Chapter Text
When Glinda awoke the next day, the feeling of her wife still very present behind her, she arrived at a realization.
It was, frankly, a shame it had taken her this long.
She was better than this.
There was something else she could do other than crying herself to a pitiful sleep. An alternative that brought her such satisfaction that she couldn't sit still any longer - kicking the covers back, getting to her feet with purposeful carelessness to Elphaba's sleep.
“Mm.”
Emerald features creased with displeasure at being disturbed so abruptly.
“I need to get ready for the day,” Glinda announced, already moving.
Elphaba dragged a gloved hand over her eyes, squinting upward in compensation for her absent spectacles. "Now?"
“Yes, you are making me late.”
“Couldn’t we-” Elphaba pushed herself upright, the sheets slipping down. “Glinda, I’m-”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
Because she knew that the moment Elphaba began to explain, to justify, to soften what had been said the night before, it would be over. Glinda would yield, as she always did where Elphaba was concerned. She would forgive, rationalize, perhaps even apologize in return.
And that would not do.
Not this time.
She was hurt.
Deeply so.
And Elphaba needed to understand that. Feel it. Suffer from it, perhaps, just a little.
A slow breath.
"Alright."
Rising from the bed Elphaba looked at Glinda - directly - and oh, damn her entirely for those eyes!
Glinda turned at once and made for the door. She would not be undone so easily.
She pulled it open and stepped aside, gesturing - graciously - for Elphaba to pass, her gaze fixed somewhere just below her shoulder.
Another audible breath of dissatisfaction followed as Elphaba moved past her.
"I'll wait in the sunroom. For breakfast."
Glinda gave a small, noncommittal nod.
She did not look up.
The door closed between them with a quiet sound.
And then - savouring the warm, deeply gratifying rush of it - she turned the lock.
Yes.
Much better than crying.
Glinda, open the door. - E.
You cannot be serious. We need to talk. - E.
Very funny, Glinda. I take your point. You may come out now, please. - E.
I won't stop knocking on this door until you stop this nonsense. - E.
Who is the one being immature now? - E.
I'm sorry, that was unnecessary.
You are not being immature. I was immature when I did this to you. So, I deserve this. You are right.
You are always right, as a matter of fact. And I am always wrong.
You may frame this letter and put it on the wall if you so wish. To never let me forget.
- E.
You are aware that I could simply blast this door open with magic, yes?
I won't, because I am respecting your space. But I could.
Is that what you want? Some dramatic scene from one of your fantasies?
I am beginning to suspect this is a test.
And I fear I am failing it spectacularly.
- E.
Tell me what you want from me.
If you wish for me to get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness, I will. If you wish to yell at me, please do. If there is any other form of penance that isn't this, I would greatly prefer it.
It is agonising not hearing from you.
Though I believe that is rather the point.
It's working. I'll give you that.
- E.
Dulcibear tells me you didn't let Dr. Fenra in yesterday.
She needs to examine you, Glinda. Your shoulder should be fully healed by now, but that requires actually allowing someone to look at it. I've asked her to come back today.
Don't make it a wasted effort. She has nothing to do with any of this.
An improperly treated wound of that nature can reopen.
And then it becomes infected.
And then the infection spreads.
And then you die.
It’s true, I’ve read about it.
So when she knocks on your door this afternoon, you will let her in.
Yes?
- E.
I have a proposal.
Come out of your rooms and I will let you select one punishment from that list of yours. The one regarding my father. You may even be the one to carry it out personally. Pull the trigger, throw the brick, or whatever else you had in mind. I won't interfere.
I feel this is a generous offer.
- E.
I spoke with Minister Pembleton this morning. We will not revisit the matter of succession until you decide to rejoin the world. He is, I should warn you, quite cross with me over it. I told him the feeling was mutual.
I still believe you are the better choice. I don't know whether saying so will make you angrier with me, but I find I cannot lie to you. We can discuss it properly, when you are ready.
- E.
I owe you an apology that is better than the ones I have already attempted.
What I said was wrong. Simply, plainly wrong. I knew it the moment it left my mouth, which did not stop me from saying it, and that is something I will have to account for.
You are nothing like him. You are so entirely unlike him that the comparison is completely absurd. I can see that clearly now, from this side of it, when I am not in the middle of a fight and looking for something sharp to say. You are the only person I have ever wanted near me. If you bore even a passing resemblance to him, this letter would not exist.
I can already hear what you would say in response: then why say it at all?
I wish I had a more conclusive explanation. The most honest answer I can give is that I don't have good examples to draw from when things go badly. My mind returns, without my permission, to those rooms, those arguments, because for a very long time, that was all I knew of conflict. It is not an excuse. I know it isn't. But it is the truth.
I am also not going to pretend I had no intention of hurting you. I did. I felt like you were dismissing my suggestion entirely and I lost my composure, choosing the most precise thing I could find. I'm not proud of it.
There isn't much else to say, I think. Unless you have questions I've failed to anticipate. Knowing you, there may be several.
- E.
Your parents have written again. I know you asked them not to come while the city was in disarray, but things have settled considerably. I could send our own guards to escort them, if that would ease your mind.
I think it would be good for you to have some company. I do not like the idea of you being alone in there. I know Milla has been bringing you meals, but still.
You were not made to be alone, my sweet.
- E.
Something embarrassing occurred this morning and I find, against my better judgment, that I want to tell you.
The kitchens have been sending your pastries directly to your room as instructed. Today, however, someone left a tray of sugar-dusted ones at the breakfast table by accident. I looked at them for rather longer than was reasonable.
And then I cried.
I am certain you are laughing. I can practically hear you from here. In my defense, they reminded me of you.
I do not take any pleasure in sharing this information, but I suspect you might.
I hope you do.
- E.
I trust Milla will deliver these while they are still fresh, since I couldn’t really fit them under the door.
Do you like them?
They just came into bloom.
I've always been partial to poppies. But I'll confess this particular colour was chosen with you in mind.
- E.
Glinda had read that last one four times in a row.
Then she had pressed it to her chest, sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the ceiling. Profoundly delighted.
Love letters.
She had actual - real - love letters.
A small, involuntary sound escaped her as she looked at the stack of them arranged on her nightstand with rather more care than she would have admitted to anyone. They had been organized chronologically. Several had been reread - repeatedly.
A select few, the better ones, had been pressed between the pages of her book to ensure they remained perfectly flat.
They would need to be in excellent condition, after all.
For her future memoir.
It occurred to her, not for the first time that week, that she might have benefited from locking herself in a room considerably sooner.
The poppies were on the windowsill. Pink as ever. She had looked at them an embarrassing number of times today. She had rearranged them twice, which wasn't necessary, but the first arrangement hadn't been optimal and the second one was.
Leaning back against the pillows, a quiet, satisfied smile lingered at the corners of her mouth.
Twenty-two days.
After some careful consideration, she had determined that a full month was the appropriate duration. A month carried weight. A month suggested seriousness in a way that three weeks simply did not.
Eight more days was manageable.
She picked up the poppy letter again.
Read it once more.
Pressed it against her face.
Just eight more days.
The letter for day twenty-three didn't come.
She checked under the door at her usual time - mid-morning, when Milla brought the breakfast tray - and found nothing. She checked again an hour later. Then an hour after that.
By early afternoon she had checked eleven times, which she was aware was excessive, and had found nothing on each occasion.
By evening, she was seated upright on the bed, arms crossed, gaze fixed squarely on the door.
No letter.
Not even a brief note.
Nothing.
She checked again at midnight.
The corridor beyond the narrow gap lay dark and infuriatingly silent.
Glinda lowered herself to the floor beside the door and remained there for a moment, listening, as though silence might yet produce something if given enough attention.
It did not.
She rose shortly thereafter.
It was, she decided, beneath her dignity.
She returned to bed.
She did not sleep.
The poppies on the windowsill caught the moonlight, their pink dulled into something softer, almost ghostlike.
Twenty-three was not an unreasonable number, was it?
She sat up.
Technically, it was more than three weeks. Respectable. Impressive, even. And really - who, precisely, was to object if she chose to round that number up slightly?
Happy with this reasoning, she slipped from the bed, crossed the room, and unlocked the door.
The click sounded louder than it ought to have.
A beat later, she was in the corridor, her isolation concluded at what was, by all appearances, the middle of the night.
The walk to Elphaba’s chambers was a familiar one now.
No knock was needed. She let herself in.
The room lay in darkness, quiet and undisturbed. Elphaba slept, one arm flung carelessly across the bed, spectacles resting on the nightstand within easy reach, her expression serene.
Glinda regarded her for a moment.
Then she picked up a pillow.
And brought it down.
Elphaba woke with a violent start, sitting upright, all sharp edges and startled breath. She fumbled for her spectacles, pushed them into place, and looked around wildly - until her gaze settled on Glinda, standing over her, pillow in hand, with a thunderous gaze.
“Glinda-” Her voice was rough with sleep. “What-”
She blinked.
And then something shifted across her face - relief, unmistakable, and something dangerously close to delight.
“You’re here.”
She moved to stand.
Glinda took a step back.
“Don’t.”
Elphaba stopped at once.
“You were sleeping,” Glinda said.
“I… yes?”
“Peacefully.”
“I-”
“Where,” Glinda went on, her gaze drifting pointedly around the room, “is the suffering? The despair? The sleeplessness? The general sense of ruin?” She looked back at her. “You appeared entirely untroubled.”
Elphaba opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“My sweet, I have been suffering. Extensively. For days-”
“It did not look like it.” Glinda crossed her arms. Days. She should never have unlocked that door. There was no weight to that word. No gravity at all. “But that is not even the primary issue.”
“Oz help me,” Elphaba murmured unwisely, and not nearly quietly enough.
"Where is my letter?"
“Which one?”
“From today.” Her slipper had begun tapping against the floor in rapid, indignant succession. “Where is it? Were you simply planning to skip it? Have you grown accustomed to my absence so quickly? Has a month been sufficient for you to forget me?”
“It hasn’t been a month,” The correction was automatic.
Glinda stared at her.
“That is worse. Is less than a month enough?"
"No- no, that isn't what I-" Elphaba adjusted her glasses. "No amount of time would be sufficient.”
“Then why no letter?”
“I-” Elphaba hesitated. “I wrote one.”
“Oh.” The tapping ceased. Her arms uncrossed. “Well then. Did you misplace it? Slide it under the wrong door or something?”
“No.” Elphaba’s eyes flicked, briefly and traitorously, toward the desk.
A short, telling silence.
Glinda followed the glance.
Then she looked back at her wife.
"Ah."
"Glinda-"
But she was already moving.
The desk bore the usual evidence of Elphaba’s day - papers, notes, a book left open face-down - and there, half-concealed beneath a folder, lay a single folded sheet.
Unmarked.
Glinda picked it up.
“It isn’t—” Elphaba began.
Too late.
Glinda unfolded it.
I miss you.
Greatly.
Dearly.
Immensely.
Painfully.
- E.
“Oh.”
Her vision blurred at once. She pressed the letter carefully to her chest, as though to shield it from harm.
“Oh, oh, oh-”
She fanned her face with her free hand, as though that might restore some semblance of composure.
Elphaba was off the bed in an instant.
“Don’t cry,” she said, soft and urgent, a hand settling gently at Glinda’s shoulder. "Please, my sweet."
But the touch lasted for just a moment before Glinda had turned and pressed her face into the curve of her wife's neck, the letter still clutched carefully in one hand.
“Do you mean it?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
“The letter?” Elphaba’s arms came around her, drawing her in. “Of course I do.”
"Then why not give it to me?"
A long exhale, warm against her hair. "I didn't want you to think I was attempting to engineer your surrender through emotional manipulation." The hands at her back began to move - slow, careful, tracing the length of her spine. "And besides." A breath, smaller than the previous ones. "I sound rather pathetic in it, don't I?"
“That,” Glinda said, muffled against her skin, “is precisely what I like about it.”
A sound from above her - a scoff mixed with a helpless laugh.
They stood there for a while. Glinda could feel the particular quality of Elphaba's breathing that meant she was working up to something and decided to get there first.
"I am still very angry with you."
“I know.”
“I think,” Glinda continued, pulling back just enough to look at her, “that we have a great many things to discuss.”
“We do. I truly am-”
“Not tonight,” she interrupted. “I find myself without the strength for it at this hour. But soon.”
“As you wish.”
Tear-streaked, Glinda studied her for a moment.
“Are you going to agree with everything I say?”
“That is the current plan.” Elphaba smiled, small and crooked.
“I do like this version of you.”
She lifted a hand, cupping Elphaba’s cheek, her thumb brushing gently across it.
“I missed you, too, you know.”
“You did?”
“Well, not immensely. Nor painfully.” A smirk formed. “That seems rather excessive.”
The color in Elphaba’s cheeks deepened. She very visibly swallowed whatever response she might have offered on a normal day.
“You’re right, my sweet,” she said instead. “Entirely excessive.”
Glinda patted her cheek - once, approvingly - and turned toward the bed.
Elphaba followed, settling carefully beside her, leaving what was clearly intended to be a respectful distance.
It lasted approximately thirty seconds.
Glinda shifted. And then quite decisively draped herself across her, settling into place with a contented sigh.
“Oh, Elphie,” she murmured. “I did painfully miss having you as my pillow.”
A low laugh moved through the chest beneath her. “Good. I missed serving as one.”
“Just missed?” Glinda lifted her head, one brow arched.
“You are never going to let that go, are you.”
Silence.
Waiting.
“I missed it greatly, sweetheart.”
“Much better.” She settled back down with triumph, feeling her wife's breathing already beginning to slow.
She needed to be quick.
“One more thing.”
A sleepy hum.
“You will need to write me seven more letters.”
A beat.
“Why?”
“Because, in the account of our love story, it will state quite clearly that I remained secluded for a full month.”
“…why?”
“Because I want it to.”
Elphaba made a faint, exhausted sound. “I sent you multiple letters on certain days. Could you not simply-”
“You are being rather uncooperative,” Glinda said mildly, fingers tracing idle patterns against the collarbone beneath her cheek. “What happened to your plan?”
The exhale that followed was long and deeply felt.
"Anything for you, my sweet."