Discovering Jonathan's secret shames had to have been among the most enjoyable pastimes his partner had ever hit upon. Normally what that entailed was unearthing a slew of guilty pleasures or dredging up little indulgences that revealed The Scarecrow for the human he was, rather than some ethereal monster, as he so wished to be seen. Being one of those most humanizing and simultaneously most clandestine secrets himself, Jervis wasn't surprised to discover a parallel fondness for candies, sugary cocktails, swing music, or the small creature comforts which he outwardly rejected. But The Hatter could tell. The man liked to be comfortable, he liked a nice soft bed, and plush quilts, and a little someone to hold. Though like a snake, he recoiled, it was plain to see that Jonathan was warmth-starved.
But all of that had nothing on the other things he kept hidden away. Now that was really where the money was, if you were betting on humiliation. Syntactical stones to be flipped over, one by one, each revealing some dismaying insect baring snatches of a deep Georgian drawl on their hard, loathsome shells. Jervis took as much delight in the chagrin this process resulted in, as well as learning as much about his strange March Hare as possible.
The first time he truly recognized his stifled accent for what it was had been one damp and early July morning, throughout which the duo nestled snuggly together in a heap of pillows and blankets, residing in the back of an otherwise empty laundromat. The place had been abandoned by its owners for a holiday out of town, leaving their place of business unguarded against the likes of squatters. Moreover, the store room was full of unclaimed bedding and other articles which made the floor a much more comfortable place to sleep. Despite the ugly wood-paneled walls, the arrangement was pleasing, even romantic, with the pitter-pattering rain on the window and all.
The days they'd spent assaulting and brain-washing each other were growing scarce, and in their place a more tender emotion seemed to kindle, which would mean that Jervis had emerged victorious from their two-man war. He didn't like to consider this a matter of Jonathan bending to his wills, but rather finally seeing his way. That was a much pleasanter way of putting it. After all, it felt so very fine to feel two spidery hands rested on his back, a pair of long arms twined round his middle, and a warm chest in which to bury his face. He'd woken first, and taken this time to reflect, but it hadn't been more than some ten or twelve minutes before Jonathan stirred and ruffled his thatch of cornflour hair with a stretch, lazily kissing the top of his head as a good beau ought to. It was no less than idyllic, as mornings went.
Still only three-fourths awake at best, Jonathan began to mumble something to his Hatter, endearments probably, or perhaps something about his plans for the day. Or breakfast, maybe. That would be nice. It wasn't until his tone began to clean itself up into a more decipherable volume did Jervis notice the slur in his speech.
The smaller man wriggled away far enough to shift and propped himself up on one elbow, so he might have a chance to look around and be sure that he wasn't hearing a tv, or a radio, or some feral animal rattling around in the walls by mistake. "Sorry dear, would you mind—could you repeat that please?"
Jonathan dragged a drowsy palm across one eye before replying, and the resulting verbiage was unmistakable. It was low and scratchy, deep and foreboding in tone, humiliatingly twangy in timbre. "Ay jus'—whir'd yew put my glassus?"
Jervis did not afford him so much as a beat of silence before bursting into terribly insulting peels of giggles which startled his mate just well enough to snap his learned diction back into action.
"What!? What on Earth has gotten into you Tetch, just what are youbraying at now?"
But the damage had been done, and Jervis would never let him forget.
