follows from quinnfebrey

Elphaba steps forward. “But you knew I was alive?”

Glinda shakes her head. “No.” The statement comes back unspoken. You don’t seem surprised to see me. Her shoulders slump slightly, and the fight deflates with a rattle in her chest. “But I hoped.”

Neither of them say anything for a long time. That is alright with Glinda. She needs a moment to prepare herself for this ambush, needs time to recover the lost footing so that she might finish this conversation without embarrassing herself. She also allows herself time to take in Elphaba’s appearance after so long. The black color palette is still in fashion, apparently, but instead of the long gowns, Elphaba is dressed in dark trousers and a jacket. Her hair seems clean and kept, her skin is bright in all the right ways, and her face still bears that youthful glow under the hardened exterior. So she really has been safe and well.

Glinda’s eyes roam once more over Elphaba’s full form, and when she travels back up to Elphaba’s face it becomes clear that Elphaba is doing the same thing. Glinda remembers that she is wearing nothing more than a poor excuse for a nightdress. For some strange reason this makes her blush. And for some stranger reason she gets the impression that Elphaba is blushing too.

Finally, Elphaba speaks. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my plan.”

The anger is gone now. Glinda’s voice is small and petulant. “Well, good,” she says. “You should be.”

Her tongue twitches to shed more. I’m sorry too. I missed you. I wish I had saved us. I wish I was braver. I will never forgive myself. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. But she refrains.

“So, do I get to know what the event is?” Beatrice says, raising her eyebrows. “And who is the host?”

“Yes, that’s… that’s certainly important,” Ava says.

More silence.

“You’re not talking,” Beatrice observes.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” Ava says dryly. 

“Are you nervous?” Beatrice asks. It seems like a stupid question, but there’s really no other explanation, and the whole situation can only be a mystery for so long. Might as well get it over with, right?

“You seem like a good person,” Ava sighs. She throws out a sloppy grin. “True or false.”

“True,” Beatrice says. “As far as I’ve been told, anyway.”

“I’m worried that this is, like, moderately immoral,” Ava admits.

“Immoral,” Beatrice repeats.

“Yes,” Ava confirms.

“But only moderately?”

“Could be worse.”

Another pause.

“You know I’m not a hitman, right?” Beatrice says, raising her eyebrows. “I don’t kill people. Or kidnap them or anything.”

“Oh, God,” Ava says, shaking her head vigorously. “No, of course not. It’s not illegal, alright? It’s just, on a scale of, like, from the Dalai Lama to Jeff Bezos, this is maybe sort of right in the middle.”

As if that’s not the weirdest scale of measurement. Beatrice frowns, trying to conceptualize it. Ava is implying that one end of the spectrum is a saint, the other end is a morally corrupt but technically not actually criminal billionaire. And this job is… in the middle of that?

Beatrice shakes her head. “Ava. I think you just have to tell me.”