Sometimes
Sometimes they moved.
They changed.
Time had a sick sense of humour, if any, they had decided. He knew how to punish those with treacherous thoughts on their minds.
Even if they were obliged to have them.
It was not that Time had forgotten the party guests that had conspired on several occasions to end him altogether; contrariwise, He kept close watch on the trio.
Toyed with them.
He must have been, for why else would their food: deliciously crunchy scones, moist chunky jams of all kinds, fruits ripe and ready for eating; why would they always always stay completely fresh, untouched by the outside forces that aged and spoiled and wrecked.
And yet, with cruel speed and precision their tea was reduced to quite distasteful temperatures.
Only the tea.
In record time, they had guessed, for it had been so long since they had even seen Time grace the silver devices in which he was kept, the steamy fragrance of freshly brewed tea would be diminished to cold slosh that was entirely unappetising.
It was maddening.
Sometimes it was enough for him to invite himself to the table; uninvited and most certainly unwanted.
There were signs, twitches, movements of when he would be.
Black tea.
Such a fitting tea for him; it matched his dark eyes, his dark thoughts.
The moment his captivatingly ruined hands hovered above the darkest tea, his furry comrades would cast weary glances between them. They knew.
It was time again.
Anyone out-of-the-loop would find the forced jubilation, scurrying and cries of 溺ove down! Move down!quite off-putting, and most uncouth for any social gathering, let alone a tea party.
However, it was to save their tails Thackery and Mallymkun bounded and tumbled haphazardly through the cutlery and china to the farthest seats they could reach before catching his attention.
Sometimes he would rail, rant, wreck and rage; devastating the area far more than Hare ever could in all his wild delusions.
Mostly though, he would sit, golden eyes glossed over with the rigid focus that had burst the wells of his mind, and had run down to blur his vision; darkness of mind turned to the calm darkness of sleep.
He would tilt his head, stare and stare and stare. Like a doll waiting to come to life.
Silent but for the timid sips and reckless 'passing' unique to the tables; the impatient click of his pocket watch when it was yanked from his tattered coat and more violently shoved back in when it failed to anwer Hatter's silent questions.
Hatter spoke very little as time failed to go on.
He did though.
"She's late"
"What time is it?"
"Where's Alice?"
These rhetorical, nearly compulsive statements only became rougher and madder and foreboding as various 鄭lice'swere paraded and prodded and forced before him.
Always wrong.
With every disturbingly un-Alice Alice that he watched walk away, they noticed his clothes get a touch less colourful, his bow droop lower, his hat slip a little further over his eyes.
Eyes became less like Hatter, and more like him.
Hardly a shock when he surfaced more and more.
Sometimes they wondered if Alice would ever come back; one cannot arrive nor be late for tea when Time refused to move at all.
All they could do for now was sleep.
Sometimes they wished he had moved from his seat a wee bit more during the arduous 'days' that they had been praying would pass faster to reach the one called Griblig.
Perhaps if he had, they wouldn't be ducking and diving and salvaging what they could of their tea and biscuits as he ungracefully trampled across the table with an enthusiasm they had long since forgotten.
And finally, he spoke.
"It's you"