Title: There Are Nights
Rating: R/M for language and sexual content
Warnings: Musicalverse spoilers
After listening to way too much TL5Y, I sat down to write something dark and sexy and a little angry. It still came out way softer than I intended. I think I'm not capable of really dark. But look, sex and bad language! Don't read it if you're underage and/or likely to be offended.
This is unbetaed, but LadyShada played thesaurus for me ;)
This is sometime post-musical, but he's not Scarecrowified anymore. This was just what my muse felt like writing today. I don't know how he got untransformed and I don't much care for a story this short.
THERE ARE NIGHTS
There are nights, when they are camping in the open forest, that he lies awake and watches the stars in the sky. He remembers sleeping in the suite he shared with Glinda in the Emerald Palace, remembers seeing the ubiquitous green even lying there with his eyes closed. He remembers silk sheets and feather pillows. He remembers the stiff cloth of the Gale Force uniform, the starched collar almost sharp against his throat, and he fingers the ragged cloth pulled over them as a makeshift blanket now. He remembers holding Glinda against his chest, dancing with her at their engagement ball. He remembers wrapping his arms around Elphaba's thin body as they flew through that starry sky on her broom.
There are nights, when he cannot sleep, that he lies beside her and whispers into her hair as she sleeps. He thinks of those days at Shiz, sweet naive school days, of how elemental and mysterious and otherworldly she seemed. Glinda had been gilded and soft and perfect, and Elphaba had been all hard edges and glowing green lines. He'd been fascinated by her and a little afraid of her. He whispers to her, now, the things he could not have said then. You were right. I wasn't as shallow as I pretended to be. I was unhappy. But I didn't know how to be anything else.
There are nights, when she is wrapped around him and desire flushes hot beneath his skin, that he thinks to himself, I'm fucking the Wicked Witch of the West. And the thought spurs him on, drives him deeper inside her, because there is something so terrifyingly powerful about her. She is feared and reviled across Oz, the very embodiment of sorcery, elemental and uncontrollable. Her name is whispered with caution, as if merely speaking of her will conjure her out of the air. And yet here she is, writhing beneath his body, completely open to him, and he is the only person in Oz who is allowed to see her this way, to touch her this way. He is the only person in Oz who can give her this ecstasy, and it makes him feel terrifyingly powerful, too. It is a heady sensation, and he gasps with it, closes his eyes and holds on desperately until she releases beneath him, and then he pulls her closer and finishes.
There are nights, when she cannot sleep either, that he wraps her in his arms and they whisper to each other. These are among the rare occasions when she speaks of her affection for him, when she can bury her face in his chest and murmur quietly against his skin. He tries to catch her chin, tilt her face up to look at him, but she resists, her face flushed slightly with her embarrassment. Or she reaches up and kisses him, counting on the fever between them to distract him from her vulnerability. He doesn't forget, but he recognizes her need for privacy, so he lets her distract him for a moment. And then he speaks tenderly of his own affection, because he knows she needs to hear it, especially when she is feeling vulnerable, and because it is the easiest thing in the world to speak of.
There are nights, when he is reminded of that first night in the forest, that their lovemaking is gentler. He remembers the desperation in her that night, the juxtaposition of longing and doubt. She'd wanted him--and despite himself, he still feels a little thrill of disbelief and attraction at the memory--but she wasn't sure enough of herself to believe he wanted her in return. She'd offered herself anyway, just for one moment, and his heart breaks at the memory. He'd tried to show her, with his hands, his words, his body, but it wasn't until afterward that he realized how deep the well was, how little he had done to fill it. I wish... I wish I could be beautiful for you. He tried to tell her that she was. He knows she did not believe him, even now. So there are nights when he sets aside the need for physical release, when he focuses his attention on her and tries to convince her of his affection, his attraction, his devotion, and he knows she will never fully believe.
There are nights, when the moon is full and the skies clear, that he simply lies beside her and watches her sleep. The moonlight paints her face in silver and shadows, the emerald fading to black, her hair tangled gently against his shoulder. There is nothing of the Wicked Witch about her now; she looks peaceful, tucked up against his body, trusting him not to hurt her. He shifts under their thin blanket and pulls her closer. He remembers the life he had before--a respected uniform, a comfortable bed, a blonde head beside him on the pillow--and he does not regret.