100 Theme Challenge, #2! Love.
I don't own Wicked.
I wake with a start, shooting up in my hay filled bed. My heart is fast, pounding against my chest. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I have no idea what I dreamt—I never remember my dreams—but it must've been one of the worst nightmares I've had in a long time.
"Are you alright?"
Fiyero's pushing himself up, sitting and rubbing my back. "Yes, I'm fine," I say as I nod and give him a small smile to reassure him I'm not lying.
He takes a breath. "Another nightmare?"
I swallow. "Yeah…I don't remember it. Just…why don't we just go back to sleep?"
As we both relax back into bed, he snakes his arms around me, spooning me. He kisses the nape of my neck. "I love you," he whispers.
I hum, and reply, "I love you too."
Despite being a great man, he is still a man, and passes back out rather quickly. I trace little shapes on his arms with my finger. It's moments like this that I realize how magnificent we are together, how much he means to me, how much I love him.
I've always been the type to scoff when the girls would go on and on about love and relationship. I even remember being convinced at one point that all men are mages and often put very powerful spells on women that change them from ordinary, semi-intelligent people into giggling morons that only focus on having a ring on their finger. Though I'm not that far yet (only because my will not to go idiotic is strong), I will admit that I understand how strong that 'spell' is.
He…as clichéd as it sounds, he's magical. He makes me feel excited and content, at peace with the world. No matter how angry I am, or how upset, or how insane…he just calms me down. He's good for me.
He says I'm good for him, too. I don't know how much to believe it. He tells me he's no where near as lazy as he once was. I'll always respond that it's because he can't be, living on the lam with me. He says that he prefers this, that it makes him feel closer to his nomadic roots. I'll laugh and call us both gypsies. He'll often take this kind of comment in stride, jumping up and doing some kind of tribal—gypsy—Fiyero dance. I'll always laugh. He makes me laugh.
Sometimes, it's unintentionally. Just yesterday, he asked me, randomly, if I'd want kids. I cackled. When he didn't laugh with me, a stared at him. "You're serious?"
He got up from his impromptu stump seat and wrapped his arms around me. "Of course I am. Now that I'm not…what's the word…strawified? Yeah, now that I'm not strawified anymore, I don't see why we can't."
"Yero…" I said as gently as I could. "We're fugitives. We don't have a house. We don't even have a horse. How do you think we could tote around a baby?"
He smirked. "How could a green woman turn a man into a scarecrow and then back into a man?"
I glared at him. "Touché." I sighed. "Even if we were…stable, I really don't think it would be a smart move."
He moved away from me, staring at me with his hands on his hips, vaguely reminding me of Glinda. "And why not, Mrs. Thropp—Tiggular?"
I held my arm up. "If you haven't noticed it, I am green."
"If you haven't noticed it, I don't give a damn what color you are. We'll dye me blue—no, an ugly shade of orange. Then our kids will me glad they take after you."
I rolled my eyes. "Only you…"
He wiggled his eyebrows. "But you're the one who loves me."
And I do.
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