Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland, due to the fact that I'm not Lewis Carroll. Which should be fairly obvious. Enjoy!
"Good evening, March."
He suppressed the impulse to turn toward the sound of her voice, telling himself there was no point. Taking another sip from the large brandy in his hand, he pictured it in his head, remembering the countless times they had been in this exact situation. She would be there, almost silhouetted by the harsh hall lights behind her, the glow from his fireplace barely reaching her thin frame, refusing to illuminate her delicate features. Dirty hands would be pulling on the hem of that blue dress—the one she still insisted on wearing, despite the fact that she outgrew it years ago—or perhaps rubbing against the stained and graying apron in a futile attempt to appear clean. It would be a miracle if she had bothered to tame the blonde tangle she called hair.
A small whimper came from the doorway, and he no longer had any choice in the matter. His movements were mechanical, a force of habit: he swiveled around in his chair, sat down his glass, and pulled the chain on the table lamp next to him. The light reached her face; as she worried her bottom lip her sunken eyes surveyed him expectantly, hoping for a reaction.
And he would have reacted. Had he not already been used to similar stunts his eyes might have widened in shock, his voice coming in gasps and nonsensical half-words. As it was, however, he gave no sign that he even noticed her hair—which once fell to her breasts in silken, golden sheets—had been hacked mercilessly short, barely touching her neck, and was now dyed a hideous brown. Though the word 'dyed' was entirely too generous—chunks of faded yellow were still visible here and there.
One look at her sapped him of all his energy. He was tired of her; tired of those dull eyes that watched him ceaselessly, tired of her ever more desperate attempts to gain his attention… Most of all, he was tired of the games they played. With a sigh, he shook his head and turned back toward the fire.
Silence filled the air, but he could almost hear her disappointment, her anger, before the soft whisper of her stockinged feet sliding across the carpet met his ears. He had never rejected her before, and, as she stood quietly by his chair, he wondered mildly how she would take it. What was her next move?
He was answered by a deep thud and the strong smell of brandy—she had knocked over his glass and was now glaring at him. He looked up at her, waiting the space of a heartbeat to speak.
"I was drinking that," he stated. It was simple. It was calm. It was going to infuriate her.
And it did, he could read that plain as day on her beautiful face, but she was insistent on trying to coax him out of this mood. She sat in his lap, throwing her legs long on either side of him, and ground her body against his as she tugged at the already dangerously low neckline of her dress.
"Stop this," he said firmly, turning his face away. She snorted lightly in disapproval, but did not heed his words; one hand worked the buttons of his shirt while the other traveled lower, below his beltline. "Liddell."
Her body froze at that. "You bastard," she spat. "How dare you call me that?"
"Have a little self-respect, peaches."
"'Respect'!" She gave a bark of joyless laughter. "I should respect myself, the way you 'respect' me by putting me on my knees night after night?"
"Don't you dare pretend you weren't the one who started all that." His voice was low, smooth, dangerous. She chose to ignore him, laughing again.
"'Respect'… That's a good one," she said as she removed herself from his lap. "And to think, he says you have no sense of humour."
His nose twitched, a mixture of irritation and disgust. "You should know better than to believe anything that mad bastard says. And what were you doing there in the first place, anyway?"
"None of your business." She crossed her arms over her chest and turned her back on him, like a petulant child, but made no move to leave the room.
"He offered you something."
"Information."
"And what did you offer him in return?"
She wheeled back around, arms dropping to her sides, hands balling into fists. "You think you have any right to talk to me in that condescending tone? You're the one that made me this way!"
Heaving another sigh, he stood and spoke softly. "No. This place made you this way. I wish like hell you had left when you still had the chance."
"You should have made me."
"And I regret my inaction every day!"
He was sorry he had spoken the words as soon as they left his mouth. They seemed to echo around the room, around his head, sounding crueler and crueler each time. His remorse didn't make them any less true, but as he watched her face fall into a heartbreaking mask of sorrow he wished he could take them back, snatch them right out of the air so they could pretend he hadn't said anything.
She pouted, and his brain went on autopilot. His hands were no longer his hands. Though he could see himself pulling her closer, kissing her, laying her down on the brandy-stained rug, he could do nothing to stop. This was wrong, he knew it now more than ever when he saw that shine in her eyes, that unspoken confession of a love he could not—would not—return. But he couldn't stop himself from peeling that damned dress off of her any more than he could stop her from undressing him in turn.
They moved together fervently, rabidly, filling the air with sighs and moans. He kept his mind carefully blank as he thrust into her, counting threads on the rug or strands of her hair to keep his thoughts from wandering. With a groan he peaked, and she joined him seconds later, pulling him down for another kiss.
She watched him as he stood and dressed—he could feel her eyes on him, but he didn't dare look at her until he was fully clothed and seated back in his chair. When his eyes did finally move to her face, she was smirking.
"You're sorry already," she said with a sigh. "I can tell. You're sorry for that, sorry for what you said, sorry that you meant it."
"Listen, peaches, I—"
"No, you listen," she said sharply, cutting him off. She took a moment to brush her hair out of her eyes before continuing, her voice softer now. "He's found me a way back. That's why I was there. He called with a time and a place and a promise of information."
"And you—"
"Fucked him, that's right," she replied, again not letting him finish. "Does that bother you?"
"I knew this little girl once," he began abruptly. "She fell into our lives right out of the sky. Beautiful, charming, funny… And dead smart. She had so much potential. She used spend all day dazzling us with her wit. Far too brilliant a mind lived in the body of that wide-eyed innocent who played in the roses. What ever happened to her? You look like her. You wear her clothes. But you're not her."
"You—"
"The first time you came to me here… Do you remember? You didn't say anything at first; you just kneeled down, staring up at me. And then you begged me. I could hardly believe the words coming out of your mouth. I should have realized then that girl I knew, the girl I would have given my life for, was dead, replaced by a maladjusted woman who thought she could get anything she wanted if she slid out of her dress. But I didn't. I bowed to your every whim, I gave you what you wanted."
"And you gave it to me good." She stood, still naked but unabashed. "You could have stopped me, you know. You could have said no, could have refused. But you just watched. I can understand a man being weak in such situations—you were taken by surprise, your guard was down. But the next time? Or the time after that?"
"What are you trying to do here?" he demanded. "Make me confess to something? Well here it is: I regret every moan, every sigh, every cry of ecstasy you voiced by my hand. I was stupid. I was weak. And I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't relieved that you're going."
Her face turned from anger to a carefully arranged façade of indifference. She silently pulled her dress back on, eyes focused on the carpet. "I loved you, March," she whispered, so quietly that at first he couldn't be sure she had spoken at all. But there was venom in those words, stinging him in a way he never thought possible. Moments later she was back in the hall, slamming the door behind her, leaving him in his solitude.
He wanted to go after her. He wanted to hold her close, stroke her hair. He wanted to admit that he loved her too, that he had been lying to her, to himself, the entire time; he wanted to convince her to stay.
That's the way it's supposed to go, isn't it? he thought. The walls of his room were lined with books, and all of them had that same exact ending. But that wasn't life. At least, that wasn't his life. He had loved her, at one point. He knew he had, though he couldn't pin down in his memory the moment he fell in, or the moment he fell out. A feeling of emptiness welled inside him as he realized that his words would be the reason she left—she came to him looking for a reason to stay, and he all but spat in her face, kicking her out the door.
That emptiness he felt, though, was not from the knowledge that he would never see her again—he never wanted to see that girl again. It was merely his heart longing for the person she once was, and knowing that even if, by some chance, she ever was that person again, she wouldn't be around for him to take notice.
It was wishful thinking. She started on the road between who she was and who she became the moment she decided not to return home. This place, he knew, was not fit for a growing child. It was more poisonous to her than anything, and he was the idiot who didn't see the signs: every crude, offhand remark; her reluctance to find clothing that fit properly; the jealousy she inspired that drove a wedge between him and his best friend.
He could have saved her…
And he could still save her.
A shred of the girl she was still lived somewhere inside that lustful creature. He had seen it, small flashes of it, in the way she moved, or the way she talked, or the way she fixed her hair. Mere seconds had passed since she stormed out—there was still time to go to her and apologize, wasn't there? He could explain himself fully, put her back on the right path. She could stay, she could be that girl again, and they could have a life together.
He allowed visions of this to dance in his mind, like a slide show of the happiness they could share, but he couldn't block out that one damning thought: even if he could fix her, even if they could have that simple, blissful life, she would still be there, in his world. He could convince himself that she was salvageable, but there was no changing the fact that she didn't belong.
It was too cruel to finally, after so many months, understand that she could be saved, she could be the girl he loved once again, but that it would never be him to show her all she was worth, all she deserved. He cursed his stupidity, angry and demoralized by having taken so long to come to such an obvious conclusion, and, with nothing else to do, he poured another brandy out of sheer need to keep himself busy.
Minutes passed and he heard her stomping down the hall; seconds later the front door crashed shut as she left. If he stepped to the window, he could have had one last glance at her as she tramped away. It might have been the final straw, the image that convinced him to throw away his previous decision and go after her…
He made no move. He stayed rooted to the spot next to his drink cart, but raised the brandy in his hand toward the closed blinds.
"I wish you nothing but the best," he said, hoping that, somehow, she would know he had said the words, that instinct would tell her he really did care.
There was that wishful thinking again. With a shake of his head, he banished the thought from his mind. He gave a small laugh at his own foolishness, said, "Cheers, Alice," and drained the glass.