"And then," Hatter says, "I told him, 'mate, you probably don't want to be trying that,' which in hindsight was clearly a terrible idea, because he goes off with the whole lot of it, and I don't think I need to tell you how the story ends."
He's sitting on the countertop, cheerfully eating his cold pizza while the rain pounds down outside. The power's been out for two hours; the kitchen is lit by a few dim candles but not much else.
"Ouch," Alice says.
"Itching powder," Hatter says solemnly. "Not for amateurs."
"Apparently," Alice says. She surreptitiously peels a charred slice of banana off her pizza; he's been getting ideas ever since he tried Hawaiian, and some of his culinary experiments have been more successful than others.
He sees her. "Do you not like my pizza?"
She pops the last off it into her mouth, pushing herself away from the counter to insinuate herself between his knees. "I love your pizza," she says around a mouthful of crust.
"Dirty girl," he says, abandoning his slice on the counter to slide his arms around her waist. "Go away with those innuendos of yours."
"All in your head, Hatter," Alice says, swallowing. His eyes, fixed on the movement of her throat, are liquid-dark in the candlelight.
"A likely story," he says. "Scarlet-woman that you are."
His hands slip lower down her back, and he bends to kiss her. "Mmph," she says, and she pulls away from his lips and raises herself on her toes to tip the battered grey newsboy off his head, saying softly in his ear, "You're not averse to moving this party elsewhere, are you?"
"Oi, girl, what have we said about manhandling the haberdashery," he says, and when her eyebrow quirks he runs a hand through his wild hair and adds, "Yeah, shutting up now."
He hops down off the counter to follow her as the rain pings off the windows.