if anyone’s looking for more than gossip, you know where to find us.” Then she nods once. “That’s all,” she says and steps back from the lectern. Scattered applause follows.

Galinda exhales, realizing only now that she’s been holding her breath. From the row behind, a woman leans forward and murmurs, “Well. That was… something.” Another adds under her breath, “Yeah. The last something she’ll do for this company.” They both laugh quietly.

Galinda’s stomach knots. She should probably say something, defend her so-called girlfriend, but the thought of everyone listening in clamps her throat and nothing clever comes out.

Elphaba makes her way back to their row, looking calm on the surface, at least. Before she can sit, Galinda reaches out and catches her hand, giving it a brief, but reassuring squeeze. Just like a supportive, caring partner would, she imagines. If she has no clever words to offer, surely the gesture will count.

Elphaba’s mouth twitches faintly—maybe the beginning of a smile, maybe not—as she sits and turns her attention back to the stage. Really now. She could at least appreciate the effort. Galinda huffs, studying her profile as Mr. Diggs launches into yet another speech about how Emerald Press is destined to be bigger, brighter, better. Elphaba’s expression darkens with every word. Perfect. They probably look like they’re having a fight now.

Fine, then. If that impossible woman insists on looking like she’d rather be anywhere else, Galinda will just have to carry the weight of their performance. Appearances matter, after all. Everyone is watching, whispering, deciding what to believe.

So when the applause swells again, she leans over and presses a quick kiss to Elphaba’s cheek. A small, efficient gesture, perfectly timed—proof for the row behind them that they’re happy and in love.

Elphaba freezes before her gaze snaps toward her with surprise. Galinda pretends not to notice, turning back to the stage. Her face feels hot, and in the corner of her eye she catches Elphaba still looking at her for a beat longer before turning away. Her heart thumps hard in her chest, because she’s acutely aware of how many pairs of eyes behind them probably saw it. Which is what she wanted, of course. It just feels... strange all the same.

“Was that necessary?” Elphaba mutters under her breath.

Galinda keeps her gaze fixed on the stage. “Extremely,” she whispers back.

“Couldn’t you… warn me first?”

“Sure. Next time I’ll go, ‘Excuse me, Miss Thropp, I’m just going to give you a peck, if I may?’ first.”

Galinda shoots her a look, but Elphaba only flicks her eyes sideways in return, the corner of her mouth twitching. No wide, toothy laugh. “Not that like that.”

“Then how? We can’t schedule and approve these things, unfortunately. It has to look like—” A round of applause cuts her off. Galinda blinks, claps along with everyone else, having no idea what she’s applauding for, then leans back toward Elphaba. “—like it comes naturally,” she finishes, rolling her eyes.

And, just to prove her point, she slides her hand over and catches Elphaba’s, pulling it neatly into her lap until their hands rest together on her thigh. She turns her head, triumphant—only to find Elphaba staring determinedly ahead. But she sees it anyway: a faint, darker shade of green creeping along her cheeks.

She’s blushing. Elphaba is actually blushing. Well, well. How about that, Fiyero.

Galinda hadn’t meant for it to feel like a little victory and her own face heats in response. Wonderful. Now she’s blushing too. She snaps her gaze back to the stage and fans herself with her program. She hasn’t the faintest idea what the rest of the speeches and presentations are about. Something about projections, expansion, growth, who knows.

Finally, the presentations sputter to a close and Mr. Diggs comes back onto the stage one last time. “Thank you, everyone! That concludes our afternoon program. Please enjoy the fairgrounds, get to know your colleagues, and we’ll see you all at tonight’s party.”

The hall fills with the rustle of chairs and applause. Galinda stands up and claps along with everyone else. Beside her, Elphaba stands too, but pointedly keeps her hands at her sides, her expression set in stone.

Then, quite abruptly, her eyes flick toward her, irritated, like Galinda’s personally responsible for whatever fresh offense is eating at her now. She blinks, hands faltering mid-applause. “What now?”

Before she can get an answer, Diggs’s voice carries down the row. “Miss Thropp! A word, if you please!”

Elphaba strides out into the aisle, leaving Galinda clapping half-heartedly and frowning after her.

Galinda throws her phone onto the pillow with a groan. Pfannee and Shenshen are impossible, but they’re also her friends, and telling them the truth is the only way to get them off her back. If she hadn’t, they’d still be spamming the group chat until sunrise. Besides, she needs someone to talk to about all this— someone who isn’t Elphaba. Because talking to her, when it happens at all, feels like negotiating with a particularly sarcastic brick wall most of the time.

She picks the phone up again and checks the time. Less than two hours until the party. She has not picked an outfit. She has not done her makeup. She has not practiced what expression to wear while pretending to be in love with the most infuriating woman alive. Should she look elegant? Dazzling? Understated? Is there a lipstick shade for “definitely not fake dating, absolutely attracted to each other, please don’t ask any follow-up questions”? And what on earth is Elphaba going to wear? Oz, please let it be something she can actually stand next to without crying.

Galinda flops back on the bed with a squeak of frustration. The clock keeps ticking. She’s going to need a miracle. Or— 

A knock jerks her out of her spiral. She sits up, smooths her hair, and opens the door.

Fiyero leans there against the doorframe, looking charming and relaxed as always. “So, uh. Hi. My heating’s dead and nobody could tell me how long it’ll take to fix it. Any chance you and Elphaba could share a room so I can take the extra?”

Galinda stares. “Share? As in—one room?”

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “You’re together, right? Why are you even in separate rooms?”

Her mouth opens, then shuts again. She folds her arms, buying herself a second. “This wasn’t supposed to be official yet, remember?”

Fiyero’s grin falters into sheepishness as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, right. Sorry again about that.”

She exhales, trying not to look as flustered as she feels. “Yeah.”

Fiyero rocks back on his heels. “So… could you move to hers?”

“Hers? No! There’s only one bed—one bag—I mean—” She waves frantically at the room behind her. “Look at how many bags I’d have to carry over. It makes much more sense for her to move here.”

“Right,” he says and nods once. “So will you call her? Then I’ll go pack my things.”

“Call… yes! Of course, I’ll call her. Because I have her number.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “Just, um, give us an hour? We still need to get ready for the party.”

“Sure. See you later.” He flashes her another grin, winks and strolls off.

Galinda shuts the door, presses her forehead against it, and waits. When no footsteps return, she cracks it open and peeks into the hallway. Clear. She slips out, padding down the corridor and up the stairs to the next floor. Her pulse skips with every creak of the floorboards, as if she’s sneaking toward some forbidden rendezvous instead of her not-actually-girlfriend’s room.

For a moment she wonders where Killyjoy’s disappeared to. She hasn’t seen him since breakfast—perhaps he’s gone back to the woods again. The thought tugs at her more than it should. She shakes it off quickly as she stops in front of Elphaba’s door.

Her hand lifts to knock, but pauses when Elphaba’s voice is already coming from inside.

“Listen, it isn’t—”

Another voice cuts her off, strict and impatient. Galinda can’t make out the words at first, only the tone: family. “…and even on television,” the male voice insists. “A frivolous girl like that—she looks like she’s never worked a day in her life. What would she want with you, except your money?”

Galinda’s breath catches. She doesn’t dare move.

“We’re not—” Elphaba starts, only to be steamrolled again. “You should’ve told us. Instead we have to hear it from a TV spot. Did we deserve that? What were you thinking?”

“I said—”

“How and when did you even meet her?”

Finally, Elphaba’s voice cuts through. “It isn’t real! It’s not what you think. It’s just… for the company, and in a few weeks it’ll be over. And I’m not stupid. Nobody would— ugh… you know what, it doesn’t matter.”

The voice on the other end answers after a beat, softer but edged with scorn. “Then why make a fool of yourself? To lie publicly, to pretend—it’s beneath you. We raised you better than that.”

“Oh, did you now,” Elphaba mutters.

“Fabala. Why?”

“…I can’t tell you that.”

“Because you like this woman?”

Galinda leans in closer to the door without meaning to.

“I just told you it’s fake.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s—”

A sudden bark erupts down the hallway. Galinda jolts, nearly shrieking out loud. Her hand flies to her mouth. Killyjoy, naturally, has the worst timing in the world.

She bolts down the hallway as quietly as she can manage and crouches beside the dog. “You really have to work on your entrances.” He only pants at her, pleased with himself.

Behind her, the door creaks open. She straightens in a rush, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. Elphaba steps out, fastening the last buttons of her shirt which isn’t black, for once, but a deep plum that actually suits her, Galinda thinks.

“What are you doing here already?” Elphaba asks, eyes narrowing slightly.

Galinda flips her hair back and adopts her most innocent smile, as if she hasn’t just been eavesdropping and hearing what she’s heard. “Just—hold on. Are you actually putting effort into your outfit for the party?”

Elphaba finishes her last button with a huff. “Try not to faint. Do you need anything, or…?”

Galinda rolls her eyes. Charming as ever. “Two things,” she says, stepping closer with her nose tipped up like she’s running the show. “Your number. And you have to move to my room.”

“Gee, you don’t waste time, do you? Planning our marriage next?”

“Fiyero’s heating broke, and he asked for one of our rooms. Unless you’ve got a good excuse as to why we as a couple can’t share a room?”

“…You’re a terrible snorer?”

Galinda clicks her tongue, offended, and flicks her hand to shoo Elphaba out of the doorway. Honestly, why does she never simply invite her in, instead of making her hover like some vampire?

Elphaba rolls her eyes but steps aside, letting her and Killyjoy in. “This just gets better and better. I really don’t want—” She stops herself, then shakes her head. “Fine. But don’t expect me to like sharing a room with you.”

“Lucky for both of us, it’s just one night.”

Killyjoy yawns loudly, as if to say finally, can we move on?

Galinda sighs. Even the dog’s judging them now. She digs into her purse, pulls out her phone, and holds it out. “Now give me your number.”

Elphaba blinks a few times before finally taking the phone, typing, and handing it back. “Great.” Galinda pauses, thumbs ready. “Under what name should I save you?”

“Elph…aba?”

“If this is supposed to be authentic, you need a nickname. Something unique, warm and cute.”

Elphaba’s expression flattens. “Cute. Right.”

Galinda ignores her. “What about… Ellie?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fabby?”

That earns her a death stare.

“Fine. Elphie it is then.” She dials the number and Elphaba’s phone buzzes once. “Now you can put me in yours. And don’t even think about writing ‘Galinda Upland’.”

“I don’t do nicknames.”

Galinda tilts her head, watching as Elphaba reluctantly types. “You do when it’s me,” she says, trying to angle a look at the screen before Elphaba shields it with her hand.

“What are you—did you just type ‘Blonde’?”

Elphaba locks the screen. “Yup.”

“That’s insulting. That’s reductive. That’s— change it this instant!”

Elphaba puts the phone back on the desk. “Relax. It’s temporary until something better comes up. Not like anyone’s going to see it anyway.”

“Well, I saw it!”

“Yes, because you’re constitutionally incapable of minding your own business.”

Galinda huffs. “Ugh, I have no time for this. I still have to get ready for the party. Don’t even think about showing up before an hour, or you’ll ruin everything.” She turns on her heel toward the door when Elphaba’s voice stops her.

“Wait.”

“What now?”

Elphaba reaches over and opens the drawer, picks up a folded sheet of paper, and holds it out. “Here.”

Galinda blinks at it before taking it. “Is this—?”

“Your silly facts sheet, yes.” Elphaba says, matter-of-fact.

Killyjoy lifts his head with a curious bark.

Galinda sighs, already turning for the door. “You’re right, Killyjoy. Miracles do happen,” she says as she tucks the paper neatly under her arm and leaves.

The moment she hears the lock click shut behind her, though, she can’t resist. She slips the paper into her hands, unfolds it, and casts one quick glance over her shoulder. Killyjoy trots at her side and lets out a soft whimper.

“Oh, don’t be so judgey,” Galinda mutters, clutching the page a little closer as her eyes skim the lines.

Favorite flower: …Do trees count?

Favorite drink: Coffee. Black.

Biggest weakness: Impatience

Strengths: Apparently sarcasm?

Favorite side to be photographed from: None. Don’t point a camera at me.

Favorite topic of conversation: Books or anything that isn’t small talk

Ideal vacation spot: Somewhere quiet, no people

Pet peeve: Pointless questions

Romantic gesture of choice: Not filling out forms like this

Astrological sign: You’re joking?

Birthday: May 1^st

Hobbies: Reading, walks, photography

Favorite food: Roasted potatoes, vegetables, anything that isn’t dead on the plate

Least favorite food: Meat, all kinds. Mushrooms too, don’t ask why

Biggest fear: This questionnaire never ending… not being heard when it matters

Final comment: Yes, I argue too much. Consider this proof.

Galinda exhales and folds the sheet carefully, as if it might bite. “Well. That was a waste of time.” But Killyjoy cocks his head as if he doesn’t fully believe her. 

Something about the way Elphaba reaches out to touch Fiyero’s arm while they’re both laughing doesn’t sit right with Galinda. Her coworkers are standing right there, watching them flirt as if she’d ceased to exist the moment she left the group to get drinks. Absolutely not. She is not going to let anyone think she’s the kind of partner who fades into the wallpaper while her girlfriend makes eyes at someone else. No, no. Fake dating or not, Galinda is the kind of partner who makes the other one forget anyone else even exists. And Elphaba really should know better than to be handing out heart eyes like that.

This will not do.

Glass clicks against the wood behind her. “There you go, miss,” the bartender says.

Galinda barely glances as she takes the two bottles in one hand. Cocktails in bottles, of all things—honestly, why did they even bother hiring a bartender?

She rolls her shoulders, tilts her head until her neck pops, and strides back. Fiyero has rudely taken her place in the circle, so Galinda slips behind Elphaba and rests her free hand on her waist. The silly thing goes stiff as a board, but at least she has the good sense to cover it by muttering, “Oz, you scared me.”

Fiyero chuckles, though it really isn’t that funny. Galinda, for once, comes up empty and just hands Elphaba a bottle.

Fiyero’s eyes flick between them, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to steal your girl.”

Her fingers tighten on Elphaba’s side. “What?” The music is quite loud.

He leans closer. “Your space. This was yours, right?”

“That’s all right. We have to go feed Killyjoy anyway,” Galinda says and gives Elphaba a little squeeze and is gratified when she takes the cue and turns with her.

When she reaches for her hand, a little rush of relief surprises her as Elphaba actually laces their fingers together first this time. She’s playing the role. Which is… good. Professionally good. Something to feel relieved about.

Out in the hallway, as soon as they’re out of sight, Elphaba slips her hand free again though, leaving Galinda to fuss restlessly with the folds of her skirt.

“So,” she says at last, just to fill the silence before it grows too loaded, “do you think they have actual dog food here somewhere?”

Elphaba looks over, brow raised. “Are we just ignoring the fact that you nearly crushed my rib in front of your ex?”

“I did no such thing,” Galinda huffs. “Besides, you were laughing like you’d known him for years. What was I supposed to do, just… let you two bond over your little jokes while my coworkers wonder if I’ve been forgotten already?”

Elphaba gives her a flat look. “Yes, because clearly I was seconds away from running off into the sunset with him.”

“Exactly!” Galinda fires back. “And what would people think of me then? Tragic, deserted, humiliated—”

“—overdramatic?” Elphaba cuts in.

They’ve come to a full stop in the corridor, squared off like they’re about to duel, when Killyjoy trots up, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He plops down between them, looking expectantly from one to the other.

Galinda gasps and drops to her knees. “Oh, darling! We were just talking about you.” She scratches behind his ears with all the adoration she can muster, letting the dog soak up the tension instead of Elphaba.

But when she glances up, that menace of a woman isn’t looking at the dog. “Galinda,” she says quietly, “why are we here?”

“What do you mean?” Galinda says, straightening too fast.

Elphaba only takes a long sip from her bottle, eyes steady on her the whole time.

Galinda groans and takes an equally long sip of her own. “Ugh, fine. Obviously I couldn’t tell you in front of the others to stop flirting without looking like I’ve got you on a leash, could I? But I really don’t think we should, uh… do that.”

Elphaba tips her bottle toward her in a mock toast. “Noted. I’ll try to contain my overwhelming charm.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me too.”

Galinda rolls her eyes and crouches down to Killyjoy, scratching under his chin. “Don’t ever let yourself get stuck in a fake relationship with someone like her,” she whispers.

Killyjoy tilts his head, then lets out a single bark and lolls his tongue.

“What was that?” Elphaba asks.

“Nothing,” Galinda says brightly, winking at the dog. She gives him another affectionate scratch. “Will you help me get food for him?”

“If I must.”

Galinda springs back up—only to freeze at the sight of Boq at the end of the corridor, grinning from ear to ear with his camera held steady. “Oz, why are you always recording people just like that?” she demands, her hand flying to smooth her skirt and hair.

She glances sideways to Elphaba who closes her eyes, mutters something under her breath, and takes another long drink.

Boq lowers the camera and beams at them. “Because I’m supposed to capture the candid moments! Between team members, between guests—those natural little glimpses. Everyone loves them.”

Galinda sighs, but is recovering her smile quickly. “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of those at the party.”

He just nods enthusiastically as he walks closer. “Right, right, of course,” he says, grinning at them both like he’s stumbled onto gold. Then he just… stops. Standing there. Smiling at Galinda.

The silence stretches until Elphaba says flatly, “She meant you can leave now.”

Boq clears his throat, blushes, and nods. “Oh—right, yes, of course. I’ll—” He gestures vaguely with his camera and points down the hall. “I’ll just… be over there.” And promptly catches his foot on the strap dangling from his camera. He stumbles forward, nearly colliding with the wall, then scurries off with his ears red. Killyjoy huffs a short, sharp bark after him.

“Having a crush looks fairly stupid on some people,” Elphaba says as she watches him go.  

Galinda gasps, swatting her arm. “Shush!”

Elphaba only shrugs.

“You can’t just say that about people—especially not when they’re close enough to hear!”

“I just did.”

“You’re terribly rude, did you know?”

“Are you really defending a guy who nearly tripped over his own camera strap, because he couldn’t take his eyes off you?”

“Well, at least he looks convincing.”

“Convincing at what? Falling on his face?”

“At being smitten.”

Elphaba snorts. “If that’s the standard, you’d better cancel this whole thing now. I’ll never look that stupid for anybody. That part seems more your style.”

Galinda scoffs. “Oh please. As if I’d ever look like an idiot. Least of all for you.”

“Good. Tragedy averted.”

“Yes, we can all breathe easy now.” Galinda, pleased with herself, spins on her heel to march ahead—only to nearly collide with a passing waiter. She squeaks, stumbling sideways, and Elphaba catches her by the elbow without even looking.

The waiter mutters a polite “Pardon me,” but Galinda is already flustered, waves her hand vaguely. “No, no, I’m terribly sorry, really.” She flashes him an apologetic, if slightly crooked, smile until he moves on.

Then she turns back, cheeks pink, pointing a warning finger between Elphaba and Killyjoy. “Not a single word from either of you.”

Elphaba’s mouth twitches. Killyjoy just wags his tail.

When they walk back into the hall, it is much more crowded and livelier than when they left it, and it takes less than five seconds for Galinda to realize that everyone is watching them. Not discreetly, either—coworkers nudge each other, whisper, and then smile too sweetly when she glances their way. A brand-new couple, and a peculiar one like them at that, is the evening’s entertainment, of course.

For the hundredth time, she thinks about telling Oscar to call it all off. Just march over and declare she’ll work unpaid hours until she withers if it means she can stop pretending. Because Elphaba… is Elphaba. She doesn’t seem to possess the social compass of etiquette and manners that civilized people have. She barely contains her annoyance when anyone asks her a question, never mind when Morrible and Diggs themselves come over, saying what a perfect image it would make for the company montage if the Emerald Press’s new favorite couple were seen dancing.

Elphaba only stares at them for a long moment before replying, “I don’t dance. Not here, not anywhere, not even in my own nightmares.”

Galinda nearly chokes on her drink. Honestly, she might as well have told them to go hang themselves.

Morrible bursts into delighted laughter, patting Elphaba’s shoulder. “Oh, Miss Thropp, you are too much!”

But Diggs isn’t laughing. He fixes Elphaba with a glare, though he doesn’t say a word.

Galinda jumps in with a laugh of her own, nudging Elphaba’s arm. “What she means, of course, is that she’s dreadfully shy about dancing. Isn’t that right, darling?” She widens her eyes at Elphaba, willing her to agree. “But one never knows when she’ll surprise us all.”

That earns a fresh round of chuckles from Morrible, at least.

“Yes, any moment now I’ll twirl like a prima ballerina. Brace yourselves,” Elphaba says.

As if on cue, Boq appears at the edge of the circle, camera in hand like he’s been summoned by fate.

Diggs claps his hands together, his grin sharp. “Well, Miss Thropp, it seems the moment has arrived.”

Elphaba’s mouth opens—Galinda can practically hear the protest about to come out—but she cuts in first, grabbing her sleeve with both hands. “Please, Elphie,” she says sweetly, pouting up at her in the way that usually works like a charm on absolutely anyone. “One tiny dance? Just for me?”

Elphaba stares down at her like she’s taken leave of her senses.

Fine. The hard way it is. She tightens her grip, snatches Elphaba’s hand, and pulls her firmly toward the dance floor with more force than grace. Then she spins them around to face each other and plants both hands on Elphaba’s shoulders, stretching up just enough to whisper into her ear, “Please don’t ruin this. It’s just one dance.”

Elphaba’s jaw tightens, but she mutters, “You owe me for this.” And then her hands settle—awkwardly—at Galinda’s waist. She sways stiffly, willing it to look natural when it feels anything but.

Boq orbits them like an overeager moon, camera moving in his hands as he looks for the perfect angle. Galinda tries to avoid looking, but her eyes flick anyway—and every time they do, he grins wider, like he’s caught something rare on film.

Someone jostles past, shoulder-checking Boq, who lurches sideways straight into her. She yelps, teetering back, but Elphaba’s grip tightens instantly, catching her before she can stumble further. Again. And now she’s far too close, heat prickling up her neck, choking out something that sounds nothing like normal laughter.

“That’s the second time I’ve had to catch you tonight,” Elphaba says, dry as ever.

Galinda hums and straightens quickly, only to realize Elphaba hasn’t actually let go yet. The space between them feels suddenly close, uncomfortably so, like the room itself has shrunk, forcing them into something that could, if one were generous, be called a slow dance. Her pulse stutters, but that’s bound to happen when half the room is staring, the music pounding, and Elphaba suddenly insisting on holding her like that.

So Galinda tips her chin higher and pretends it’s all perfectly normal while silently cursing everyone in the room, the alcohol, and the inconvenient necessity of Elphaba’s proximity.

As the song is fading out, Boq lowers his camera just long enough to sigh dreamily. “This looks like the part in the movies where they kiss.”

Both women jolt as if burned, springing a full step apart. Galinda laughs, the sound thin and unconvincing as her face goes hot. “Oh no, no, no. We don’t do that.” Boq tilts his head, curious, blinking at her a few times. Realizing her mistake, she flails for correction. “I mean—we do! Obviously we kiss a lot! Can’t get enough of each other, really—”

“Not in public,” Elphaba cuts in.

Their eyes meet for the briefest moment and Galinda bobs her head fast. “Exactly! Not in public. Never in public. Not like that. We’re very principled that way.”

Boq looks almost touched. “That’s so sweet.”

Elphaba arches a brow. “Almost as sweet as not staring like a lovesick puppy.”

Galinda’s eyes fly wide. “Elphaba!”

But Elphaba has already thrown her hands up and stalked off the dance floor, cutting through the crowd without looking back.

Boq blinks after her, then brightens as if he’s cracked some great mystery. “Elphie’s jealous!”

Galinda startles. “What?” But even as she says it, her gaze betrays her, skimming the crowd for a flash of plum and dark hair. Really?

Boq shakes his head in wonder, grinning. “Never thought I’d see the day. But never say never, right?”

She waves him off but she’s scanning the room again despite herself. Really. Imagine that.

Chapter Text

There is something very intimate about sleeping in the same room with another person. Not necessarily in the same bed—even just closing your eyes and letting your defenseless, drooling, unconscious self sprawl within arm’s reach of somebody else. It requires trust. The sort of trust Galinda does not, under any circumstances, extend to someone she has only just met.

She is sure she won’t get a second of sleep tonight.

At the end of her bed, Killyjoy is already sprawled across the foot of the mattress, chin on his paws, tail giving the occasional sleepy thump. Galinda, tucked beneath the covers, listens to the water running in the bathroom and thinks she should have told Fiyero she is a terrible snorer, after all. Not that he would know—she never once stayed over at his place, and he never stayed at hers. She hardly ever invited him to begin with. Something about him lingering in her apartment always gave her an inexplicable ick, as if he disturbed the chi of the whole space.

He never pressed the issue, but she knows it must have been one of the reasons he broke up with her. One of the reasons she would have broken up with him—eventually. She keeps telling herself that. She would have. Definitely. Well… probably not.

The problem was that it was too easy to perform being the picture of perfection. Fiyero is a literal prince, her parents adored him, the world envied them, and they made a stunning couple together—admiration following them like a spotlight. For a while, Galinda even thought she might learn to love him one day. But being dazzling wasn’t the same as being happy. She wasn’t miserable with him, exactly, but she wasn’t—

The bathroom door opens and Elphaba emerges in what is, without a doubt, the most boring, most buttoned up nightwear Galinda has ever seen. Which, to her relief, is perfect. Boring is perfect. And it’s perfect because… because…

“Did you set the alarm, or should I?” Elphaba asks, shoving her folded clothes into her tiny bag.

Galinda watches her with a mixture of fascination and horror. What a strange notion, to think that they’re about to sleep and wake up together like a real couple. Well, a real couple with two beds and an invisible wall of mutual dislike between them. But still.

She smooths down her blanket unnecessarily. “I didn’t. You can do it, if you don’t mind.” Her voice comes out a touch higher than she remembered it being.

Elphaba only nods and reaches up to tug the braid loose from her hair. It falls over her shoulders in a captivating dark curtain. Her pajamas really are so plain, Galinda thinks—just dark blue cotton, shapeless in cut, the sleeves a little too long, the trousers dragging on the floor as if she had borrowed them from someone even taller.

Elphaba switches off the lamp, crosses the room with quiet steps, and lies down in her own bed. And Galinda… is suddenly hyperaware of every sound in the room—the rustle of sheets, the creak of the mattress, the faint sigh Elphaba lets out as she settles. It feels absurdly intimate, this synchronized lying-down business. Isn’t it remarkable how easily two people can start resembling a couple just by closing their eyes at the same time?

Killyjoy sighs and shifts in his sleep, his paws twitching against her ankle. She turns around to face away from Elphaba and huffs. Should she say good night or just wait for sleep that will never come? Obviously the latter.

Of course Elphaba doesn’t say anything. She’s probably asleep already. People like her just lie down and—poof—out like a light, while she herself is left catastrophizing about appropriate good-night procedures. Ugh.

“Are you planning to sigh all night?” Elphaba’s voice drifts across the dark.

Galinda nearly jumps and turns around immediately. “It’s been like two seconds.”

“Remarkable how much noise you can fit into two seconds.”

“Maybe you’re just extremely sensitive?”

“Maybe you’re just extremely loud.”

“Well, sorry for having functioning lungs.”

“…Congratulations?”

Galinda huffs, reaches across the nightstand, and flicks the lamp back on. “You know, most people say good night or something at this point.”

Elphaba squints against the sudden light. “Most people also value silence and darkness when they want to sleep.” She switches the lamp off again.

“Well, not everyone falls asleep like a robot being powered down.”

“Some of us have discipline.”

“Some of us have insomnia.”

“Some of us cause insomnia.”

Click. Light floods the room. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Now turn the light off.”

“Oz, if there were any awards for the least polite person alive, you’d win in a landslide.”

Click. Darkness. “Finally, a title I can live with.”

Galinda forcefully turns her back toward Elphaba again. “I hope you dream badly.”

“Already am.”

Galinda clutches her blanket, glaring into the dark. Unbelievable. This is going to be a tormented night, she’s certain of it. Every sound will remind her she isn’t alone, every movement will test her patience, every breath will—

Well, never mind. She’ll just lie here, completely annoyed, proving a point to the universe. Wide awake.

…

Her eyelids do feel a little heavy, though, and they soon start to dip. She lets them close. Just for a moment.

The ringtone shrieks her awake. Galinda flails an arm, nearly decapitates the lamp, and manages to grab the phone.

“What?” she mumbles as she notices the bed beside hers is empty.

“Is this really an adequate way to answer the phone these days?”

She sits up, rubbing her eyes. Killyjoy is gone too. “Mother. No, I’m sorry, it’s just—” she squints at the clock showing 7:12 a.m., “—it’s practically the middle of the night?”

“Nonsense. Now listen, your father and I are free next Saturday. Why don’t you and your woman come over for dinner and proper introductions?”

Galinda rubs her temple. Of course Larena couldn’t wait until she called about this. “I’d have to ask Elphaba when would be good for her.”

“Well then ask her.”

“She’s not here,” Galinda blurts. “She’s… out for a jog.” Why does she say that? Why?

“Jogging? At this hour?”

“Yes,” Galinda insists, scrambling. “She’s very dedicated. She—she does marathons. Uphill.”

“How very disciplined,” Larena says, clearly impressed. “Maybe you could learn something from her.”

Galinda’s face twists into something extremely unimpressed. That’s what she gets for inventing Uphill Elphaba.

“At least give me something to work with. Does she have any food preferences?”

Galinda frowns and hums, pretending to think when the answer pops out immediately. “She doesn’t eat meat. And she hates mushrooms.” See, Elphaba? The fact sheet was a genius idea.

There’s a beat of silence while Larena digests this. “Mm. What does that leave, lettuce?”

“Plenty, actually,” Galinda says somewhat defensively. “Grains and… things.”

“We’ll have the cook sort it out.”

Groaning, Galinda yanks the blanket over her head.

“Still there, darling?”

“Yes, still here,” she mutters into the fabric, sounding like she’s speaking from inside a cave. She pulls the blanket back down with a huff—

—just in time to see the door open.

Elphaba steps in from the hallway, Killyjoy trotting loyally at her heel. She’s giving her an irritated look. What else is new.

“You know,” she says, nudging the door shut with her shoulder, “if you want to have a dog, you have to take responsibility—”

Galinda mimes zipping her lips and points desperately at the phone. Mother, she mouths.

Elphaba pauses and looks like she doesn’t know what to do with that information, while Killyjoy pads over to Galinda’s bed and plants his front paws squarely on the mattress, demanding attention.

“Who was that?” Larena’s voice cuts in. “Oh, is she back? Ask her now, dear. Ask her!”

Galinda swallows. “Oh, well—now’s not really the best time. She just came in, she’s… she’s winded from her jog—”

Elphaba’s eyebrows shoot up. Jog? she mouths.

“—and she really needs water, lots of water. Rehydration is vital for athletes, you must know.”

Elphaba only stares at her, probably questioning whether they inhabit the same reality.

Larena sniffs. “What is this nonsense? Put her on at once.”

Galinda glances at Killyjoy, then back at Elphaba and, with a miserable sigh, lowers the phone and mutters, “She wants to speak with you.”

Elphaba immediately shakes her head. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not talking to your mother.”

“You have to.”

“I really don’t.”

Galinda covers the microphone with her hand, hissing, “You’re supposed to be my girlfriend, remember?”

“Girlfriend, not hostage negotiator.”

“Same difference. Now take the phone.”

Killyjoy barks like he agrees, his tail slapping against the bedframe.

Galinda jabs the phone at Elphaba. “Just say you’re busy. Too busy. The busiest person alive. That’s all.”

Elphaba folds her arms, clearly unimpressed.

“Please,” Galinda begs. “Or I’ll die of embarrassment right here on the spot. Is that what you want?”

Elphaba lets out a long-suffering sigh, then finally takes the phone like it weighs a hundred pounds. “Hello, Mrs. Upland… Yes, that's me.” Her eyes flick to Galinda, sharp as knives. “…Next Saturday?” She hesitates. “That may not be possible—” She stops, listening. “…All day? Well, no, I— Uphill marathons?” She glances at Galinda again, silently asking what the hell?

Galinda waves a hand and gestures for her to just play along.

“…I understand. But my schedule is—” Elphaba’s mouth pulls into a tight line. “Yes, I do own clothing.”

Galinda muffles a groan into her pillow.

“I see. Well… Then... Saturday it is.” Elphaba closes her eyes briefly. “Thank you. Goodbye.” She taps the call ended and calmly hands the mobile back. “We have a dinner date on Saturday.”

“You were supposed to say you didn’t have time!”

“I tried!”

Galinda flops back onto her pillow like a martyr. “Wonderful.”

“Glad you think so.”

“Oh, I don’t. I think it’s fairly catastrophic.”

Elphaba reaches down to scratch Killyjoy’s ears. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“Your poor dog was about to burst while you were comatose. I had half a mind to check for a pulse.”

Galinda blinks at her. That can’t be right. She never sleeps that deeply with someone else in the room—which is why she always tried to avoid it. The whole point of skipping sleepovers was to keep from lying awake all night, hyperaware of another person’s breathing, shuffling, existing. And yet, against all odds, she slept—like the dead, apparently—with Elphaba in the room.

Well. She must have been utterly exhausted. The party, all the pretending, all the—ugh—togetherness. At least there will be a few blissful days without Elphaba before the disaster that will be dinner with her parents and then, of course, the imminent horror: two full weeks in Munchkinland, stuck working with her.

“He’s hungry now, you should get him something. I’ll take a shower in the meantime,” Elphaba says, already turning away.

“Wha—But I can’t! Not like this!” Galinda springs out of bed to prove her point, jabbing one finger at her hair and another at her nightgown.

Elphaba actually pauses to look her over, which feels—strange. Then she shrugs. “It’s not that bad. And you can get dressed, can’t you? As I was saying, if you want to keep a dog—or any pet—you need to act like a responsible person.”

“I am a responsible person.”

“Well, then.” Elphaba gestures toward the door. “What are you waiting for?”

Goodness, must she always explain the obvious? “It simply doesn’t do to go out into the world un-styled. I’m not even wearing makeup.”

“If I survived, you will too.”

“But you’re… you’re different.” The words come out more serious than she means.

Elphaba huffs. “No kidding.”

“I meant—you’re never wearing any makeup! And you… you don’t care what people think of you.” But there’s something in the way Elphaba averts her eyes just for a moment that makes Galinda realize she has it wrong. She does care. She just doesn’t let anyone see it. “Oh.”

The sound slips out before she can stop it, small and startled, like she’s glimpsed a piece of her she wasn’t supposed to.

Elphaba straightens, the flicker of something gone as quickly as it came. “All right. This one time, I’ll go feed Killyjoy. Strictly for his sake. Wouldn’t want the poor creature to starve while you’re… perfecting your hair or something.” And with that, she walks out, only glancing over her shoulder to call for the dog, who happily bounds after her.

Galinda stays rooted for a moment, still a little thrown. For all her sharp edges, Elphaba was suddenly less untouchable, if only for a second, and she isn’t sure if that makes things better or worse. Then she gives her head a brisk shake and marches to her luggage to pull together an outfit for the day.

As she lays things out, her eye catches something on Elphaba’s neatly made bed: the train ticket for the ride back. Curious, she fishes her own from her bag to compare.

Different booths. Not even the same car this time.

Galinda exhales in relief. She’ll have her peace. No sniping, no glaring, no long limbs invading her space. Peace. Absolute peace.

It’s great.

The best possible outcome.

This is great.

This is awful, Galinda thinks as she squeezes her way through the packed train, mumbling apologies for the hundredth time after catching someone with her elbow. Apparently half of Oz decided to take this very train today. She glances down at Killyjoy, who looks just as put out by the crowd as she feels. Of course she has him with her—because what kind of person would leave him behind at the fairgrounds? Let him go live alone in the woods again? No, no. Obviously she decided to take him home.

So here she is, clutching a makeshift leash she fashioned out of a silk scarf (hardly practical, but at least chic), trying to keep him from vanishing between all the people and the occasional other dog.

Elphaba wasn’t of much help, naturally. She gave her a lecture earlier at the station about the “proper way to handle a dog,” as if Galinda didn’t already know. She’d have to walk him in every kind of weather, keep him on a feeding routine, et cetera, et cetera—ugh.

Their goodbye had been exactly as stiff and awkward as she expected. As the train arrived, Elphaba gave the tiniest of waves and said, “See you on Saturday then.”

“Yeah,” Galinda mirrored the wave, “have a good trip.”

And then they just… stood there, looking at each other for no apparent reason, until the train made a loud, hissing noise and they both nearly jumped. Elphaba crouched, patted Killyjoy’s head once, briskly, and then turned and left.

Which leaves Galinda here, trying to find her booth while half the passengers of Oz glare at her like she’s personally responsible for the overcrowding. But there are other looks too—oh, those damn other looks. Or maybe she’s imagining them. She’s not entirely sure. But still. It was one thing to be in a fake relationship with a green woman back in their little fair-world bubble. It’s another thing entirely to be out here in the wild. Alone. At least with Elphaba, she could hide behind all that attitude. But alas.

She finally finds her booth, slides the door open, and is greeted by an elderly woman. The booth is smaller than the last one, and thank Oz, this train has its own wagon for luggage—hers would never have squeezed into this tiny space. Killyjoy trots in first, springing up onto the opposite seat and plops down with a satisfied huff. The lady blinks at him in surprise, then smiles as though she doesn’t mind sharing her booth with a dog at all.

Galinda settles into the seat with a sigh. At least it’s just one friendly-looking woman this time, not... Elphaba. Plus, the woman looks really old. The type who immediately falls asleep during commercial breaks, Galinda assumes. She didn’t watch the spot, surely.

But then… Lurline, why does she keep looking at her?

Galinda drums her fingers against her knee, then whips out her phone to scroll for something—anything—to look occupied.

“Excuse me, miss?” the old lady asks.

And there it is, Galinda thinks. She can practically hear her saying, Are you the homosexual from the Emerald Press? already. Maybe she could just ignore her. Or pretend to receive a call. Or drop to the floor and play dead—

“Miss?”

Galinda snaps her head up and pastes on her brightest, fakest smile. “Yes?”

The old lady leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s about to share a state secret. “Do you know if they serve any tea or coffee specialties on this train, or is it still just the simple sad coffee these days?”

Just coffee. Glorious, harmless coffee. “Oh, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?” she says, instantly animated. “Train coffee could really use more—”

“Flourish?” the woman offers.

Galinda gasps, delighted. “Yes! Exactly! A little flourish. Maybe some garnish?”

The woman nods solemnly. “Presentation matters.”

Galinda beams. “Finally! Someone who understands. See, that is exactly what I’ve been saying, but my…” She freezes. What is Elphaba to her, exactly? Not her girlfriend—not in front of this sweet, wrinkled stranger. Not her friend either, Oz forbid. “…my coworker—she sees it differently.”

Next to her, Killyjoy lets out a soft whine, like he’s offended at being left out of the conversation. Galinda hushes him with a quick pat.

The woman perks up, kindly curious. “And where do you work, dear?”

Galinda freezes. “We’re…” Her eyes dart anywhere but the woman’s face and land just above her head. A framed little map of Oz hangs there, neat and quaint against the wooden wall. “We’re map testers,” she blurts. “Yes. We test maps. Someone has to walk the routes, you know.”

The woman brightens, as though this is the most reasonable profession she’s ever heard of. “How marvelous. And how does one test a map, exactly?”

“Well, you… walk from one dot to another, and if you arrive at the second dot, then the map is correct.”

The woman clasps her hands, obviously delighted. “My, that sounds really important.”

“Oh, it is. Critical, really. Without us, people could be wandering off cliffs left and right.”

The woman nods gravely, as though Galinda has just described the noblest profession in all of Oz, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to burst out laughing. She and Elphaba. Heroes of cartography.

She can practically see it: Elphaba striding several paces ahead, scowling at the underbrush, stopping every few minutes to lecture her on the native properties of moss or the erosion patterns of some entirely unremarkable rock. Galinda would roll her eyes, of course, but maybe she’d throw herself into a swoon at the sight of a dandelion, declaring it a rare exotic bloom, just to see Elphaba’s lecture turn into laughter. Not the dry little huff she usually gives, but a real laugh. The kind that might flash that tiny gap between her teeth.

Killyjoy stoops his nose once against her arm. Instinctively, Galinda pats him, and he promptly rests his head on her thigh. For one absurd moment, she sees the three of them out in the world together, testing maps. She blinks and quickly shakes the thought off. Absolutely not.

“What’s his name?” the woman asks.

“Uh, Killyjoy,” Galinda says quietly. It really is a terrible name. Thank you, Elphaba.

“Pardon?”

“Killyjoy,” she repeats not any louder.

“Oh! Billy-Boy. How darling.”

Galinda exhales through her nose. “Close enough.”

The train ride gets boring fast. First the old lady drifts off, snoring like a sawmill. Then Killyjoy joins in, snoring right along with her. And Galinda—left with the precious peace she thought she wanted—discovers that peace, actually, is dreadfully, hideously boring.

She texts Pfannee and Shenshen and gets up to date with the newest gossip from home. She deflects every question about Elphaba by promising she’ll tell the whole story when they meet. Then she scrolls through her apps, loses interest soon, and flips the phone around on her thigh. For a while she just stares out the window at houses, fields, and trees rushing by.

Then she picks it up again and opens the text app. Her thumb hovers.

Elphie.

It’s ridiculous how strange it feels to see the name there, nestled between friends and family members, like they were close. Like they’d chosen that nickname themselves in some fit of affection, instead of Galinda borrowing it from Boq, of all people, and typing it in because she couldn’t think of anything better.

She clicks on new message. Types, hi. Stares at it. Deletes it. Tries again: How’s life in your booth? Deletes that too.

Killyjoy whines in his sleep, and she snaps a quick photo of him. For a second, her eyes linger on the send button, and she’s imagining Elphaba’s reaction. Then, with a grimace, she locks the phone instead.