Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person
Rating: T (for the moment)
Genre(s): Humor, Romance
Summary: Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, teatime with a Mad Hatter she has always felt a bit more fondly of then any person should feel about a fictional character from their own mind, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.
A/N: So, writing this thing was harder around the second time. However, I think it's even better then first. So, in the end, the tension headache was worth it. Many thanks to CrazySpark, who loves me despite my spelling errors, LOL. All the kind comments and reviews from everyone out there rocks my world, and I thank you all very much! As usual, constructive criticism is always welcome, as anyway I can improve as a writer is a Good Thing.
Disclaimer: I do not Alice in Wonderland in any form. Trust me, there would have been at least a PG-13 rated snog in the film if I had any influence over it.
Alice had the Strangest Thoughts sometimes. They floated into her head without warning and no apparent reason, random bits of amusement or odd ponderings, and sometimes she had to wonder if everyone thought the way she did. If that was the case, she was sure she didn't understand their will power at keeping their questions, comments, daydreams, and general rambling to themselves. Because it was fairly impossible for her not to go tripping off down a garden lane full of talking flowers and smiling cats, even when doing things – like driving, say – where it was probably not the best idea for her to go down that mental path.
She was fresh from a shower (she didn't fancy the idea of smelling like vinaigrette at dinner that evening; Lowell, she was sure, would have the filthiest things to say about that), bent at the waist as she roughly towel dried the heavy mass of her hair. And that was when a Strange Thought, with an equally Strange Mental Picture, decided to make it's self at home in her brain. Alice let out a snort of laughter before she could silence herself, hastily wrapping the towel around her hair and standing straight. She tightened the larger towel she had wrapped around her body, nearly slipping on the tile floor of her en suite bathroom off her bedroom at the Ascot Estate, darting rather frantically towards her bed, and the overnight bag that rested – innocently – on top of it. Her clothing flew for several moments, before she pulled out her sketchpad and pencil.
"Hamish is going to die when I show him this!" She whispered rather gleefully to herself, rubbing her hands across the bedspread to make sure they were completely dry before she clambered onto the mattress, grabbing a pillow to rest her sketchpad on.
In short order, with quick lines and sure fingers, a picture appeared.
Hamish Ascot, standing outside the Door that leads from the Room of Doors and into the Garden. Hands propped on his hips, a monogrammed kilt that had once been his handkerchief looped and knotted around his waist, he surveyed the new world before him as though he was king returning to his kingdom.
Half-Naked Hamish, Alice scrawled under Hamish's bare feet when she finished, Arrives In Wonderland.
"He'll love it," Alice assured herself with a bright smile, before one eyebrow arched high, and a rather wry sort of chuckle fled her mouth. "Well, if he survives the woods and Bootsie…"
Hamish surveys Alice's Wonderland with an obvious air of satisfaction. If it is all real, as he believes it is? If it is real, it is the unspoken dreams and wishes of both he and Alice, and there is nothing in the world that is going to stop him from enjoying himself. And as soon as he determines how to contact Alice, he is going to bring her here, to her Wonderland. They will ride the Bandersnatch, take tea with the Hatter, and – well, he hopes the whole Jabberwocky business isn't a – a prophecy of some sort, because he doesn't fancy watching his best mate really go up against a dragon.
Actually, he is quite certain that if he has to watch Alice fight a dragon, he is going to get himself killed. Because there are few creatures or people allowed to harm Alice, and the list is compromised of one: himself. If he wants to call her skinny, knobby-kneed, fuzzy haired, and then trip her when she walks across their lounge, he can. (And she will call him a red-haired, freckled, allergic-to-the-sun waste of DNA, and hit him with a throw pillow, and all will be well in their world.) But a dragon actually attempting to kill and – and eat Alice?
He must make certain to ask someone about that. Because if that is case, if she must fight a Jabberwocky, he will have to learn ninja skills with the utmost of haste. If not ninja skills, then how to swing a sword. He knows Tarrant Hightopp wields a claymore like it's an extension of his arm, because when he and Alice were teenagers, she had obsessed fanatically about it. In fact, he is positive that there are more pictures of the Mad Hatter in a kilt, with glowing eyes, and that blasted claymore in hand, then there are pictures of the (supposedly? Possibly? Hopefully not!) fictional man with a tea cup in hand.
And there are quite a lot of those!
"Hmm," Hamish muses to himself as he makes his way down the rocky stairs, "If the Hatter is real, and I bring Alice here, I wonder what'll happen?" He pauses only a moment, before he giggles like a thirteen-year-old boy catching sight of a bra strap.
"I know what'll happen," he continues to explain to himself, "Yes, I do know! Alice will swallow her own tongue, and then do something rather foolish. Probably toss herself at him, beg him to reproduce with her, and – ick. Ick. Eat…cake. Yes, they will eat cake, and that is all. There will be cake eating!" Hamish declared firmly, nodding to a flower as he made to pass it.
"You have cake on you, then?" A cheerful looking – and very large, Hamish noted, though only because he is so blasted small! – red flower spoke up. Hamish squeaked, sounding almost exactly like one of Bootsie's toy mice, and stopped mid-stride to stare at the flower.
The flowers, he recalled dimly, can talk. He had forgotten that, hadn't he?
Oh, dear, talking flowers (talking flowers with eyes and lips, and it is a bit disturbing, he has to admit) had caught him talking to himself. About Alice and a Mad Hatter shagging like – eating cake, he reminds himself firmly, before the images can take root, and he is forever stricken blind, deaf, and dumb from horror. From Alice and a Mad Hatter eating cake, of all things!
"Er -" he says in what he hopes is a desperately clever fashion.
"Need a bit of cake," the red flowers buttercup yellow neighbor chimed in, "Bit of Upelkuchen, hmm? We don't see many of you lot, but I dare say we do know when we see a two-legger in need of Upelkuchen!"
"Er – that's that cake, right? That makes you grow?"
"'Course it is," a blue flower comes into the picture, and Hamish is sure he is either going to hit the ground giggling like a little boy out of excitement, or he is going to have a stroke from Too Many Impossible Things Happening At One Time. If it isn't a well-known cause of death, he thinks, it really ought to be. "Look at him, Thelma, going on like that. Two-leggers, eh?"
"Silly things ought to learn how to put down roots, proper-like. Say, Martha, remember when The Alice came 'round last time? Poor girl needed a bit of roots to her, I think!"
"Now Edna, that is The Alice you're talking about. Wouldn't do for the Hatter to walk this way and hear you talking about the Queen's Champion like that. Recall Debra?"
"Shame on you, bringing Debra up."
"Awful two-legger, that man."
"He's only sad!"
"He's only mad, you mean!"
"Pining away for the Champion. Well, shame on him, setting his hat on the Queen's Champion like he did. Honestly, I don't blame her for leaving. They say The Alice died Aboveland, you know. All because the Hatter drove her away! If he had kept his feelings to himself, well, things'd be a sight different 'round here, and -"
Hamish's gaze flies between the three bickering, gossiping flowers that remind him of the women in his mother's bridge club. He has spent twenty-three years listening to that kind of ignorant snobbery from his mother and her friends, but the difference now is that his mother isn't lurking a corner, waiting to pounce when he says something rude to Lady Such'n'So, or Madame Rich Snobbynose.
"Alice isn't dead!" He snaps, taking a step forward. "She's just fine, you know! I don't know about her having been here before, but if she has been, she wouldn't have ever left because the Hatter had feelings for her! And if he had expressed them to her? No, Alice wouldn't have left."
"Young man, you can't go around talking about the Champion of the White Queen as though you -" Yellow Thelma starts to snap, her petals fluffing around her a vibrant show of irritation. Hamish quickly cuts her off, blood pounding in his ears.
"Actually, I can talk about Alice anyway I like. She's my best mate, I'll have you know."
"The Alice?" Red Martha asks with wonder dripping from her voice. "Truly, you know The Alice?"
"We are friends," Hamish answers her a bit stiffly, nose making a rapid ascent into the air. "Very good friends."
"The Alice died. Everyone knows it," Blue Edna said dismissively, "It's what finally pushed the Hatter all the way 'round the bend, two-legger."
"Well," Hamish flounders only a moment, before he points a finger at them, "She might have died, but she's back now. She's told me all about Wonder – I mean, Underland! And the Hatter. She's terribly fond of him." He directs his full attention to Martha, who is giving him a look of awe.
"Speaking of the Hatter, I have heard a great many stories about him. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find him, would you?"
"We have proper roots," she reminded him with a smile, "So I can't give excellent directions. But when the Hatter comes to see if The Alice is here, he comes from that way." Her stalk bends to Hamish's right, and he smiles widely at her.
"Thank you kindly. I'll be on my way."
"Wait – wait, two-legger! Is it true? Do you really know The Alice?"
"Absolutely," Hamish says firmly as he continues walking. "Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh! She slayed the Jabberwocky, son! And she's my nearest and dearest, of course." He laughs the laugh of a man who is, for the first time in his life, completely free as he follows the tiny trail through the towering garden.
Hamish is not entirely fond of nature, and despite the fact he's in a magical land, that fact does not change. Certainly not when rocking-horse-flies and dragonflies are, at least at his current stature, the size of small children, and daisies tower over him like trees. His feet hurt, as they are bare, and Hamish had never been the sort to go walking barefoot across the ground. He might have been, if his mother hadn't been terrified he would catch some strange illness from the grass, but as it stands, he has the vague assumption that he may die if too much dirt collects between his toes.
He wishes he had proper footwear, though his loafers are not hiking boots, they would have at least protected his feet from rocks and twigs. He also wishes he had a pair of proper trousers, as every time the wind kicks up, he's pushing his skirt down and crossing his legs, and that is only attractive when Marilyn Monroe strikes the pose. Not when it's a pasty white, freckle-covered, ginger-haired British man with dirty feet, and what he suspects is the beginnings of a sunburn.
Not that he has to worry about the sun much longer. He has walked for hours, and it is falling from the sky. Full darkness will rise soon, and Hamish supposes he will have to do something desperate. Sleep in a tree, or a under a mushroom. He wants to do neither, as he highly suspects something larger then he is will find and eat him while he dreams. Hopefully not a blood sausage, but probably a bird of a prey. What a way to end, he is forced to wonder with an obvious wince, death by owl.
He walks a while longer, singing to keep himself from being driven completely mad with paranoia as the nighttime sounds of nature come out. Bullfrogs, which means there is water nearby. There are buzzing insects, birds calling and chirping, and Hamish is sure there are larger, scarier things wandering about. He thinks he hears a wolf calling to it's mate (probably to inform it he has found something small and easy to attack – no, something small, red haired, and named Hamish that is easy to attack), prays that isn't so, and breaks into a jog for several steps. Jogging on tender, swollen, probably bleeding feet is not a wise choice, however, and Hamish simply gives up, and curls himself into a ball under a mushroom.
He continues singing, coming too close for comfort to plugging his ears with his fingers.
"Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me," he has his eyes squeezed shut by this point, and he is wiggling his filthy toes to the beat in his head. He also may be attempting to do a dance while curled on his size, knees tucked just so to protect his modesty. Just because he doubts there are other two feet tall people wandering around the garden, well, that doesn't mean if there are he wants to show them the little lord as a way of greeting. Though it would be highly impressive, he imagines, and perhaps shrines would be built in his honor…"Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Don'tcha? Yeah, don'tcha?"
"Caterwauling," a silky voice speaks close to Hamish's head, leaving him to choke on a shriek, rock onto his hands and knees, and attempt to gain his feet so he can sprint for safety. The combination of a cramp in his left foot and a floating, talking cat that had monster teeth hovering this close to his face is enough to send him sprawling to the ground, however. He peers at the creature, racking his brain for a name for it. He knows this! "What in the name of Underland was that noise, freckled boy?"
"Chesterfield," Hamish mutters, shaking his head. "No – damn, I can never remember this one!"
The cat gives Hamish a considering sort of look, tail flickering before it disappears.
"Cheshire! The Cheshire Cat! And…Chessur, right? Yeah, your name's Chessur."
"Have we met before?" Hamish twists to the side, and stares at the disembodied cat head. He decides that knowledge it can disappear, reappear only in parts, and talk, makes it only slightly less disturbing when actually faced with such a thing. "If we have, you certainly weren't important enough for me to remember."
"We haven't met," Hamish assures him with an obvious air of irritation, "But Alice draws you quite often. You're one of her favorites."
"Alice?" The cat head spins a circle, before the body appears once more, and the single most disturbing smile Hamish has ever seen stretches across his face. Muzzle. Or is it only dogs that have muzzles? "The Alice?"
"Not for certain," Hamish admits agreeably, "But I'm fairly positive that yes, she is. I've had quite a lot of time to think about it today, and it's like we've always said, really. Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh."
"How is it," the tail flickers frantically back and forth before Chessur disappears again, reappearing directly behind Hamish. He struggles to his feet and turns, following the sound of that sly voice. "That you know The Alice?"
"She's my mate," Hamish answers honestly, "Since we were kids. Our mums have embarrassing snaps of us naked in the bath together, and such. When we were children, not now, I mean. Because if I was naked in a bath with a woman, I don't reckon I'd want my mother there."
"But how do you know about me?" The incredibly green, lamp-like green eyes of this Chessur narrow in on Hamish, and he feels rather like a mouse. He decides he doesn't like the feeling, but there's little to be done about when he isn't even wearing trousers.
"Alice tells stories," he answers honestly, "And draws pictures. About this place."
"She insisted it was a dream, the last the time she was here," the tail moves rapidly, before Chessur turns upside down and smiles at the moon. "And you aren't, freckles?"
"Well, I thought it was head trauma at first," Hamish admits, "However, Alice and I have spent our entire lives…half in this world, I suppose. Normal children aren't born with entire worlds in their mind, you know. Alice was born with Wonderland inside her, and – er – people like you along with it."
"She remembers us, then?"
"Yes," Hamish answers quickly, firmly. "Very much. When did she come here? When we were children? If she thought it was a dream, then I can see why she didn't tell me..."
"Years before," Chessur flips right side up, and blinks at him a way that looks rather…sad, but only before a moment until the smile is back in place. "Many years before this Alice."
"This Alice?" Hamish repeats, and remembers the spiteful flowers. They say Alice died Aboveland…and then Hamish's brain takes turn down a Road of Impossible Things. (Which, given that he is in Underland with a talking, smiling, disappearing-at-will cat, isn't so Impossible, really.)
What if, he muses, those shows on the telly and those books he always scoffed at were right? Reincarnation, past lives…that sort of thing. He's never set much stock in them before, however, it would make a bit of sense. As he'd told Chessur, Alice was born with her Wonderland inside her. So wouldn't it just be possible that it was memories?
They say Alice died in Aboveland…
"How many years?" Hamish asks suddenly, locking eyes with Chessur. "How many years has it been since Alice was last here."
"Several," Chessur's grin widened, more tooth-and-mystery then any sort of humor. "Over a hundred, if Time isn't telling lies to us again."
"Oh," Hamish says a bit weakly. "Well…oh."
"Do you plan on wandering through the Garden for very long?"
"It's not as though I have a map, you know." Hamish bites off. He has a headache from Impossible Things, he can't breathe out of his nose, he isn't wearing trousers, and his feet hurt. To say that he is not in a generous mood is to put it terribly lightly.
"I'll take you to the Hare and the Hatter," Chessur disappears, though his voice remains. "But no further."
"The Hare and the – oh! The Mad Hatter! Tarrant Hightopp? The endless tea party? That was one of our favorite games as children…"
"Come along," Chessur drawls, reappearing farther along the lane. "And tell me, freckles, does she remember our Tarrant fondly?"
"I have a name, you know," Hamish mutters a bit rebelliously, though the trots after Chessur. "Hamish. You might use it."
"I might," Chessur agrees, and Hamish gets the feeling he's being laughed at. "Does she?"
"What, remember the Hatter? Of course she does."
"Fondly?"
"Understatement, that. She used to make me put on a moldy top hat we found in her attic when were children, and put my Gran's thimbles on my fingers. Then she'd call me Hatter and we'd have a mock wedding in the garden."
Chessur chuckles throatily, and it is underlain by a purr.
"Oh my," he drawls, "How very interesting. Come along, freckles, pick your feet up high. It isn't too terribly far."
"Hamish," he says loudly, "That's my name, in case you didn't hear."
"I'm sorry, freckled boy, did you say something?"
"Brilliant," Hamish grumbles, "I got the comedy cat."
Alice hated having to admit that she was having a Bad Day. Not because of Bootsie escaping, or the pain of having vinaigrette in her eye (which, she was sure, had nearly blinded her for life). No, she was having a Bad Day because it felt as though she was going to crawl out of her skin, and words and images pressed against her mind with such force that it was nearly painful. She feared, some days, that she was going terribly mad. Her father had always, loving reassured her that all the best people were, but sometimes…sometimes it scared Alice.
The world her mind had created, it was so real. It was a knifing, lancing pain in her heart when she drew herself from her stories and realized that no matter how long she wrote, no matter how many hours she spent laboring over watercolors and oil portraits, she was never going to sit down and have a rather mindless but enjoyable chat with Mirana, the White Queen of Underland. She was never going to taunt Mallymkun the Dormouse, and dodge stabs from a hatpin sword, or duck from the Mad March Hare Thackery hurling teacups at her head in a cheerful greeting. She was never, not ever going to smile up into the expressive eyes of a strangely handsome Mad Hatter, and hear him lisp the words that had haunted her dreams since she was a child.
"Hatter," she muttered a bit miserably after she pulled on a shirt, and slumped to the bed. The words rolled off her tongue easily, as though she had spoken them before, as though she was relieving a memory. They had an air of sadness about them, and it seemed there was a part of her – deep, deep down – screaming at her to stop and think, and please don't go… "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"
I haven't the slightest idea, she heard in her mind, and the smile that came with it wasn't Mad at all. It was only broken, and fragile, and all her fault.
Alice put her hands over her face, breathing deeply.
"Stop, Alice," she told herself sternly, "We've gone through this. Life is what it is, and you can't live in a fantasy world. I am stronger then this!"
I make the path!
"Not helping," Alice informed the voice in the back of her mind rather miserably, before she fell backwards across the bed, tossing her arm up to shield her eyes. "Really, mind, you are useless!"
Hamish has imagined meeting the Mad Hatter several times. As a child it had been his life goal, though he told his mother it was to be a well-established solicitor like his Granddad Melvin. It always went something along the lines of the March Hare tossing a spoon at him, Mallymkun demanding they duel for their honor – the reasons often changed, but it was mostly over the last scone on the table – and the Mad Hatter doing handstands in his chair and telling Alice that girls had cooties, there was no way he was going to do something as repulsive as kiss her. (Because Alice was always with him in those fantasies, as Alices ought to always be with a Hamish.)
For the past few hours he has updated that fantasy a bit.
There will be spoon throwing, and dueling – he'll win, but only by a bit, and by ingenious use of a fork – and the Mad Hatter will be so thrilled to hear about Alice being alive and well, he'll make Hamish a pair of trousers. Hamish is so pleased over the thought of trousers, that it very nearly moves him to tears. After his bits have been properly covered, the Hatter will come up with some Mad way to bring Alice back to her Wonderland, and after a large meal and at least eight hours of sleep, he and Alice will be free to run wild. They will ride the Bandersnatch, they will meet the Queen, and Alice will no doubt end up making an idiot out of herself in front of Tarrant Hightopp. In fact, he knows she will, because a woman cannot obsessively stalk a supposedly fictional character she created for the entirety of her life without making an idiot of herself when she finds out said supposedly fictional character is real and standing in front of her, in all his thimbled glory.
And then, Hamish imagines with relish, then, one day, Alice can introduce him to their mothers.
"This is Tarrant," he can hear her saying, "You know, the Mad Hatter that you told me wasn't real." His mother will faint. Helen Kingsleigh will probably impale herself with a salad fork when she realizes she is staring at her future son-in-law, and Charles Kingsleigh will be so pleased he might attempt the Futterwacken himself. Because that is sort of bloke Charles is, and Hamish admires him greatly.
Hamish will look back on that meeting, and feel stupid for imagining it going so well. His fantasies never match reality, and the night he finally convinced Marianna Smythe to shag him should have proved it.
He is exhausted, bone weary in a way he has never been before. His stomach is convinced his throat has been slit, and his feet finally went numb, though he suspects they are bleeding. He has flashed Chessur three times due to wind gusts, and the blasted cat made incredibly snarky comments each time. The sort that leave a bloke with feelings of inadequacy for life. When they top a hill, and the trees break into a clearing, and he lays eyes on a decrepit looking windmill (the exact same as it is in Alice's drawings!), and a long tea table with a shadowed figure in the wingback chair at the end –
Well, that nearly moves Hamish to tears, as well. If only he can get his legs to work properly, he is going to eat everything on it. Possibly the china as well, because he has never in his life been so starved.
"Alice?" The voice comes from the chair at the end – the Hatter, Hamish rightly assumes, because that is always where he is at when Alice draws them at tea. "Alice?"
That voice nearly breaks Hamish, exhausted and surly as he is. It is so…hopeful and yet disbelieving, that Hamish wishes more then ever that Alice is with him.
The Hatter lunges from his chair, and is walking across the table by the time Chessur gives a soft,
"Uh-oh," and disappears entirely.
"Nae more sal'," Thackery howls blindly as he wakes up, "Late, yer late fer tea! Fork in the eye, aye, aye!"
"Alice!" The Hatter cries again, halfway across the table.
"Uh," Hamish hurries as best he can until he is out of shadows and entirely revealed in the moonlight, "Not quite. But, um, I hope she'll be here shortly. Actually, I was hoping you might know a way to get her here. She's my friend, see, and -"
The Hatter hurtles himself at Hamish. And as for Hamish, he is so slowed by exhaustion and what he is sure is starvation, that he can do nothing more then blink. Moonlight drapes shadows over the Hatter's face, but Hamish is positive the darkness surrounding the man's eyes has nothing to do with the lighting. And his eyes – oh, his eyes are the most disturbing shade of orange, nearing on a violent red, that Hamish as ever seen.
"Yer nae Alice!" The Hatter howls at Hamish, moments before he picks him up around the chest. Hamish shrieks – because, really, there is no other choice in that sort of situation – flailing widely. Stars explode as shocks of searing pain hit him, and he is sure his ribs are about to be shattered in the tight grasp the Hatter has him in. His teeth very nearly rattle, as he is shaken back-and-forth, side-to-side, while the Hatter screams at him. "Yer nae Alice, ye gutler's scut! Ye slurking urpal slackush scum, ye -!"
"Rape, rape!" Hamish began to yowl, feet flailing as his handkerchief gave up the fight and fell from his body. "Stranger danger, stranger danger – someone help me!"
"Hatta!" Mallymkun shrieks, crawling out of a teapot and brandishing her hatpin sword in a vaguely threatening manner. "Hatta! Stop!"
"Slunking ur-pals, barloom muck egg brimni–!"
A teacup, thrown by Thackery, whizzes through the air, and smashes into the Hatter's skull. The Hatter stumbles forward, dropping Hamish. Hamish, for his part, scrambles to his feet and runs towards the Mad March Hare, who – sadly enough – seems the safest option at this particular moment.
"Fez," the Hatter wheezes violently, before spinning around. Hamish ducks under the tea table, though he peaks out from under the tablecloth, gasping violently for air. His ribs protest, but his lungs insist upon it. "I'm fine. I'm – I – tea trays in the sky, is that a naked fellow?"
"You just tried to kill me!" Hamish shouts, pointing accusingly at him. "And I wouldn't be naked if you hadn't shaken my handkerchief off!"
"Oh, I…" Tarrant pauses, and something that Hamish is very close to a very ancient, still painful sorrow fills his eyes. "I am terribly sorry," he lisps, "I…I lost myself. I'll butter my ears for it!"
"Butter ears!" Thackery shouts, before falling off his chair, hugging a serving tray to his chest.
"Tarrant, do something useful and pour some tea, won't you? Freckles needs a cup." Chessur drawls, before settling into the chair in front of Mallymkun.
"Tea and Upelkuchen," Thackery says wisely, before his eyes grow wide, and he peers at his distorted reflection in the severing tray. "Shiny…"
"Good heavens," Hamish gasps, "Alice was right, you're all terribly mad."
"Alice?" Tarrant asks sharply, striding forward, only to drop to his knees and give Hamish a look that is somewhere between threatening and pleading. "Ye said Alice?"
"Ah -hem," Chessur clears his throat, before shaking his head several times, his tail whipping violently in his agitation. Due to his position, Hamish cannot see it, and stumbles forward rather blindly.
"Yes, Alice, you – you brute!"
"Ye ken my Alice?"
"Your Alice?" Hamish shouts, waving his finger at the Hatter. "Oh, that's rich! You tried to kill me, her best friend, and she's your Alice? She and I are going to have a very long discussion about lusting after mad men, you know, and I doubt -"
"Where is my Alice?" The Hatter bends forward, hands hovering – suddenly – so close to Hamish that he is sure he is about to be crushed again. "Where is she!"
"Listen, you – you fruitily colored clown!" Hamish bellows, emerging entirely from under the table, and completely uncaring of his state of undress. He jabs a finger at Tarrant so viciously that it pokes the other man in the nose, and the Madness clouding Tarrant's eyes recedes. "I have fallen down a bloody Rabbit Hole, into a world I thought was entirely of my best friend's creation and not real at all! I have been forced to wear my handkerchief, I have flashed several flowers, trees, and that bloody Cat – I am exhausted, starving, the size of a doll, and naked! If anyone is going to be having a fit of rage, it is going to be me!"
Hamish is bellowing louder then he has ever bellowed before by the end of it. It feels amazingly good, and he thinks he ought to make it a practice to shout at the top of his lungs at least once a month. Wonderful stress relief, that.
Tarrant says nothing. He blinks several times, though, as though he simply cannot believe a two-feet-tall, naked, ginger-haired Hamish Ascot has just beaten him in a shouting match.
"Now," Hamish says firmly, "I am more then willing to tell you all about Alice, and what she is doing. However, I am very naked at the moment, and in Alice's stories, you can make clothing very quickly. I demand trousers!"
Tarrant blinks a few more times. And then –
"Alice…remembers me?" Hamish is almost touched by the soft, wondering lisp. Almost.
"Trousers!" He roars, waving his fists, "I demand trousers!"
"He has much muchness," Mallymkun decides with a firm nod, before crawling back into her teapot. "Wake me if something exciting happens, won't you, Chess?"
"Trousers," Tarrant repeats, "Trousers – I – yes, of course, trousers! Oh, my – of course!" He pushes himself to his feet, and flees towards the windmill, shouting about Upelkuchen and fabric.