A/N: Hello. My second shot at an Alice/Hatter story because, after thorough research, I realized the characterization in my last one was absolutely awful and incredibly off. So I tried again. I think I got it this time. I also wrote for five hours straight to get this plot bunny out of my head, so I hope I get some credit. Forgive me for my stunningly sinful use of italics, though. I had no other choices.
This is a play on the song "People Will Say We're In Love' from the musical Oklahoma!. I love that song, and I just had to write this or I'd die. So here we are. It's been a terribly long day, and I did comb through this a couple times to make sure I got all the grammatical errors, but if I missed anything, please let me know so I may fix it. Thank you so much!
The strange words that I use in here were found on phrontistery . com.
DISCLAIMER: Not currently owning these characters. And I probably never will. ;(
enjoy!
"Tarrant," Alice said, gently pulling her arm from his and halting their slow walk. It was quite the surprise, since her arm linked in his was just what he had been thinking about. It added a great deal of W words to his list, such as warmth and wonderful and woozified and wegotism and he was terribly inclined to make woozified his own personal word because it certainly described how he felt when she-
"Tarrant," she said again, louder. His thought process broke off as his orange brows lifted and he turned his attention to her.
"Yes?" he inquired in his soft lisp.
"I have a question. A serious question. And you musn't laugh when I ask it," she demanded, her eyes focused on the ground. The Hatter smiled with his gap-toothed smile and turned to face her fully.
"Ask away," he replied, sweeping his hat off his head in a low bow. Returning to his upright state, he replaced his hat onto his crown of wild orange hair, and continued. "Any question that can be asked, must be asked. Though, not every question that must be asked can be asked," he paused, and a look of surprised consideration graced his pale features. "And not everything that you must ask can be a question. It's rather common for a non-question to be asked, but not at all common to hear a non-statement formed as a question. Peculiar, really. I wonder-"
A hand over his mouth slowed his speech, before it trailed to a finish.
"Are you done?" Alice asked, her eyebrows raised skeptically. He nodded against her hand. "Good." His skin was cold, as was her hand when she pulled it away.
"What was your question, my dear Alice?"
"It's about something that's been concerning me for a while now, Hatter," she began. "I know it's simply speculation, and that I can't do anything about it, but I don't like speculation. It bothers me." She sat down, landing with a sigh. "It concerns you too, you know." She looked up at her companion, who made a face and sat down behind her, his back against hers.
"Speculation. Hum," he sighed. "I'm afraid there's not much to be done about that." He twiddled with the teacup he had taken with him from the tea party. It was empty, not one drop of tea in it, but according to him, it was full of ideas.
"No, indeed," Alice sighed along with him, and they sat together in silence for a few moments. Hatter broke the quiet.
"What is it that they're speculating about, Alice?"
"It's not precisely a comfortable thing that they're saying," she warned. "It is, altogether, a little awkward."
"Altogether, it's absolutely awkward and anything around altruistic is..." he trailed off, his word bank coming up blank. "...Wrong," he finished lamely, with a grin.
"Hatter, people are saying we're in love." It was blunt, straight to the point. Sharp, like the arrow pin on his left lapel. Striking straight to the heart. All thought in his brain ceased, and the only thing that registered was lovelovelovelovealicelove...Alice?
Alice was slightly uneasy. Hatter had gone rigid as a table top when she spoke to him, and had remained so for several minutes. She could feel his taut muscles against her back, stiffer than she thought possible. She listened to the sound of Mallymkum and Hare bickering in the distance, the echo of a shattering plate, the frantic cries of Hare as he tried to fix the ladybug accidentally squished in the midsts of their battle.
"Hatter?" She ventured after he had been wordless for six minutes and four wars between the tea party participants. She twisted around and touched his arm carefully. "Tarrant?"
"Preposterous!" He shouted, flinging his teacup away and startling Alice soundly. "In love? With him?" The teacup shattered against a tree, its plentiful ideas trickling down the bark.
Alice's heart skipped a beat. Was it so preposterous? She wondered. But then again, could she be in love with The Hatter? That idea in itself was- well, mad.
"I have not the slightest clue how they came to that conclusion. Is there something in the way we act that could lead them to think this?"
The milliner lifted his bandaged hands to scratch his head. "I had a few ideas, but I am afraid I lost them," he frowned, gesturing to the tree.
They sat in a companionable atmosphere of thoughtful peace, each looking back on how they had acted during their friendship.
"Perhaps we make a list," he suggested.
"Yes, a list," Alice agreed. "That would be a most helpful start. Do you have any paper?"
"Plenty." He reached up to his hat and snatched out a small scrap of paper. "Oh, that won't ever do," he clicked his tongue, then lifted the paper to his lips, and blew on it. Alice watched in amazement as the paper grew before her eyes. "There!" He exclaimed, and offered the now-full-sized paper to the blonde.
She took it. "You wouldn't happen to have a-"
He cut her off with the flourish of a hand, in which he held a pen. A caterpillar? No, a pen. Alice gingerly accepted the writing utensil that bore an unsettling resemblance to a certain insect, and began writing. After a brief interlude in which Hatter was distracted by the ink that suddenly stained his fingers, he leaned over her shoulders and watched her scratch words onto the paper.
"1.) Don't throw bouquets of flowers at me."
"I would never-!" he started to deny, shocked and offended, but a memory made its way to the top of his brain, and he was silenced.
Alice had entered the throne room just as Mirana, The White Queen, had procured a flower for Tweedledee. Tweedledum stared in dumbfounded awe while the flower changed colors, and then turned into a butterfly and flew away.
"Wow..." the two boys breathed.
"Did you do that, Your Highness?" Alice wondered, almost as awed as the twins.
"Yes," the Queen answered simply, and turned back to the Hatter to continue the conversation that had been interrupted by a bickering pair of idiots. "Tarrant, I want you to make me a hat to top all hats. The hat of the season. The hat of all seasons. I want this hat to be better than any hat you've made before."
"Better than any other hat?" He repeated. Alice watched his eyes carefully, but instead of melting to gold, as she expected, they grew an even brighter green. He smiled excitedly. "Oh, this is wonderful!"
Later, as Alice escorted the Hatter back to his workshop, she listened to the ideas the spewed from his mouth with unfettered jubilation. He skipped down the hallways, arms flying around in the air as he spoke.
"It will have buttons and lace and satin and sparkles and all means of bright shining things! Stars and teatrays and magpies and turtleshells and fireflies and bats and windows- hats are the windows to your soul, you know- and curtains and maggots- no, no, not maggots. Bad idea, very grim. Very slimy." He wiggled his fingers and grimaced. "What season is it anyway? Foot-shrinking season? Celebration season? Means-to-an-end season?" He spun on his heel and walked backwards, looking to Alice for an answer.
"Winter," she supplied.
"Winter! Yes, that mean flowers!" The madman chortled with glee, tripped on the hem of his pants, and stumbled to the ground, landing flat on his back. Alice let out a cry of concern, and fell to her knees by his side. He was completely oblivious to the fact that he was staring up at her from the ground. He rattled on, "Flowers are the most wonderful thing to put on a hat. That is, until they wilt and fade. Better than snow. Snow just melts- I can see why nobody buys the snow hats in the summer," he nodded wisely.
"You odd man!" she laughed, and pulled him up. He didn't walk, but stared down at her darkly, his chin almost resting on his chest.
"Odd? You don't like flowers on hats?" He stuck his bottom lip out petulantly, his brow furrowed and eyes concerned.
"I do like flowers," Alice protested, and pulled his hand to keep him walking. "But it's winter, and winter is when all the flowers die."
Instead of answering, though, Hatter just pushed open the door to his shop, where they had just arrived, and pulled her in. He pointed to a vase sitting on his desk, where a bouquet of gorgeous flowers opened and sang happily to the pair as they entered.
"Hatter, these are beautiful!" she exclaimed, dropping his hand and moving past him to the flowers.
"They're for you," he replied tenderly.
"For me?" Alice looked up, surprised and touched. The air around them was quiet, save the singing flowers, and they stared into each other's eyes-
The moment was slightly ruined when the Hatter reached past her, grabbed the flowers out of the vase, and chucked them at her.
The Hatter looked at Alice, and gave her a lopsided grin. "I got excited."
" 'Excited' means you get ahead of yourself, not that you throw flowers at your friend," she replied, not looking up from what she was writing.
"2. Don't laugh at my jokes too much."
"In my defense, you're a very silly child," he muttered into her ear, his breath disturbing her hair and tickling her jaw.
"3. Don't sigh and gaze at me."
A blush spread over his parchment-white features, and he remained silent. Alice stopped writing, and turned her face to look at him. Their cheeks brushed and his eyes shot to hers, locking her in an electric hold. She found, suddenly, that her lungs weren't functioning and she needed to look away right now if she wanted to breathe again. With an enormous amount of effort, she ripped her eyes from his and looked back to the paper.
"4. Don't keep collecting things."
Hatter was still groping to recover a sense of anything- direction, sight, spelling- when she spoke again.
"You do still have my gloves and my rose, right?" She inquired. He nodded, but he realized that she couldn't see him, so he swallowed hard and spoke.
"No. Yes!" he corrected himself quickly. "I meant to say 'yes' the first time. It got away from me. Sneaky bat."
There was a pause, then- "I...I don't have to give them back, do I?" he asked in a small voice.
"No, I suppose not," she replied, a smile in her voice.
"Wonderful," he sighed in relief. He didn't know if he could bear to part with the gloves, especially the right one. The thumb had ripped off, and he found that the small slip of fabric was perfect for warming his knives on a cold day. A thought struck him just then, and he snatched the paper out of her hand. Ignoring her exclamation of shock, he grabbed the pen, too, and held them from her at arm arm's length in his left hand.
"You know, love, you're just as guilty as I am for spreading dissension-" the word rolled off his tongue as if it were a hissing wind. "-Among the people." He poked her nose with his free hand, and giggled when she scowled at him.
"What have I done?" She pouted.
"If you'd just let me write, you impatient girl, you'd see!" He scooted away and turned his back to her, hunching over the paper and writing fervently. He muttered an 'oops' when the pen broke through the paper for the third time, but kept writing. Alice huffed and rolled her eyes. She leaned one elbow on the ground and rested her head on her hand, picking at the ground with the other hand. Her hair fell over her shoulder and mingled with the grass and dirt. A high-pitched giggle sounded from Tarrant, and his body shook with suppressed laughter. She watched him, her heart doing a strange twist in her chest. Seeing him laugh made her feel light, made her blood feel like golden liquid, made her own smile bigger-
No, she thought firmly. Not in love. Just...friends. Good friends. Wonderful, best friends.
"Done!" He announced proudly, and brandished the sheet in the air like a weapon. "Here. Read it."
Alice took the paper and scanned it. She furrowed her brow. "Tarrant, I hate to tell you this, but this is not legible," she handed the paper back to him. "I can't read it."
His gap-toothed smiled dropped into a scowl and he took the paper out of her hand with no small amount of contempt. "You're just not doing it right," he grumbled. "It seems to fall to me to read it to you." He cleared his throat. Fluttering his milk-white eyelashes regally, he puffed out his chest and opened his mouth to speak, as if he was about to announce something of great importance.
"One- Don't praise my charm too much."He winked. "You can't deny that on many an occasion, you've admitted to my being very charming. I'll give you that I'm not as charming as a butterfly or crumpet, but I'm charming nonetheless. And you've said so yourself, Alice, love."
It was Alice's turn to blush, and she made no reply but to look down.
"Is it more flattering to be charming or muchful?" He mused. "I think, my dear, that you have a great deal of both." He was looking at her solemnly, and she couldn't tell what color his eyes were. They weren't green, and they certainly weren't gold, but more of a muted blue, a warm grey, a color that she hadn't seen before and she didn't want to speculate on what it signified. Speculate. That word again.
"Two- Don't look so vain with me,"he read next.
"What's that even supposed to mean?" Alice interjected.
"The question is, what does it not mean?" His orange eyebrows pulled together, as if he were in deep thought. "It doesn't mean that you're a fly, and it certainly doesn't mean that you're a rocking-horse fly. I can't possibly mean that you are a spicket or a spout, and I would be appalled if it implied that you are as tacky as taffy." The Hatter shook his head, disgusted at the thought. "What it does mean, I'm not sure we will ever figure out. Unless we asked it. But- I don't know if it is quite in the mood for questions right now," he lowered his voice. "We best leave it alone, then.
"Three- Don't take my arm too much." He paused then. "Alice, keep in mind that this is strictly for metaphorical uses only. I think my arm would be rather lonely if you stopped taking it," he admitted.
His companion smiled, and moved close to him, wrapping her arm in his. "I promise I won't," she vowed softly. He looked back to his paper, and cleared his throat again.
"It goes for this next one, too." Tarrant glanced to the girl who currently had his arm in a curiously tingly feeling. Tingly, tremoring, taction, tanti, touch. "Four- Don't keep your hand in mine." He felt her thin, fragile finger melding to fit within his bandaged and calloused ones. Hers were the fingers of a lady, of a precious glass doll, but also the fingers of a warrior. The fingers of the warrior who killed the Jabberwock, and that was something he must never forget. Broken glass cuts deep.
She had cut deep indeed.
"Your hands are trembling." Her voice washed over him like a refreshing wind in a burning desert.
"Oh."
She raised the hand that was entangled in hers to her lips.
His grip on her hand increased in pressure. "And you know, people wouldn't talk if you hadn't made my favorite pie the other day."
"Hatter, you persisted for weeks. I told you I couldn't bake, and yet, you insisted that I bake your pie," she laughed, and it was a melody to hear.
He shrugged. "It needed to be done."
"Well, you are the one who carved our initials in a tree," Alice pointed out, tilted her head and looking up at him from under her lashes, a smile growing on her lips.
Hatter was becoming increasingly nervous. "Alice, I-"
"It wasn't me who suggested we stand in the rain in the palace gardens to admire the way dirt soaks up water," she pinned him with another accusation, her smirk blossoming into a grin. "Or who wanted to dance all night after the ball on Jabberwocky day. Or who-"
Suddenly, his eyes were that color. The color of a breaking sky and the color of her dress and the color of the soft petals of a bazelweed flower and blue and grey and purple and deep. Suddenly, his hand wasn't in hers or gripping paper, but cupping her face. Suddenly, her smile was covered by another, and her breath wasn't hers to give. Suddenly, her hands were clutching his shirt and her eyes were shut to the world and the only thing she could think was the line to that poem he had recited to her so long ago- come to my arms, my beamish boy- and she knew why a raven was like a writing desk and she believed only one impossible thing. One impossible, unbelievable, and unprecedented thought, and she knew that that thought was the color of his eyes.
His hand stroked her hair, and she smiled. "Sweetheart, they're suspecting things," she whispered, and he kissed her again.