....hello Alice, stealer of souls. I um. Really liked this miniseries a lot. (A lot.) Enough to get me writing again, at least. Not sure where this little vignette came from buuuut. Yeah. Took a few liberties, possibly. As always, I hope everyone enjoys!
Begin at the Beginning
Everything must start somewhere.
In Hatter's case, everything starts with a hat.
"You look different."
He's thirteen years old- or was it twelve? Ten? Ten is the age of life-altering events- ask Alice or Charlie-, so it wouldn't be much of a stretch to say ten (except there are two years sandwiched between ten and thirteen, and a hot-blooded thirteen year-old boy does perceive things differently than a ten year-old). He is of an age, at least, to understand the importance of appearances.
"Yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow; the corner of his lip rises with it, because he hasn't quite mastered the art just yet, and really, if he were to be faithful in his recollection, both eyebrows went up despite his efforts. He is, however, not so concerned about faithful recollection, as it would include copious amounts of extra sticky manufactured-only-in-Wonderland tape- for schooling the eyebrow during his spare time, of course.
The extra sticky Wonderland tape that was responsible for his introduction to the concept of (unintentional) waxing.
Which is neither here nor there.
As far as anyone is concerned, he is a boy who could be ten or thirteen and his eyebrow (singular) is raised as jauntily as the angle of his hat- a black and white checkered number he pilfered from a street vendor who sold knockoffs in a seedy back alley. Pilfered being the term Hatter used. The street vendor, on the other hand, swore up and down that she had done the boy a favor by giving him a hat "to cover the ridiculous mop on top of his head."
Herein lies the irony- the ridiculous mop turns even more ridiculous in order to accommodate the hat. Hats. Hatter does not stop at the black and white checkered number; it will have plenty of siblings.
"The…the ha-" The boy who becomes the fellow known as Dormouse yawns expansively. His jaw creaks with the effort. His eyes water and his eyelids droop. Gravity pulls his chin ever downward, but he jerks up sharply at a nudge from Hatter. Blinks. "The hat. Why are you wearing a hat?"
"Why are you always tired?" Hatter nudges his companion again. They sit side-by-side, and their feet dangle over the edge of a precipice, one of many in Wonderland. It is about midday, the sun partially obscured by clouds.
"I don't sl- sl-" Another yawn. "-sleep enough, probably."
"Don't sleep enough." Hatter says, both impressed and incredulous.
The boy who becomes the fellow known as Dormouse nods drowsily. "Mm-hm."
"You sleep more than anybody I know. And I know a lot of people."
"That hat," says the boy, now lucid and direct, "suits you. I like it."
Hatter grins. "So do I. Stylish, right?" He runs his fingers along the wide brim while overhead, a Scarab ferrying a fresh batch of Oysters to the casino glides past. Hatter's tasted the tea before, once or twice; he's felt the instant rush of emotion and consequently, the emptiness that follows. The desire for another fix, just one more.
Not his cup of tea. No, real tea, the kind brewed with tea leaves, is Hatter's drug of choice.
Doesn't mean he can't envy the Oysters a little, though.
Beside him, his narcoleptic friend snores gently. His face has since settled against Hatter's shoulder. Hatter heaves a long-suffering sigh, watches as the Scarab grows smaller the further away it travels. "No drooling," he says idly to the comatose boy, who doesn't acknowledge him.
He pushes the brim of the hat up with his thumb. The Scarab is merely a spec in the distance.
"And that, as they say, is that," Hatter concludes grandly. His feet, crossed at the ankles, rest atop Alice's coffee table. He knows she hates when he does this, and is waiting to see how long it takes her to crack.
Not long at all, turns out. "Hatter. Feet."
"I have them, yes. And so do you. And so does-"
"Hatter."
"Killjoy," he sniffs, and drapes his legs across Alice's lap instead. She huffs to cover her laughter, and rather than shove him off, she puts one hand on his knee, leans her head back against the couch.
"What happened to the black and white hat?" Her fingers move in circles over his jean-clad knee.
"Oh, I've still got it," he says. "…Somewhere."
"Outgrew it, huh?"
"Are you implying," Hatter says in an injured tone, "that my head's large?"
"I would never," Alice replies gravely.
Hatter crosses his arms like a petulant child and sticks his nose in the air. "After all I've done for you," he laments. "After all I've-"
Alice kisses him then, and he congratulates himself on a job well done.
He knows exactly where the black and white checkered hat is. He left it behind in Wonderland, where it belonged.
Because, if everything must start somewhere, everything must end somewhere, too.