Just a little something which has been working itself together for the past few days. Hatter's expensive looking headphones got me thinking that he probably enjoys music with his tea, so this ficlet was born from a song which felt very appropriate. Enjoy.

Alice/Hatter.

Disclaimer(s): I don't own the song, and I obviously don't own the characters. If you're reading this you've probably watched the miniseries, if not get on that before you have it spoiled.

*~*~*

Everything to Nothing

The oysters were cheering, quite stupidly in his opinion since they hadn't the slightest idea the significance of Alice's raised fist—ring in hand—or really where they were or for that matter, why they were there. And once the cheering subsided there were plans to be made and order to put things back in, a former queen to deal with, and oysters to send home. Alice had taken almost immediately to tending to the oysters and their cheery confusion and was to accompany them to, and presumably through, the Looking Glass before the day was out. Having felt suddenly, awkwardly lost in the burgeoning restoration, he slipped away, quickly, quietly, back to his tea shop.

He did not notice that someone had violently failed to keep off the grass. He did not notice the smashed bottles of oyster teas dripping from the shelves. If he noticed the overturned sofa and flickering lamps, he paid them no attention. In a daze, he made a proper cup of tea, sat in his white swivel chair, and threw his feet up on the desk. He did not notice the paperwork—strewn about and damaged—upon which his feet had taken up residence. His hat tricked its way to the desktop and was absentmindedly replaced by the large headphones folded across the chair back. So he was, silent and tea-drinking, for a length of Wonderland time. And when he was done with his tea, steadied and slightly less lost, he continued to not notice the disastrous state of his tea shop and instead went on reclining silently. And mind ticking slowly, brow furrowed, music loud, he reflected.

Though he reflected on many things, he willed himself not to think about Alice or her imminent departure. But the sidestepped memories beckoned him back, nipped at his heels as he kicked them away, and he avoided them right into a corner where they piled atop him, warm and soft and welcoming. They nibbled on his fingers, begging to be paid attention, and he knew they would be comfortable to cozy up to, so he caved under their persistence and looked at each of them, one by one. What he saw was a train wreck. Somewhere along the way she had crept in and ransacked the place. Had he noticed the mess made of his poor teashop, he might have noted that his heart was far worse off.

He saw her wet and angry in the tea shop. She was angry that she was being exchanged for a price. She was angry that Jack had been taken. She was angry that he was ogling her rather than helping. It was hard not to find her entertaining, he recalled. Silly oyster caught up in something she couldn't hope to escape. Then again, she had managed to get away once, and he was intrigued.

Then she was standing outside the door panicking over the height of the exit. Irritating, exasperating—really, it wasn't such a big deal, and the ledge was so wide—but he held her hand and her gaze. And she still wasn't anything special, just a grey-eyed oyster way in over her head.

But then there was the library. Standing there in his head, memories playing back, he saw her make her sly little entrance. She was fighting and running and yelling for him and pulling him to his feet and saving them both. And then she was worried and angry again. Always angry with him. He saw it then, well not it exactly—he still didn't really understand how she made it in—but it was still so clear that in that moment she was no longer just another oyster. Suddenly he wanted to see her safe, wanted her to not be so upset with him, with a desperation which defied even Wonderland logic. They fought outside on their way back to the tea shop. Again. Even now he could feel the burn, the stinging sort of irrational rage he had in that instant at Jack, the way she still saw him then.

So it went, escalating in his memories. Running from Mad March and escaping the Jabberwocky and meeting Charlie and eating around the fire. They had argued. Again. Kind of. He could feel the way his heart had twisted with guilt when he mentioned the ring, when he saw her eyes screw up at the edges and her lips pull tight at the corners the way they did when she was hurt. It was the moment he was conscious of the odd something going on in his chest. He remembered the fear that gripped him when he awoke to find her gone, to find the jacket left hanging. The blood in his veins felt cold and heavy, trickling when it should flow, and the world had taken to spinning. When he tried to explain Alice's return to the casino to Charlie, he distinctly recalled the strange way his voice choked in his throat.

The memories began their retreat—her leaping across the pit into his arms, her warm and holding tight to him on the flamingo, fighting on the beach and in the woods, and her lips so close, and her arms around him again—and he was becoming restless and uncomfortable. I don't know what to do, not anymore, not anymore, the headphones sang in his ears, bringing him sharply from his silent reverie. Paperwork fell to the floor as he dragged his feet from the desk—he paid them no mind. Elbows digging into knees, hands laced beneath his chin, frustration knotted in his brow and chewing his lip, and in the pit of his stomach a churning anxiety at the weight holding his heart from beating the way it ought. There was no explanation for it, no tale to spin it sensible, but it was there: something warm and wonderful and paralyzing and better, so much better, than the bottles' wonder. And you, well you mean everything, the headphones went on prodding. The oyster girl who somehow tore through his stronghold, wiped out his forces, and held him prisoner was stepping through the Looking Glass—soon, or maybe she already had—and he was in shambles. Alice would leave without picking up the pieces, without putting in order everything she had strewn about, without cleaning up the mess she'd made. There would be nothing. He wrung his hands, ever so slightly. You mean everything to nothing.

If it wasn't already too late, it would be if he didn't go now. His hat tricked to his head, chair spinning, Hatter fled the tea shop. The forgotten headphones, dashed to the floor, sang to the empty room.

You mean everything to nobody but me…

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The song is "Everything to Nothing" by Manchester Orchestra, if you'd like to go have a listen. :)