A/N. Written for the April round at fictunes_lj on, surprisingly, LJ. And, Thackery turned out saner than expected. Not sure what to think of that.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.
Broken China
There is logic to the disarray, method to the madness no one but the Hatter seems to understand: if it's already broken then it can't be broken again. There is strength in the mismatched cups and saucers scattered between the chipped and smashed china remains that litter the wonky tables amongst scraps of food and spilt tea, chairs all askew.
From here it looks like a battlefield.
He twitches, grabbing the nearest teapot and pouring cold tea into a rattling cup as he calls for sugar, the little white missiles causing the liquid to splash over the sides, adding more stains to the already worn tablecloth and drawing another burst of off-kilter laughter from the over-sized, moth-eaten chair at the far end.
There are only two states of being here, he knows that, complete silence or roaring noise, there is no middle ground. He never knows which is better though, so they switch between the two at the drop of a scone or flash of a hatpin, tuneless nonsense filling the dead air, drowning out the snatches of smoke and ash that hang there, visible just out the corner of his eye and he cannot catch them no matter how he tries. So he calls for that cake now to knock them from the sky in a shower of crumbs that kick up the dirt on impact with the dusty ground of the dusty home he doesn't live in right now, not usually, living instead under white washed walls and warm, dark eyes. There he yells to fill the whiteness, blankness, with something, anything to fill the nothing where nothing sticks, because he remembers, jumbled and tumbled and all mixed up.
He remembers every day that passes, and every day that doesn't, or goes backwards, or sometimes even sideways. He remembers and forgets the leathery wings of the Jabberwocky as it flies overhead, the clatter of the Vorpal sword and the burnt everything. So he never lets anything burn, not in his kitchen, as he jumps at every change, movement or shadow that lies between the trees or the cluttered pots and disorderly pans. He will not let it burn because he knows he's not the only one who remembers and forgets as he hurls the soup tureen at phantoms no one else sees.
For this they call him mad, call all of them mad as they sing about tea trays, call them so behind their backs and to their faces. It makes no difference as he laughs, throwing china cups and butter dishes that bounce harmlessly off of red and black armour, while at the head of their table their ring leader smiles all too widely and their fierce little fighter waves her sword all too overzealously. They're always at tea and never without company, so if this is what it is to be mad then that is fine by him for to be alone would indeed be far worse, so sanity is hardly a high price to pay for laughter and friends and it has been said they must be mad to think about going against the Red Queen, so mad they must be, and it is fine like the best of bone china. It is fact, their fervour working in their favour, never to be taken seriously, accepting insults as complements and questioning the logic of the knight's thinking because surely it is better to be told that their heads are on backwards than not at all.
It is something that makes him laugh all the more, falling from his seat and sending a saucer flying across the table, even as he shakes from the fear of remembering and forgetting, watching their little dormouse friend tell them of the not-Alice and her battle with the Bandersnatch.
He looks twice, and then twice again.
Mally's not mad, not as he is, and not as the presently quiet Hatter is, sitting and listening – or not – as mood strikes, morose at the lack of cheer. No, Mally's not mad, she's furious, her Outlandish without the accent he's so accustomed to sounding strange to his ears as he tugs at them, ties them in a bow, listens more intently. Mally's not mad, not chipped like the crockery or serrated like a knife or anything like a fork at all, all split at strange angles as it is, he is. No, she's more like a spoon, but a spoon is still important, without it how else can he stir the tea?
Tarrant on the other hand, he twitches, glances down the table again and then back, is nothing like a spoon nor a fork, not when he's mad, and mad he is, scatty and thoughtful, the mastermind of Witzend, he is. He's mad as they come, and remembers more than he forgets, so much so that he does forget and so has to be pelted with drinks and Battenberg, remembering about forgetting to eat all manner of other things beginning with E.
That is how it is, like the cutlery he lines up, spoon and knife and fork, surrounded by broken china in a beaten world where time means all and means nothing because there's no time when all they do is wait and wait because the watches have all stopped and nothing makes them tick, not even a goodly helping of cream. But wait they will because they know that broken china and mismatched cutlery may make a mismatched set, but it is a set that is nonetheless complete.
The sound of footsteps, hesitant and curious, catches his attention and he forgets his lines, forgets what goes next in his curious pattern as his wide, wild eyes drop to the too-small girl, too small for her age, smaller than last time but still untamed and blue, always blue so unlike the tea. So he anxiously awaits the maddest of Hatter's verdict as the madman in question crosses the tables, because if their minds are broken then they can't be broken again, and as time begins to tick again… Well, he grins at the spoon in his paw; they can't be defeated if they're already broken.
And broken china works wonders when put back together, mad or otherwise.
He laughs.