Chapter Text
Dorothy wakes with a gasp, her heart already racing.
For a moment she doesn’t know where she is, only that she feels wrong and that it must be her fault. She blinks rapidly, trying to dislodge those thoughts.
The camp is quiet, the fire burned down to a slow, red glow. The fantastical world of Oz breathes around her, vast and watchful. Toto is curled beside her, fast asleep.
Dorothy presses a fist to her mouth.
She dreamed of the fabled Emerald City again. Towers tilted, green glass cracking under her feet. Faces turning toward her, all asking questions she doesn't know how to answer.
Why did you do this?!
How did you kill the Witch?!
Who are you?!
Why are you here?!
“Dorothy?”
She startles at the sound of her name, but the voice is soft. Familiar.
Scarecrow sits a few feet away, propped against a log, his stitched smile faint in the firelight. He’s always awake because he doesn’t need sleep. Dorothy envies him for it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers automatically, though she isn’t sure why. “Did I disturb you?”
He tilts his head. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I was just thinking.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds “though I don’t know why I bother trying! Brainless and all.”
She almost giggles, then almost cries instead. Her chest aches with the effort of keeping it together.
At the edge of the camp, Tin Man moves carefully, metal joints barely making a sound as he sorts through their supplies. He must have noticed her stirring too, because he glances over, eyes glowing faintly, kind and concerned.
He and Scarecrow exchange a look and there must have been something unspoken communicated because Tin Man gives her a small nod, as if to say I’m here, then returns to his task, deliberately unintrusive.
Dorothy’s throat tightens.
She pushes herself into a sitting position, casting off the blanket and smoothing the wrinkles in her dress. The silver slippers sparkle in the starlight, pressing into her feet, too solid, too real.
This isn’t Kansas. It hasn’t been Kansas for a long time.
“I think I broke it,” she says suddenly.
The words tumble out before she can stop them. Once they’re free, they don’t want to slow down.
“Oz, I mean. I think, if I hadn’t come here, none of this would’ve happened. The Wicked Witch of the East would still be alive and the Wicked Witch of the West wouldn’t be causing all this trouble! Everyone wouldn’t be so mad all the time. Everything feels wrong.” Her hands twist in her skirts. “They called me brave, but I don’t feel brave. I feel… like I knocked over something important and now everyone’s trying to pick up the pieces.”
Scarecrow doesn’t interrupt. He never does.
Dorothy’s eyes burn with tears. “Oh Scarecrow! I made this mess. I keep thinking I should fix it, but I just want to go home!”
A shadow falls across the firelight.
Scarecrow is inching closer, straw body shuffling quietly. He crouches a bit so he’s eye-level with her, not looming. Just there.
“No,” he says, clearly.
Dorothy looks at him, startled. “No?”
“No,” Scarecrow repeats, gentler but no less firm. “You didn’t break Oz.”
“But, I have to try to fix it! And Glinda the Good Witch told me…” she trailed off, alarmed by the frightening look on his face.
He looks upset, straw lips pressed together in a flat line, an expression she had never seen on him. She hoped he wasn't angry at her.
“Dorothy,” he says, and uses her name the way adults do when they want to steady rather than scold. “Grown-ups built this mess. Grown-ups ran it. Grown-ups lied, and hurt people, and made choices they don't want to be responsible for.”
“What do you mean?”
He pauses as if trying to choose his words carefully, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “I mean…Oz has been broken for a long time. That isn’t on you.”
Her breath catches. She opens her mouth, searching for the argument she’s been carrying around like a chain around her neck, but I was there, I did it, my house, my shoes, and finds it doesn’t quite fit anymore.
“You’re a child,” Scarecrow continues, softer now. “A brave one. A kind one. But still a child.” His words aren't mean, or dismissive of her; they’re filled with caring and compassion.
“You don’t owe Oz anything. We-” he gestures to Tin Man, who had paused in his organizing, clearly listening in “are here to get you home. Don’t worry about the rest of it.”
Tin Man inclines his head towards her, metal joints creaking slightly.
Something inside her chest loosens. The guilt, there since she saw the Wicked Witch of the East’s legs sticking out from under her house, ebbs away, just a bit.
She takes a deep breath and shakes her head, “Scarecrow, I don’t think you’re as brainless as you say!”
Scarecrow chuckles, “Hah! Tell that to my straw stuffed head!”
Dorothy laughs a little, but it comes out strained. Scarecrow shifts closer and opens his arms, straw rustling quietly. Dorothy hesitates only a second before scooting forward and pressing into him.
He smells of hay. The straw pricks a little through his clothes, but it’s warm, dry, familiar. Solid. When she wraps her arms around him, the sound it makes, soft, whispery, hits her square in the heart.
It reminds her of home. Of barns and summer nights on the farm, laying on a hay bale and watching the sun set.
She buries her face against his chest and exhales, long and shaky.
“Oh, I like hugging you,” she murmurs, voice muffled. “You’re… comfortable.”
The Scarecrow chuckles, gentle and pleased. “I’m glad,” he says. “I worry the straw would make it unpleasant.”
“It doesn’t,” Dorothy insisted. “If anything, it makes it better, truly.”
Scarecrow’s burlap face is unreadable, but there's some unnamed emotion flickering in his eyes. Hope? Worry?
Dorothy hugs him harder, careful not to dislodge any stray bits of straw. She yawns, exhaustion creeping back into her body. Scarecrow carefully lowers her head onto his lap, pulling the blankets back over her.
Across the way, she hears Tin Man finish arranging the food and settling back down, satisfied. The night resumes its quiet vigil.
Dorothy stays there, wrapped in straw and the steady presence of people who are not asking anything of her.
“Good night Scarecrow,” she whispers. “Good night Tin Man.”
She can't make out their replies because sleep is claiming her quickly, gently this time.