Chapter Text
The asphalt felt hot and rough under her bare feet, but Elphaba didn’t dare move.
She was frozen at the edge of the curb, the press of the crowd with their buzzing and their cameras zeroing in on her.
This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to have a quiet afternoon, a blessed day off.
The plan did not involve becoming a commotion and unwilling subject of scrutiny.
She focused on the warm, fluttering heartbeat under her palms. Steadied her breathing.
And against all better judgement, she stayed.
The key learning here, clearly, was that Elphaba should never listen or give in to her spontaneous whims ever again.
Despite just being in the city for a few weeks, she had more or less established a reliable routine. But it was her day off, her training was over, and after this she would finally be doing her proper job, and—well. She wanted to celebrate, a little. Try something new.
So she decided to break routine. Go around and explore her new city. She skipped her meticulously pre-planned high protein meal for today and decided to go out for a long lunch break. She wore her favorite black dress and her new silver shoes and went to visit the popular local deli down the corner from her house.
Of course, it also had to be the day someone had decided it was a good idea to set fire to the abandoned warehouse next door.
Elphaba jumped up, a swell of hyper-alertness and concern making her rush outside the restaurant to quickly check on the damage—a thick column of smoke coming out of one of the warehouse windows, the metal doorway gaping empty—and then the local police swooped in, sweeping the area and asking everyone to stand a safe distance away.
Only then did Elphaba allow herself to visibly relax, reminding herself she wasn’t on duty today. Letting the relevant professionals do their job.
That was the other thing she learned that day: she shouldn’t have let herself relax.
It started this way.
There she stood, in the high heat of the afternoon, exiled to the curb with the rest of the lunch crowd as the restaurant was forced to evacuate, her book pinned awkwardly beneath one arm, a sweating glass of fresh orange juice in a paper cup handed out by the manager in the other. She stared across the pavement thinking, with inappropriate grief, of the uneaten half of the brie and date tarte flambée still sitting on her plate.
It had been a good tarte, too. Buttery crust. Just the right amount of seasoning, not trying to be fancy or experimental with the garnish or the spices.
A genuine loss.
She supposed she could leave. There was no sense staying here, and the manager reassured them they could all get refunded for half off their bill or a voucher for another visit if they decided to leave now and not wait until the deli had been cleared for service again. She supposed at the end of the day, she was just like all the others, drawn in by the spectacle, unable to leave until it had been resolved.
The sirens grew louder, their wail cutting through the midday chatter until even the most dedicated gawkers had fallen silent. Elphaba turned just in time to see the first red firetruck swing around the corner, gleaming and enormous, followed by a second, then a third, all chrome and flashing lights and thunderous urgency.
The crowd stirred around her.
Elphaba took one last, mournful sip of her orange juice.
The first truck rolled to a full stop in front of the warehouse, its brakes hissing loudly enough to send a fresh ripple through the crowd. Two people from the truck right afterward had jumped out and immediately started pushing the crowd back, which of course only made them press forward and jostle their way to the front of the boundary, especially now that there was finally something worth watching.
And Oz, were they right.
Elphaba was nearly shoved to the right by a woman with a sleeping baby in a stroller, and then she was elbowed in the ribs by a man trying to raise his phone over his head.
Seriously?
A teenager behind her stepped on the toe of her shoes, and her friend knocked against Elphaba’s shoulders as they made their way to the front. Her cup of orange juice lurched dangerously in her grip, and she was too busy trying to make sure she didn’t spill anything to notice the commotion that had happened. Well. What she thought was a commotion, based on the thrum that ran through the crowd, and a scream—or was that a squeal?—from one of the teenage girls. She craned her neck, not even the three extra inches her heels gave her helping to see above the crowd. What was going on?
There was a hush that followed, and it carried a strange reverence, even if it came with the almost simultaneous lifting of mobile phones in the air, people rushing to capture some kind of important cultural event.
She shook her head. These people were just trying to do their jobs, there was no need to treat it as some kind of spectacle or—
Elphaba had to stop and blink.
She glanced around to see if she was in the right place, or she hadn’t accidentally wandered into a movie shoot.
Even from this angle, in various states of uniform, the fire brigade was an unusually photogenic group.
The first one who came down was a man in his late forties or early fifties, silvering at the temples, built like a truck, with the kind of chiseled jaw that suggested he had been very handsome in his youth and had only improved with age. He must have been the chief or captain, because he was barking orders—Get that line charged, now!—in a voice that carried across the entire block.
The second firefighter landed beside him, cheerful-faced and compactly built, already grinning as he hauled equipment from the truck with efficient ease. He had close cropped black hair, bright, laughing eyes, and a yellow helmet tucked under one arm, and his tight black t-shirt with the letters FDOZ looked two sizes too small.
A third followed: a woman with bright red hair braided tightly down her back, tall, broad-shouldered, arms bare beneath the rolled sleeves of her station shirt, who lifted a piece of equipment off the truck one-handed in a way that made Elphaba’s eyebrow rise. She looked stoic and serious, and then she glanced briefly at one of the young women filming the scene, and winked.
Someone in the crowd made a small, reverent noise. The girl just about managed to stop her phone from slipping to the asphalt.
Elphaba furrowed her brow.
Was this a fire department or a modeling agency?
But apparently they were not done. Because someone else had started coming out of the truck, and the current of recognition and excitement blitzed through the crowd like electricity.
What now?
She looked back at the fire, hoping someone was actually doing something about it—relieved when she saw someone starting to hook the hose to a nearby hydrant—which is why she completely missed what caused the flurry of movement and sound that rippled through the crowd.
Seriously, Elphaba thought. There’s a literal fire?
“Oh my gods,” someone breathed. “It’s him!”
“No way?”
“It is—Oh Oz, my sister is going to be so jealous—”
“Mister August! Over here!”
“I should have brought my calendar—ugh!”
Elphaba turned. She would have liked to say that the man who jumped down from the truck was not her type, that she was unaffected and entirely uninterested, that she didn’t see what the fuss was all about. But then she would be lying.
He was—well. He was golden. That was the only word for it.
Golden skin. Golden hair visible even under the helmet, golden arms that gleamed under the afternoon sun as he hoisted equipment off the truck. The captain barked something at him, and he nodded easily, sliding into his jacket with a smile. And that’s when Elphaba realized he was not, in fact, wearing anything under his jacket and suspenders, except a chest that looked like it had been sculpted by someone with far too much time and a very specific artistic vision. He turned, laughing at something one of his colleagues said, and Elphaba felt her face go hot.
Ridiculous, she told herself. You’re being absolutely ridiculous. Objectification of public servants is beneath you.
Mister August, or whatever his name was, didn’t seem to notice the furor surrounding him. He was stretching now, arms over his head. The muscles on his side obliged, and Elphaba catalogued the name of the deep V that formed neat, graceful lines down his stomach.
Inguinal ligament, she thought. Iliac furrow. She wanted to run her fingers along it. Trace the lines of his rectus abdominus. She told herself this was medical curiosity, and nothing else.
She dragged her gaze upward—slowly, reluctantly—tracing the line of his sternum, the hollow of his throat, the easy curve of his smile. She was only looking at his face to prove to herself that she could. That she wasn’t some slack-jawed bystander, undone by a set of rippling abdominal muscles and an admittedly impressive deltoid-to-waist ratio. That she could look at him like a person, not a specimen.
Then he glanced up.
Their eyes met across the pavement—hers wide and startled, his blue and bright and suddenly very focused—and Elphaba forgot every thought she had had for the past minute, every anatomical term she had ever learned. She felt heat rise in her cheeks and didn’t have time to wonder if it was heat stroke or something else.
Because Mister August Golden Boy was turning his whole body toward her, the edges of his lips widening in a bright, frankly blinding smile. Elphaba registered a strange flip in her stomach that might be thrill or indigestion. It was hard to say.
He made a slow, confident step in her direction, and if her eyes weren’t so locked in his, she would have glanced around her, wondering what he was walking towards.
“Tigelaar!” The silver-haired captain called out, breaking the moment.
Elphaba had a second to wonder if that was his name, when the man on the phone beside her had made a dramatic gesture with his arm, shoving her and knocking over the orange juice right out of her hands. It landed on the curb, and a trail of orange liquid carved a line down the grey concrete. Elphaba sighed, picking up the cup and scanning around for a nearby bin, all thoughts of golden skin and blue eyes and rippling muscles momentarily forgotten.
There was a green metal bin near the warehouse, knocked over to its side from the ensuing commotion, but Elphaba’s conscience wouldn’t allow her to use it.
Surely there was another bin or dumpster around her somewhere.
She turned to a small alley between the restaurant and the adjacent office building. It was damp here, the bin stood piled with discarded boxes and reams of unshredded paper. She peered down the green container and tossed her cup when she heard it.
The sound was soft, tentative. A little afraid.
She frowned.
The cry came again. Plaintive and weak. Years of experience helping her own sister with them told Elphaba exactly what it was. It was a cat.
“Kitty?”
Elphaba peered inside the bin, behind it, looking in the piles of boxes. She called out softly to the kitten, checking to see where the sound came from. Then as she neared the fire exit stairwell near the corner of the building, she called out again.
“Kitty? Where are you, sweet?”
A small cry, right above her.
“Oh, bug,” she said. A tiny thing of orange fluff peered down at her from the metal railing.
The kitten was too high to reach from the ground, and too frightened to climb down. It looked down from her between the metal railings, mewling piteously, especially now that Elphaba was so near. She thought her heart would actually break.
The railing was far too high for Elphaba to reach, even in the heels she had decided to wear today on a whim—and which now turned out to be quite impractical for what she needed. She looked down on her long black dress, the pencil skirt falling to her calves. That, too.
“Alright,” she said, in a calm, reasonable voice that was meant to soothe the kitten but also maybe herself. “Alright. We can solve this. Give me a second, sweet.”
She scanned the alley. There was a wooden crate with the words FRESH ORANGES DAILY wedged between the wall and an overflowing recycling bin. She dragged it out. It was sticky with something she patently chose not to identify.
Next to another bin was a stack of wooden pallets, and beside those, a rickety metal stool with a torn padded linoleum cover that someone had clearly abandoned for good reason. One leg was slightly shorter than the others, but it was the best option she had.
Elphaba dragged the pallets next to the bin and positioned the stool over it. Her plan was simple: use the stool to climb onto the bin, then reach up and pull the fire escape ladder. From there she could climb up to the kitten, assuming it didn’t immediately run away from her, retrieve it, and climb back down.
Simple. Clean. Straightforward.
Assuming all went well, she would be back on the ground in a minute or two tops with a kitten safely in her arms.
She never went around assuming all would go well, but she was starved for choice.
She glanced down at herself. She slipped off her heels, then grabbed either end of her dress slit and ripped it up until the slit ended mid-thigh.
“I really liked this dress, too,” she sighed.
She gingerly took a step over the stool. It wobbled, but she steadied herself on the bin before getting up and bracing both feet on it.
The metal lid groaned under her weight but held. She was now approximately six, maybe seven feet off the ground, which wasn’t that high, necessarily, but felt significant given the structural integrity of her platform. The fire escape ladder was just above her, a rusted metal rung folded up against the railing. She reached up, her fingers brushing cold iron.
“Almost,” she muttered. “Almost—”
She stretched higher, felt something in her shoulder protest, and stood on her tiptoes until her fingers hooked around the bottom rung.
“Okay, little one,” she called out softly. “Don’t run away, okay?”
The ladder came down with a groan, and then a shriek of rusted hinges that probably woke up every other cat in a three-block radius. The kitten, to its considerable credit, did not, in fact, flee. It simply stared at her with enormous eyes, as if to say, Well, that was dramatic.
“Sorry,” Elphaba winced.
Climbing the ladder in a dress and no shoes was neither elegant nor hygienic, but she managed. The kitten allowed itself to be scooped up with only a token squeak of protest. It was smaller than she had expected, lighter, its little heart hammering, warm against her palm. She cradled the little rumpled orange bundle against her chest and felt something in her own heart constrict in response.
“There,” she said softly. “There now, my brave little lionheart. You’re alright.”
The kitten tucked its head under her chin.
Which was very sweet, and heart-melting, but it also meant she now had to make her back down one-handed.
She descended the ladder with cautious precision. Her foot found the recycling bin and she let out a little breath. Halfway there. Carefully transferring her weight, her muscles tensed as she heard the bin lid groan, but hold. Then she stepped carefully down onto the stool.
The stool, which had been merely wobbly before, was apparently not designed to accommodate a full-grown woman and a kitten, or perhaps she just stepped on it wrong. Whatever the case, it tipped, one leg slipping between the slats of the pallet underneath.
Elphaba’s stomach dropped in the split-second that it happened. Her arm tightened around the kitten. She had time to think, very quickly—how to position her body to protect the cat, minimize the injuries, it wasn’t a huge height, so it shouldn’t be an issue—
But then it had been two, and then three seconds later, and her eyes were winced shut, but there was no impact. She hadn’t hit the ground.
Something had caught her. Something warm and solid, an arm around her back and another under her knees. And she was being held—cradled. Suspended in the air like a heroine in a melodrama she never wanted to star in.
The kitten mewed.
Elphaba opened her eyes.
A face was looking down at her. A familiar golden face, with absurdly blue eyes, a soot-smudged cheekbone, and an expression of such sincere, heartfelt concern that she thought, for a second, that she had wandered into a dream, or another movie set, or a concussion-induced daydream.
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Mister August gave her a gentle smile. “You’re safe now.”
Elphaba blinked up at him.
The kitten, still pressed against her chest, gave a little chirp, then began to purr.
Say something, she thought, but her mouth refused to obey, dry and parted as it was, as she continued to stare dumbly up at him. Her eyes trailed down the golden expanse of skin along his neck, his collarbone, felt the heat of him against her arms. The kitten had turned and stretched in her hold, and was making biscuits on his sternum now, tiny claws kneading over her arm, and that quiet honest voice inside her head felt she could relate to the instinct.
“Let’s get you both checked out,” he said. And that’s when Elphaba realized they had gone back to the main street, and the crowd were parting for them, and that he was still carrying her in his arms, the three of them tangled together in some dramatic tableau.
The cameras—Oz, did these people never stop filming?—were now pointed in their direction, and Elphaba tried not to think too hard about where these videos might end up. This was the last thing she needed.
She suddenly became all too aware of the state of her: barefoot, ripped dress, and she quickly glanced down, making sure it hadn’t gaped open—when she realized he had somehow folded his hands over both ends of the hem, keeping them closed.
“Everything alright, ma’am?” Mister August asked.
“Oh Oz,” heat climbed her cheeks. “You can let me down now, Mister Aug—I mean. We’re completely fine, there’s no need—”
“I need to make sure you’ve not sustained any injuries, ma’am,” the man grinned, and Elphaba had the distinct feeling that he knew she was completely fine, too.
She glared, and then she started wriggling in his hold, bracing the kitten carefully against her chest.
His lips tilted to a little smirk, but he let them down gently on the ground beside the red truck.
“It’s Fiyero, by the way. Fiyero Tigelaar.” He extended his hand to her and she, out of reflex and a clear lack of self-preservation, took it. It was warm and firm and golden, just like the rest of him. He kept smiling at her. “But Mister August is fine, too.”
The flush on her face was entirely caused by the sun and the proximity to fire, and nothing else.
“Fiyero works,” she said, just to say something.
“Good,” he smiled. “I like the way you say it.”
He reached out and stroked a gentle finger on the kitten’s head, and it curled into a little ginger ball, yawning and closing its eyes, as though realizing, too, that the worst was over.
And the thing was, it was all so unfair. Elphaba shouldn’t have to cope with a shirtless fireman who was also, apparently, tender with adorable, frightened creatures. That was a level of testing no one should have to endure on their day off. She shouldn’t be expected to form coherent words and thoughts in the presence of… all that.
He seemed to be waiting expectantly for her response.
“I appreciate your help, Mister August,” she said, gathering her wits just enough so as not to sound completely flustered. His smile broadened to an amused grin. “And I’m El—”
“TIGELAAR!”
Fiyero froze.
“YOU PERHAPS FORGETTING SOMETHING, SON?”
Fiyero’s body went rigid in a way that suggested some kind of Pavlovian response to the captain’s stern voice.
“Coming, sir!” he shouted back, body half-turning. But he still hadn’t moved, still watching Elphaba, something flickering across his face. Soft and focused and unreadable.
“The fire,” Elphaba managed, because she figured someone had to say it. “Shouldn’t you be—”
“Under control,” he said. “Fire’s out, we’re just—safety protocols, you know.”
He was already taking a slow step back to the rest of the crew, straightening his jacket.
“Don’t go anywhere. Please?”
“I think I should—”
“I have to check on the cat,” he insisted, nodding to the small orange thing that was now half-dozing in Elphaba’s arms.
She smiled, torn between her conscience and amusement at his delaying tactics. “I think I can manage.”
“No, no,” he grinned. “You’ll need the—er. Proper training, you know.”
“You sideline as a vet, Mister August?”
“Fiyero,” he said, smile broadening. “Not exactly, but—”
“TIGELAAR, ARE YOU ANGLING FOR A SUSPENSION?”
“Your boss sounds scary,” Elphaba said. Fiyero winced.
“I’ll be back,” he said, walking backwards to the rest of the team. “For the cat. And your name.”
“What—”
Then he was gone, jogging toward the warehouse where weak smoke still curled from the windows, and Elphaba was left standing barefoot on the sidewalk with a rumbling orange kitten in her arms and the distinct, horrifying realization that Mister August had just begged her to stay and that she didn’t immediately say no.
She should leave. Obviously, she should leave. Or at the very least look for her shoes. She could walk away right now, block out this entire ridiculous day with a hot shower and some leftover chickpea curry in her freezer. Maybe pick up something for the cat before she brought them to the shelter tomorrow.
She didn’t owe Fiyero anything. Didn’t even really know him. And this was exactly what she told herself she wouldn’t do when she moved here. Form ties. Get too close.
The kitten mewed, rubbing its head against her arm, then looked up at her with sleepy eyes, half-lidded but also somehow judgemental and knowing.
“Oh, don’t you start,” she muttered.
Fiyero didn’t actually go very far.
He jogged over to the nearby truck, a few yards away from where Elphaba stood barefoot on the curb, kitten tucked against her chest and dignity left somewhere in the alley behind her. The fire itself had died down to a sullen curl of smoke, the sirens had quieted, and a few of the local police had shown up to the scene, likely to investigate the cause of the fire.
She was near enough, Elphaba realized, to hear practically everything.
“Tigelaar,” the captain sighed. “What part of ‘secure the perimeter’ suggested ‘abandon your post to go frolicking in the alleyways’?”
Someone snorted, and then a woman’s voice cut in, dry and delighted. “Or go play knight in shirtless armor to the hot green lady.”
The kitten blinked up at her.
From where she stood, she couldn’t see everyone’s faces. She took two small steps to the left, just to peek, trying not to think too hard about why she cared. Why she was still here, and snooping.
She could see the sheepish set of Fiyero’s shoulders, and the glare he directed at his snarky colleague, who only winked at him in response. The captain rubbed both hands over his face, as if attempting to physically wipe away the last five minutes of his life.
“I saw a civilian in distress, sir,” Fiyero said, shrugging helplessly.
“A civilian in distress,” the captain repeated flatly.
“Chess says you’ve been staring at her since we got here,” the woman added.
“Chess also says you’ve been taking more than your share of Glinda’s cupcakes, Rayla, so what’s your point?”
“Chess is just doing his job quietly in the corner,” said the compact firefighter in the black FDOZ shirt, rolling up a length of hose and loading it back to the truck with serene detachment. “Chess is not trying to get involved in this little argument.”
“You are involved,” the woman—Rayla?—said. “You started this.”
“I’m just an observer. I notice things.”
“I’m sure we all noticed that loud noise earlier, right?” Fiyero insisted. “I happened to be nearest, so I went to check and—”
“I was nearest. You sprinted from thirty yards away—”
“And then—” Fiyero’s voice was firm, “And then she was falling, and I had to catch her. And you all saw the cat.”
The captain pinched the bridge of his nose.
“The cat was very cute,” Chess offered.
“Not helpful, Manalo,” the captain said.
“The woman was also very cute,” Chess conceded thoughtfully.
Elphaba felt the heat return to her cheeks.
For one beat, no one said anything.
“Oh, you think so, do you?” Fiyero’s voice sounded light. Pleasant. But there was something in it Elphaba couldn’t quite name—an edge, maybe, or a warning—whatever it was, it made the pause that followed stretch a little too long.
“Gorgeous, actually,” Rayla agreed, breezing past the silence like she hadn’t even noticed. “Exactly Fiyero’s type.”
“Rayla.” That was definitely a warning in Fiyero’s voice now.
“What? I’m also observant.”
“Okay, I’m breaking this up,” The older man cut in. “Fiyero, I’m glad the civilian and the cat are safe.”
“Yes, chief—”
“But. You cannot keep doing this.” The captain’s voice had shifted—still firm, but lower now, almost tired. “Listen, son. We talked about the impulse thing. You see something, you go. You don’t check in. You don’t tell anyone. One of these days it’s not going to be just a lovely girl and her cat in an alley.”
Fiyero was quiet.
“I know, chief.”
“Captain.” The man replied, voice dry but not unkind. “We’ll finish this at the station. Let’s go.”
Elphaba felt like she was intruding on a private moment. She looked down at the ragged little ball of orange fluff in her arms.
“I think that’s our cue to go, huh?”
The kitten mewed.
As though he had heard her, Fiyero’s head snapped up.
Rayla folded her arms, gaze flicking between Fiyero and the curb where Elphaba stood with the kitten.
“For the record, I support the rescue mission.”
Fiyero shook his head, seeming to get a bit of his lightness back. “You support drama.”
“I support morale.”
“And I support shirtless morale,” Chess said.
Rayla glared. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
The captain inhaled slowly through his nose.
“Enough. We’re done here anyway.” He gave Fiyero a long look, before sighing. “Go on. Check on the cat and your—the civilian. Then get back here. ASAP.”
Fiyero brightened. “Yes, sir.”
“And next time,” the captain barked after him, “don’t forget to wash your goddamn shirts. If you go on another call shirtless, I’m suspending you. I did not fight the chief for more washing machines just for you all to not use them.”
Rayla snorted. “Chess is in crop tops everyday, what’s the difference?”
Chess looked down at his FDOZ shirt, which did indeed stop suspiciously high above his waist.
“It’s ventilation.”
“It’s a department nightmare,” the captain said.
Fiyero, already backing away, pointed at Chess with grave solidarity. “I respect your commitment to airflow.”
“Move, Tigelaar.”
“Moving, Chief.”
“Captain.”
“For now.”
“Go. Before I change my mind.”
Fiyero bounded toward her before she could make her escape.
Elphaba should say something, probably. Or do something. Instead she stood frozen, bare toes curling against the hot concrete, the kitten a warm, purring weight against her chest.
Then he looked at her, stopped a few feet away, held up one finger in a wait a second gesture, and before she could even say anything—he was gone. He jogged toward the alley again, and then reappeared shortly after, triumphant, holding something in each hand.
Her shoes.
The muted silver and the impractical heels sat gracefully in his hands.
She blinked. “Oz, you didn’t have to—”
Then he dropped to one knee in front of her. Right there. On the pavement. In front of everyone.
The kitten perched on her arms, peering down at Fiyero with interest. Elphaba tried to make herself speak.
Fiyero looked up at her, his eyes bright and gentle.
“May I?”
Say no, she thought.
“Um,” her mouth supplied. “Alright.”
He smiled, and Elphaba forgot to be self-conscious of the crowd, grinning down at him in response, a helpless reflex. He took her left foot in his hand like it was a rare, precious thing. Then he slipped the heel of her shoe on with careful, deliberate movements. His thumb brushed softly against her ankle, and Elphaba felt that touch travel all the way up her spine.
“There,” he murmured, already reaching for the other foot. “Can’t have you walking home barefoot. City streets are filthy.”
She had to laugh, finally regaining her bearings. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good,” he grinned. “Otherwise I would have been forced to carry you home.”
“I didn’t realize firefighters did that in this city.”
“You’re new, huh?” Fiyero said. “Should’ve known. And yes, ma’am. Occupational hazard.”
“Uhuh.”
“Civic duty.” He winked.
It was useless to fight the smile growing on her face, so she didn’t. Just shook her head as her lips curled up.
“I’m Elphaba,” she said.
Fiyero’s eyes brightened. “Elphaba. That’s a lovely name.”
She opened her mouth to argue—it wasn’t anything special, it was just a mouthful of strange foreign syllables her father had saddled her with for reasons she’d never understood—but he said it like he meant it, like he was tasting each syllable, and the words died on her tongue.
The kitten mewed again, louder this time, and wriggled against her chest.
“Right,” she said, looking down at the tiny creature. “I should probably figure out what to do with him.”
“Her,” Fiyero said. “It’s a girl. I think.”
“You think?”
“I just know these things,” he shrugged. “Call it a gut instinct.”
He reached out and scratched behind the kitten’s ears, and the little traitor immediately began purring again, nuzzling into his palm.
“And you’re a really pretty girl, aren’t you?” His voice was sweet, soft, and Elphaba had to remind herself he was talking to the cat, and so the words shouldn’t be making her blush like she was.
She cleared her throat, trying to sound unaffected.
“Flirting with the cat in front of me? How rude.”
This response utterly delighted him.
“You can take her to the local shelter,” he said. “I can help take you there? They’re good people. Volunteer there sometimes.”
“Of course you do,” she smiled, shaking her head. “When you’re not putting out fires and saving girls from cat-rescuing incidents.”
“Civic duty,” he reminded her.
That startled a laugh out of her, and Fiyero’s answering grin could have powered the entire city.
“So. Want some help?”
“Don’t you have to go back to your station?”
“I’m off in an hour.”
She hesitated. Did this count as getting involved? She was just looking out for the kitten temporarily, until they found its owner. And she thought of her quiet, empty home. The leftover curry in the fridge. The long stretch of nothing waiting for her.
“Okay,” she said. “Sure.”
“Yeah?” He asked, and Elphaba thought it was unfair that human beings like him could glow at will the way they did. “It’s a date, then.”
“I wouldn’t call it a date—”
He pulled out his phone, already typing. “Just give me your number and we can figure out—”
The siren started before she could finish her sentence. An urgent voice sounded from the car radio. Fiyero’s head snapped toward the street. His body tensed—the easy charm gone, replaced by something alert and sharp and entirely focused.
Behind him the rest of the firefighters were already moving.
The captain called out. “Tigelaar! NOW!”
He turned, then glanced back at Elphaba briefly. Just enough for her to see something flicker across his face—frustration maybe. Or regret. Or both.
“I have to—”
“Go,” she urged. “Obviously go.”
He nodded, already backing away, phone tucked in his pocket, but eyes still on hers.
“Don’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, glanced toward the truck, and looked back at her. “I’ll find you.”
Then he turned and ran.
The trucks roared to life, lights flashing, and within thirty seconds the entire convoy had disappeared around the corner, swallowed by the wail of sirens.
The crowd had dispersed by then. The servers were straightening out the chairs outside the deli.
Elphaba stood on the sidewalk and watched the last of the red taillights vanish into traffic.
She looked down at the little orange bundle.
“So much for a quiet day off, huh?”
The kitten blinked up at her slowly, and began to purr in contentment.
“Don’t get attached,” she warned.
The kitten tucked its face beneath her chin and purred louder.
Elphaba looked back at the empty street.
“I mean it.”
INSPIRED BY THIS WORK (Tumblr Link) - Pls go there and tell her how amazing it is!
