Tiggy dear led me to this video, and inspired me to finally write this story: http://www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=992F4U3m1XM

Shameless Self-Advertising: In Love and War—it doesn’t show up on the page when updated (look in my profile), but it’s certainly there, thank goodness.

Disclaimer: Wicked and all its accompanying everythings are the creation and property of Gregory Maguire.

Ten years after the death of the Wicked Witch of the West, all the players in those fateful events had settled down and busied themselves with more pressing affairs. Nothing remained of those years long ago.

Or so they thought.

In a conveniently located small town, on a street, in a house, on a story, in a room, in a closet, some evidence lived on. And that evidence—two pieces of evidence, to be exact—was fighting like hell.

“I was always the better one,” the hat declared loftily, tossing its proud black point. “I was the main player in the founding of the relationships between the principles. I’m on the logo, for Oz’s sake. I’m iconic. What do you have to say to that, eh?”

A snort. Also imitating a human gesture (albeit one usually performed on the upper half of the body), the Tight White Pants folded their legs defiantly across their seat. “I say you can go found relationships where the sun don’t shine.”

“We are where the sun don’t shine, you idiot. We’re in a closet. In case you haven’t realized it.”

“Don’t go blaming me; it’s not as if I have any sensory organs.”

“Nor do I, yet I somehow managed to get the idea. And for your information, the proper term is ‘where the sun doesn’t shine’. My wearer paid attention, after all.”

“My wearer paid attention too—just like yours concentrated where you were located, so did my wearer exercise itself where I was located. And ‘don’t’ is part of the idiom. Now who’re you calling idiot? And I also happen to reside next to that particular area every moment of my wear, as opposed to your sitting pretty on a lump of hair.”

“Now you see here, Tighty-Whitey! I just so happen to be on the head—no jokes, please. On top. Not to mention belonging to the main character, need I remind you.” This was a point of pride for the hat. No pun intended.

“Tighty-Whitey?” The Tight White Pants were enraged. “Why, you—you—” They could not summon up the appropriate insult. “Hear this, O Great Logo: While you may appear on all the posters, you’re nothing. Just a stock item at the party store for years. Generic. I, on the other hand, am exclusive to the musical. I appear upon the main heartthrob; I make his butt the beautiful and squeezable thing it is. The very Butt of Butts. Butt of Butz, if you’re into punning.”

The hat would have blinked if it could. But it recovered from the shock of being called generic quickly enough, and continued to launch its retaliatory comments. “So you sat on some blond guy’s tush. And that makes you better?”

“The fangirls love me.”

“They love me too!” The hat shoved its point into the fourth wall, shattering it. “Look, even the author has one of me!”

“It’s a flimsy thing she bought for three dollars at Party City. And stained with green paint from when she painted herself. And look at her computer screen—who’s she writing now? ME.”

“Now she’s writing me.”

“Let’s forget that type of argument; it can live forever. Getting back to what I was saying: It’s all about popular these days, and the fangirls simply love me. They love the work I do. Some fanboys too.” The TWP swelled with importance. “I’m their hero.”

“You’re a diaper. You—” But the hat broke off. “Someone’s coming!”

For once, the TWP listened to the hat and fell silent as the voices drew closer.

“…far too cluttered…have to give away…”

“…burn.”

The two sartorials exchanged terrified glances. If all was as it sounded, there might soon be a massacre!

The hat tried to retreat into a corner, but the Tight White Pants stood proud as the closet door opened wide and a pair of hands reached in. The hands seized bundles of clothes and pulled them from the shelves and hangers, out into the bedroom. The Tight White Pants were spared, but then another set of hands joined the first, and despite their best efforts the TWP found one leg grasped, and the rest of their body following. They slithered from the rack to a pile on the floor where they lay, wishing they could gasp, as even more pants, shirts, dresses and skirts were thrown down.

“Do you realize, Yero, that most of these clothes belong to you? Isn’t the woman supposed to have the massive wardrobe?”

“You have very few clothes; that’s why my collection seems so large by comparison. Hey, those hats are mostly yours.”

“All mine, in fact.”

The hat rolled down beside the Tight White Pants. “So this is what we get,” it grumbled. “For a lifetime of service?”

“They have served well,” one of the voices observed.

“They agree with me,” hissed the hat.

“Shut up.”

“But seriously.” The green hands began sorting the clothes into two piles. “Far too much in here.”

“Agreed.” The hat was lifted by the brim. “Hey, Elphie. Still want this?”

She glanced up. “Oh, that hat!” She put down the vest she was inspecting and stood up. “I remember when Glinda—well, she was Galinda back then—gave me this hat.” She held it close. “We went through a lot together, we did, this hat and I.”

The hat sighed and almost felt sorry for the poor pants.

“But still,” Elphaba continued. “I haven’t worn it for years—”

“Ha!” This from the TWP.

“—and I’ll probably never wear it again. It’s in awful condition too, and I don’t do sentimental, so…” And then, to the hat’s amazement, it found itself soaring across the room to the disposal pile.

It was too shocked to speak.

Meanwhile the two humans had returned to their selection. A few dresses later, Elphaba extracted a pair of still-pristine white pants. “Fiyero,” she called, dangling them. “Ever consider wearing these again?”

He looked at them and flushed. “Oz, those. Away,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought them; as a matter of fact, I was probably drunk; anyway, away, or the kids will—will—” Whatever the end of his sentence was going to be, it would never be.

“You were wearing these when your stupid cart almost killed me,” Elphaba reminisced. “And you were sitting in the seat like you’d been dumped there and your legs were spread and instead of your face the first thing presented to anybody looking at you was your—”

“Okay, okay!”

“And I liked those pants,” Elphaba went on. “Pretty much the only thing about you, at first.” She tossed them to him. “Here—put them on.”

“What!” Fiyero backed away, holding the innocent garment away from him as though it would bite.

Elphaba stood up smoothly and advanced toward him. “What’s the matter? You think they won’t fit and don’t want me to notice?”

He shook his head madly.

“Just put them on, Yero. I love you as you are; just put them on—or try to—one last time.”

Before the glare of his wife, Fiyero Tigelaar was helpless. The TWP’s figurative heart thumped madly as Fiyero reluctantly laid them on the bed and began to take off his own pants and the readership of this fic suddenly shot up remarkably (the fourth wall was never repaired, remember?).

No. Wait. That should have been written differently.

Bereft of his usual pants, Fiyero reached for the awaiting TWP and stared dolefully into their depths. “How immodest.” But he had given his word, and so he inserted first one foot, then the other, and began to pull them up as Elphaba observed with great interest.

The hat turned away, humiliated.

The eager TWP crept slowly up Fiyero’s legs, stretching into their customary position as Fiyero wished he’d burned the blasted things years ago. Especially because, despite Elphaba’s words, the Tight White Pants did, in fact, still fit, and perfectly too. Soon enough the TWP were home, and they sighed in contentment.

“There,” said Fiyero defiantly as he fastened them. “They’re back on. Now are you satisfied?”

Judging by Elphaba’s expression, she was not. Yet. Although she was, naturally, impressed. And so of course it was only a matter of time before they were off again, but the Tight White Pants had made their point. And they were proud.

THE (rear) END