Fixing You

A Corpse Bride/ "Alice: Madness Returns" Fanfic

By Flaming Trails

Chapter 1

January 18th, 1876

Houndsditch Home, Whitechapel, England

3:07 P.M.

Ahhh. . .so this is what peace feels like.

Alice smiled over the top of her book at the front foyer of the Houndsditch Home. Before her, Abigail, Elsie, and Harriet played quietly with the dollhouse, for once not arguing over who was going to be the Mummy and who had to be the Baby. Nearby, Reggie put the toy soldiers through their paces before the fireplace, marching them up and down the old bricks. The rest of the rabble was upstairs, being instructed in the finer points of Draughts by June. If there were any arguments up there, it appeared her coworker had them well-covered. I didn't expect them to be so well-behaved once Christmas was over and done with, she admitted to herself, as Elsie rocked Baby in her crib and Abigail had Mummy put supper in the tiny oven, all to the tune of Reggie's "Hup! Two, three, four. . . ." Maybe they're still all tuckered out from the excitement of getting some new toys for a change, as well as the usual clothes and shoes.

"Or purrhaps they've simply become sneakier about their misbehaving."

Alice glanced to the side as Cheshire appeared in a flash of sparkly light. He hopped up and settled himself across her lap. "Familiarity breeds craftiness as well as contempt," he continued, wiggling an ear.

Fair enough, but no one would ever accuse this lot of being the most subtle of children, Alice reminded him, scratching his head before turning back to her book. And besides, we have more than enough eyes for all of them for a change. Not to mention one less child. She snorted. Would you have guessed the underwear-stealer would be the first to be adopted under the new regime?

"Truly a riddle for the ages," Cheshire replied, kneading her skirt. "Though I suppose there is something to be said for the classics. Mr. and Mrs. Twinnings may have simply been amused by the prospect of being the relations of a thief called Oliver."

Wasn't the happy ending of that serial Oliver getting out of poverty and thieving and – ah. Right.

Cheshire chuckled. "Never underestimate what lengths people will go to in order to ape what they admire."

How can I – I've met Victor's mother, Alice retorted, rolling her eyes. Though admittedly I can't see her adopting an orphan even if she thought it would make her look good. Considering the job she did on Victor, that's all for the best.

"Indeed." Cheshire's tail flicked against her leg. "How is your chosen life partner?"

Oh dear. That was a question. Alice bit her lip, one hand finding its way to the silver omega resting around her neck. Well –

"All right, where did you lot put it this time?"

Currently, as annoyed as a wet hen.

She set down her book as Victor appeared in the doorway, hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. Elsie and Abigail giggled, completely unaffected by the Swell That Walks Whitechapel's glare. "Put what?" Abigail sing-songed, all innocence.

"You know darn well what," Victor said, folding his arms. "It's the third time this week you've snuck it out of our room!"

"Which is excessive even for the simplest prank," Alice agreed. "The least you could do is vary what you take."

"We didn't do nothing," Elsie declared, straightening her cap.

"Ah – grammar," Alice said, holding up a finger. "Two negatives in a row mean you did do something."

"You can't prove noth – anything," Abigail corrected herself. "And you can't do like the White King and Queen and put us in jail before we did wrong."

"No, but I can at least try to make things fair." Alice stood up, waving Cheshire away – he jumped to the floor and vanished. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way," she continued, directing her own frown at the children. "The easy way is to just return his sketchbook, and we'll say no more about it."

"And the hard way?" Elsie asked, smirking as she put her head to one side.

"I give him that dollhouse."

The smirk vanished. "That's not fair!" Elsie protested, scrambling to her feet and standing protectively in front of the miniature home.

"Oh, isn't it?" Alice stepped forward, making Elsie shrink back. "Something you love for something he loves? Seems quite balanced to me."

"Why don't you give him your sketchbook?" Abigail said, fists on her hips.

"Because I'm not the one who took his." Alice shook her head. "If you're going to keep being naughty, you have to take the consequences. All you have to do to keep your toy is return what you stole."

"Would you really take their dollhouse?" Reggie asked Victor, holding a soldier on his lap.

Victor's response was to take two long strides and grab the house's roof. Abigail and Elsie promptly threw themselves on it. "If holding this hostage is the only way I'll ever be able to draw anything again. . . ."

"It's not yours!" Elsie squawked.

"You can't do anything with it!" Abigail cried.

"Oh, stop being babies!" Harriet snapped. She reached under the dollhouse floor and extracted a slim book bound in gray-speckled leather. "Here, Victor. Please let it go?"

"No!"

"Hey!"

Victor's hand darted out – but Abigail was faster, snatching the sketchbook from Harriet and running for the hall. Victor promptly released the house and took off in pursuit. "Get her! Get her!" Reggie cheered, bouncing on his bottom and upsetting his troops.

"Can't catch me!" Abigail taunted as they disappeared around the corner. "Can't catch – ah!"

Alice rolled her eyes. "Yes, the man whose legs are taller than you are isn't going to catch you," she commented as she followed them into the hall. "You could have at least made it to the washroom if you hadn't bothered yelling back at him."

Abigail glared at her upside-down from under Victor's arm. "Grown-ups are supposed to be slower! It's not fair! And I need this!" she added, clutching the sketchbook to her chest. "If you get it back before dinner, I owe Reggie a penny!"

"Well, I'm afraid that's your loss," Victor told her, peeling the book from her fingers. He turned her right-side up and set her down on the floor. "I know you all think this is hilarious, but you're giving me conniptions!"

"We always give it back," Abigail whined. "Not like we'd put it in the bin."

A shadow flickered across Victor's face, fast enough that one could doubt it was ever there. Then he shook his head and put a hand on her shoulder. "Even still. . .what would happen if you forgot where you hid it one day? We'd have to tear the whole house apart!"

"We wouldn't forget," Abigail muttered, scuffing the floor with a shoe.

"Let's not take the chance, all right?" Victor sighed, rubbing small circles into his forehead. "Please – for the sake of my sanity, leave my sketchbook alone."

Abigail stuck out her lower lip in thought, twisting a braid around her finger. "How about we just hide your inkwells?"

"How about I start hiding your crayons?" Alice retorted, folding her arms. "There are better ways to amuse yourselves than driving poor Victor around the bend." She waved a hand. "Off with you – apologize to Harriet for dragging her into this. And make sure to give Reggie his penny."

Grumbling, Abigail trudged back to the foyer. Victor sighed again as he stood up straight. "Brats."

"Is now an appropriate moment to say I told you so?" Alice asked, smirking. She touched his arm. "If it makes you feel better, I'm sure she meant it when she said they wouldn't toss it. They're not that cruel – and besides, they like your drawings."

"I know," Victor murmured. "It's just. . . ." He flipped through the book, various sketches fluttering past before settling on a blank page. "I'm still replacing all the ones I lost when – when I – when Bumby. . . ."

There was the shadow again, haunting his face as the rest of the sentence hung unspoken in the air. Alice squeezed his forearm. "If you told them that, they'd probably never touch it again," she pointed out quietly.

"I – I don't like to talk about it with them," Victor replied, staring at the empty sheet.

"You don't like to talk about it with anyone."

Victor looked up at her, one eyebrow raised. "Can you blame me?"

"Of course not. But if you're trying to spare their innocence. . .they were there, Victor," Alice reminded him, rubbing his sleeve. "They already know what he did. I'm certainly not saying you have to give them details, but acknowledging when one of them does something that reminds you of when you were–"

"I just want to leave it in the past," Victor cut in, snapping the sketchbook shut. "They suffered enough under him too. Why bring up horrible memories for all of us?"

Alice frowned at him. "Victor, I don't think telling them that hiding your sketchbook makes you feel like you did when Bumby forced you to tear down your artwork will give them any more nightmares than they already have."

"Why take the risk?" Victor tucked the sketchbook under his arm, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand. "I shouldn't – it's not that big a deal, really. As you said, I know they wouldn't actually do anything. It always comes back to me. I – I shouldn't make such a fuss."

"It's your sketchbook, and your sketches. You're allowed a fuss. Fuss is the only way they learn."

"Yes, but. . . ." Victor bit his lip, then shook his head. "It's fine. I've got it back now. And if they start stealing my inkwells, that's a compromise I can live with. We don't have to make this into a big production."

"Victor–"

His gaze met hers, pleading. "We don't. It's fine. I'm fine."

Alice didn't believe that for a second – but her determination to keep arguing faltered in the face of those big soft puppy-dog eyes. Damn it, Victor – Hightopp and Tarrant should borrow you for their patrols. Forget the threat of the Swell Who Walks Whitechapel – any criminal would repent if you just looked at them like that and whimpered a bit. "All right," she said, caving. "It's your sketchbook."

Victor smiled, then looked toward the window. "I'm not much in the mood for drawing anymore – do you fancy a walk? The sun's out, and I think they've finally cleared all the snow from the sidewalks."

"That would be nice," Alice said, rocking on her heels. "I've been feeling the lack of fresh air over the past couple of days."

"Me too. Let me just put this away," Victor said, turning toward their door. "And hope it's not immediately stolen again by bitter young girls."

"Try sticking it atop our wardrobe," Alice suggested. "They can't climb it like the bookcase and I don't think they'd be able to reach even if they got a chair."

Victor grinned meanly. "Good idea."

"Alice? Could I speak to you for a moment?"

Alice and Victor turned to see Dr. Wilson at the other end of the hallway, watching them with what appeared to be concern. "Er – yes, of course," Alice said, frowning slightly. "Do you mind, Victor?"

"No, it's fine," Victor assured her. "I'll meet you by the front door." He leaned forward slightly, lips just starting to purse –

And then – stopped. The shadow flickered over his face again, darker and deeper than ever. Then he drew back, offering up a smile and a squeeze of her hand. "See you in a moment."

And then he was gone, vanished inside their room before she could say a single word in response. Alice looked from the door to her hand and back, then sighed and made her way over to Dr. Wilson. "What is it? I thought you were reviewing adoption applications in your study."

Dr. Wilson beckoned her around the corner. "I was, but I heard a slight commotion down here and came to investigate," he explained. "And I happened to overhear part of your conversation." He straightened his glasses, shaking his head. "He's doing it to you too, I see."

"What?"

"Cutting off any discussion of his time as Thirteen with 'I'm fine now, there's no need to make a fuss.' I was hoping it was a reaction unique to me as his psychiatrist."

"Ah. No, I'm afraid not," Alice said, running her fingers through her hair. "It's not like I don't understand his reluctance. What happened to him was horrible and I wouldn't be keen on reliving it either, even verbally. But the way he shuts even the slightest mention of it down. . . ." She bit her lip. "He's hiding something from us."

"Even those couples who are practically one flesh have secrets. The left hand is not obliged to know what the right is doing."

Alice looked at her feet to see Cheshire winding around her ankles. "Perhaps, but everything runs a lot smoother when it does. Cheshire," she added for Dr. Wilson's edification.

"I'd guessed," Dr. Wilson replied. "This does seem like the kind of discussion where he'd pop up."

Alice smiled. "You are very tolerant of my hallucinations trying to carry on a conversation with me at the same time you are."

"I value that you're able to tell that they are hallucinations, even if you still see them. Perhaps you're not fully cured, but you are functional. I sometimes think my colleagues don't understand just how important that is." He paused, then added, "You're sure you don't want to try the new formula I came up with, though? It could be of help."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not touching anything that has both strychnine and opium in it," Alice said, holding up a hand. "I'd rather see trees bursting through buildings than run the risk of becoming an addict. Or dead. Neither of which is guaranteed to cure said trees through buildings."

Dr. Wilson frowned thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "That – is an interesting point. One would think cessation of life would automatically 'cure' mental illness, but given what Victor has told us both of the Land of the Dead. . .are there asylums Downstairs as well? Dedicated to helping those that breathing doctors failed?"

"Perhaps," Alice shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised, anyway. You should investigate when you die. Which I hope isn't for a while yet," she added hastily.

Dr. Wilson chuckled. "No worries – I think I have a few good years left in me." His expression grew concerned again. "Victor hasn't shown any signs of – wanting to return Below, has he? I didn't think it was a danger, but you being closer. . . ."

Alice shook her head. "No. He's not quite himself, but I wouldn't say he's longing for Downstairs. Any more than the usual, 'I wish I could see how everyone is doing, say hello.'" She twisted her hands together. "Which is a sentiment I fully understand."

"Quite," Dr. Wilson murmured, gazing at her sympathetically. "The pain never fully goes away, does it?"

"No – in fact, it's actually gotten a bit worse now that I know for sure the afterlife exists," Alice confessed. "Before, even with Bumby's nonsense poisoning my mind, I was finally coming to grips with the fact that they were gone forever. Now – well, they're not. They've just moved on to some other realm right below our feet. And while it's comforting to know that they haven't just ceased to exist, the idea that I could see them again, but I don't know how. . . ."

"Impossible goals are easy to achieve," Cheshire put in, plonking himself down by her shoe. "Improbable ones take work."

"Shush, Cat – you know darn well I'd be down there in a heartbeat if I knew a way Below that didn't involve finding a corpse to propose to," she scolded him.

Dr. Wilson regarded her, one hand on his chin. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Tricky question – I won't really know until you ask it."

He chuckled. "Fair enough. Is Wonderland more prominent whenever you talk about your family or the fire?"

Alice was about to reply "No more than it usually is" – but then she took a moment and looked around. Grass carpeted the floor beneath her feet, bending in a breeze she couldn't feel, and the wallpaper around them was suddenly a lot brighter than usual, vines creeping out of the patterns and twisting their way up to the ceiling – which now had a faint blue sheen to it, as if it was going to dissolve away into a summer's sky at any moment. And, of course, there was still Cheshire, washing a paw like all of this was completely normal. Which, to him, it probably was. "It seems to be," she admitted, turning back to Dr. Wilson. "Which, honestly, should be no surprise – every time I thought about them before, it seems I was yanked back to battle some symbolic monstrosity menacing my very mind and will. Things are pretty peaceful now, though. You certainly haven't become a Menacing Ruin or a Snark."

"Perish the thought," Dr Wilson said with a tiny smile. "All right – you've said before that, if you concentrate, you can force the visions under your control. Which is good, but – you can't turn them off entirely, right? No matter what you do, they keep coming back?

"Essentially," Alice nodded. "Londerland's faded somewhat since I first walked out of Moorgate station, and I can generally dismiss anything that's bothering or upsetting me now. But – it's kind of like they're on a switch in my mind, and it keeps flipping itself to 'on,' no matter how many times I push it down to 'off.'"

"Interesting." Dr. Wilson nodded seriously. "I wonder if that's because you still haven't gotten full closure on the fire."

"I – what?" Alice blinked, then glanced at Cheshire. He simply grinned back at her, as always. "But – I figured out who did it. I saw him get what he deserved in the station. I paid for all my past sins, in Wonderland and reality. I finally accepted that I wasn't responsible and it was simple cruel chance that allowed me to survive."

"But you never did say a proper goodbye to your family, did you?"

Dr. Wilson had gotten entirely too good at getting to the heart of the matter. "I – well – it was too painful to go to Oxford, right after Rutledge," Alice confessed, twisting the toe of her shoe into the grassy boards. "I'd only just gotten myself anywhere near back to normal. . .everything was so raw still. . .and then Bumby was on me to forget the past, forget my family, let the dead lie. . .and after his death there was so much to do. . . ." She squeezed her hands together. "Are you suggesting a trip to the family vault, then?"

"It might be a good idea – if only as a stopgap measure until you can find a way Downstairs," Dr. Wilson nodded. "Your illness, painful and debilitating as it is, is largely traumatic in origin. The more you deal with that trauma, the better you become. You've conquered your guilt, and seen the end of the person who wronged you. But I don't think your internal switch will be content to stay 'off' until you actually speak to your family. Hear from them that you aren't to blame and need to move on."

Alice nodded slowly, then chuckled. "You must be the only psychiatrist on earth whose advice to me consists of 'visit the Underworld.'"

"As far as I know, I'm the only psychiatrist on earth who knows there's an Underworld to visit. And if it can be used as a therapeutic tool. . . ." He shrugged, before giving her a warm, fatherly look. "You've come so far already – I'd like to see you truly well."

"At this point, I don't think Wonderland's ever going to fully go away," Alice admitted. "But it would be nice to stay more in reality much of the time. And to – to be absolutely sure they don't blame me." She rubbed her arm, trying to ignore a ghostly burbling at the back of her head. "I mean, they must know that Bumby set the actual blaze, but I still wonder about that log. . . and you know me. That bloody Jabberwock's shadow doesn't like to fade."

"I understand," Dr. Wilson assured her. "All of us crave outside confirmation, no matter how sure we are inside that what we know is right. I think it's just human nature." He put his hand briefly on her shoulder. "I hope you do find your way back to them."

"So do I," Alice murmured.

"Fascinating as this line of inquiry is, I believe you've diagnosed the wrong patient," Cheshire commented, butting his head against Alice's leg. "When I told you to take his name in the Vale of Doom, I didn't mean it quite that literally."

"Right – we were talking about Victor," Alice said, giving the Cat's ears a quick scratch. "Do you have any theories on his behavior, Dr. Wilson?"

"The first thing that springs to mind is simple frustration over the fact that I'm still insisting on sessions," Dr. Wilson said. "He was probably hoping I'd pronounce him cured by now."

"Maybe," Alice said, rocking on her heels. "He was pretty eager to declare all his troubles over and done with after he took down the wall. But I think there's more to it than that." She held up her hand, examining it. "I mean – weren't you expecting him to kiss me just then?"

"I was," Dr. Wilson confirmed. "Goodness me, you two were practically inseparable right through Christmas."

"Making up for lost time," Alice said with a smirk, tangling her fingers in the silver chain around her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek. "But then, right around New Year's, he got just a bit – standoffish. He hasn't pulled completely away – we still talk, and hug, and – well, you haven't had to conjure up another bed for us. But that wasn't the first time he's abruptly balked at the opportunity to, if I may use the vernacular, sling a slobber." She sighed, pulled the omega up to eye level, remembering the thrill she'd gotten when she'd opened the box, and the warmth of Victor's fingers as he'd fastened it around her neck – followed immediately by the warmth of his lips against hers. "We were so happy right through the holidays. I don't know what changed."

Dr. Wilson frowned. "That is rather strange. Especially since all of us were convinced that – ah."

Alice arched an eyebrow, letting the necklace drop. "'Ah' what?"

Dr. Wilson chuckled, his beard tinging pink from his cheeks. "Perhaps the fault is less with him and more with us. June hinting she knows how to sew as well as cook, your nanny telling you where you can pick up white fabric cheap, my own comments about you being rather like a married couple already. . . ."

"Aaahh." Alice pinched the bridge of her nose. "I do keep telling you all that you're rushing us to the altar."

"To be fair, Alice, if anyone outside Houndsditch finds out about your sleeping arrangements, I'll be forced to bring you two to a registrar," Dr. Wilson pointed out. "We're bending the rules of propriety to the point of breaking by allowing you to share a room, much less a bed."

"I know, I know – and we're very grateful," Alice assured him. "But that 'ah' proves you know Victor's history with weddings as well as I do. A rehearsal with a stranger that ended with him briefly setting his future mother-in-law on fire and an accidental recitation to a marriage-mad corpse who promptly kidnapped him to the Underworld don't make for the best memories. And neither does starting to fall in love with both girls, only to end up with neither."

"Agreed," Dr. Wilson said. "I've noticed that whenever the subject crops up in our sessions, his hand starts creeping toward his tie. He insists he wants to marry you, and I believe him, but I wouldn't be surprised if he thinks a cool-down in visible affection might earn him a delay."

"Neither would I," Alice replied. "It's not like I enjoy all these 'hints' about how we need to find ourselves a minister or a judge or what-have-you right away. I want to marry him too, but. . . ." She looked down at Cheshire, who rubbed against her leg. "It is a rather big change. I want to be settled before I commit. Which ties into what you said before, doesn't it? Seeing my family, getting closure on the fire. . .and seeing if they approve of him in the bargain. Not that I think they wouldn't, but again, confirmation would be nice."

"Quite fair enough," Dr. Wilson said. "I'll talk to June about being a little less enthusiastic about your eventual nuptials. I'm afraid you're on your own with your nanny."

"Oh, nothing will get Nanny to shut up about it," Alice said, waving a hand. "She's too smug she saw it before I did. I'm used to her." She gave him a little smile. "I promise you, we won't delay forever. If only because, on a personal level, the idea of a summer wedding appeals to me."

"Good." Dr. Wilson gave her an encouraging smile. "And for what it's worth, I wouldn't worry too much about Victor's current mood. I've had patients regress temporarily in their therapy before – it's always a passing phase." He winked. "At least Victor isn't hurling teapots at anyone."

"Let's see what happens the next time Abigail steals his sketchbook before we say that," Alice replied, shaking her head. "But I hope you're right. I spent too long shutting people out and wallowing in my own pain. I don't want him making the same mistakes."

"I'll keep at him," Dr. Wilson promised. "In the meantime, we've probably kept him waiting long enough for your walk."

"Probably," Alice agreed, glancing over her shoulder. "We'll be back in time for tea."

"Good. Have a good stroll."

"Thank you." With a final nod, Alice turned away and headed back to the foyer. Do you think he's right, Cat? she added in the comfortable confines of her own skull. That this is all just a phase?

"I don't claim to be an expert on the human mind," Cheshire replied, loping along beside her. "But I would keep an ear open for train whistles. Victor may not have fully embraced the Dollmaker's rhetoric, but being unwilling to face past or future puts one in a very precarious position indeed." His body faded from her sight, taking the grass with it. "Sloth is the easiest of the sins, Alice. You know that from ten years' practice. If necessary, balance your beau – or give him a push."

Alice was pretty sure Cheshire's intention hadn't been to conjure up the image of her beloved toppling head over feet into some terrible black abyss, but that's what her mind supplied her with anyway. She shook it off with a frown. Noted.

The real Victor was standing by the front door as promised, though his expression suggested he was starting to wonder why. He brightened once he saw her. "That was a long chat. . .ready to go?"

"Yes – sorry, he had a theory about why I'm still seeing Wonderland everywhere," Alice apologized, retrieving her coat from its hook. "I'll tell you about it on our walk. . .if June comes down, we've just gone around the block for some air, and we'll be back shortly," she added to the children. "Be good."

Abigail glowered at them as Reggie sniggered. "I hope you fall in a snowbank."

"I probably will," Victor said unconcernedly, opening the door for Alice. "Enjoy the dollhouse."