Warning: The following contains mentions of BLOOD and the exchange thereof. It's not extremely graphic or overly gorey, but I'd thought I'd better let you all know.
Chapter Four: Thrice a-Vow [Scenes 3 & 4 of 4]
Tarrant Hightopp is a hatter. He is not a fighter, not naturally, not without a campaign of vengeance to lift his sword. He is a hatter and hatters make hats. It's a trying process with many inconceivably meticulous details in each stage of creation. Tarrant Hightopp is a hatter and he plies his trade again with a fierce focus he has not enjoyed for some time.
As he works, he is not burdened with worry and fear and anguish and terror over Alice and her future.
As he works, he does not feel the bruises on his shins, knees, and ribs. He only feels the tiny war wounds on his fingers as he fights with his materials.
As he works, he does not see Alice and himself – no, not Tarrant but that imposter! – grappling on the ground. He does not see her eyes flash with determination. He does not see her face flush from exertion. He does not see her chest heave with labored breaths. He does not see the way she moves. He does not marvel at her grace. He does not wonder at her strength of will. He does not see or think of her at all.
But, sometimes, he smells her.
Sometimes, like now.
Tarrant bends over his creations with renewed intent.
The scent does not leave him, however.
He slams his things down on the worktop. Oh, how utterly, unforgivably, mercilessly cruel his memory is! Just last week, he'd savored this fragrance and now it eviscerates him!
Perhaps it will overcome this persistent stomach ache. A new pain would be welcome. Anything different would be welcome.
He braces his hands against the worktop, lowers his head, and closes his eyes, allowing himself to become lost in his mind. The madness surrounds him constantly now, ever since she'd touched him. Touched him with her bare hand against his skin. Beneath his shirt. And he'd almost... almost...
No! Think o' something else! Anythin' else!
He can't. Perhaps he doesn't want to. If he were honest with himself, he'd admit that he doesn't even try to turn his thoughts away from that moment. It's the closest thing to... to... to knowing another person he's felt in... years.
He fists his hands as the memory loops around, repeating.
Her fingers on the buttons of his shirt and his shock.
Her gentle touch as she'd tended to his injury and his sudden, overwhelming need for her.
In that moment, he would have done anything to ensure that she would never ever dare to leave AGAIN!
He shudders. The madness holds him close and he wishes... He wishes her scent would leave him be, stop tormenting him. He wishes he could capture Time and place it as the centerpiece on Thackery's tea table. He wishes he could keep Alice there in the neighboring seat, with her knee only a twitch away and her hand on his arm and her eyes shining with humor and...
"Hatter!"
... and the sound of his given name spoken in her voice.
"Tarrant!"
No, not like that. More softly, gently...
"Tarrant..."
Ah, yes. Just so. Just exactly unimaginably indescribably so...
"Open your eyes."
The whisper is compelling but he resists. "Again," he rasps.
The madness recedes enough for him to hear the silence of the room. Blessed, wondrous silence...
"... Tarrant..."
... silence and Alice, saying his name.
He opens his eyes and pivots unsteadily. "Alice," he murmurs, feeling her hands slide down his shoulders and away from him.
No, no, not yet!
He reaches for her hand, targeting the left one at random, capturing it in both of his and gripping tightly. He wants to tell her not to go. Stay! But he can't find any words, any breath. Only desperation answers his call for sanity.
"Ouch!"
The exclamation startles him. He looks down and opens his hands and stares...
A drop of intriguingly crimson-colored blood swells on the tip of Alice's finger. Her third finger. On her left hand. Tarrant stares at what must be the work of providence. The wildness grips him again and...
Alice gasps.
Tarrant blinks and notices two things immediately: first, he's holding Alice's fingers to his lips; and second, he's brushing his tongue over the droplet of blood, tasting her.
What have ye done?
No, no, no. Should not. Must not!
"I'm sorry! I'm so very sorry, Alice!" Frantically trying to distract himself from the taste of her, he examines her fingers for other injuries and hopes – mostly – for none. "The pin in my cuff must have... I'm so very... I hurt you, Alice!" he concludes, devastated, disconcerted, disoriented.
"It's all right," she replies with maddening patience.
"No! No! It is not all right!" What have I done? It stops here. She must not... no, no, of course she won't! Why would she want to...? "And, of all the appalling manners!" he stutters, flustered. "To take liberties on your person as I have! I'm so deeply... I can't... I don't know...!"
He can hear her saying "Hatter" again and again, touching his face, but it doesn't help. His wretchedness can get no more acute, no better, no more absolutely suffocating.
A slight pain distracts him enough to focus and his nonsensical words and disjointed sentences dry up in his mouth at the sight of Alice lifting Tarrant's own just-pricked heart-line finger to her lips.
"... no..."
The word is so soft it can barely be called a sigh. He watches, helpless, entranced, as Alice glances at the perfectly normal bead of deep blue blood before parting her lips and...
... and...
... and Tarrant focuses again. With some relief, he realizes he hasn't moved a muscle. Yes, yes, that's for the best. He wouldn't want to... No, no, of course he wouldn't. He won't. Alice doesn't really understand what she's done, now, has she? No, of course not...
"There," she says with a victorious little grin. "I reckon that makes us even."
She's still holding his hand. He can still taste the very odd salty tang of her blood on his tongue. And he...
"Tarrant?"
He watches as his right hand reaches for her, tangles in the hair at the back of her neck, and lifts her face to his. When had he closed the distance between them? He doesn't know nor does he care. His lips brush against hers and he wants so much more than this shadow of a kiss, but he must not, dares not, will not!
She holds onto him. Her hands curl around his arms and she holds onto him!
Tarrant's entire being shudders with joy and longing and...
No. No! D'nae take more than this!
But even as he thinks it, her mouth moves against his. Her lips part. Just the smallest increment.
He groans and, shaking, unsteadily trails his tongue along the inside of her lips.
STOP!
This time, he does. Breathing heavily, he gently releases her and clasps his hands together to keep them from finding their way back to her again.
"I'm sorry..." he begins, struggling to push the whirling emotions back and do the proper thing and...
"I'm not."
Tarrant looks at her. Examines her. He clutches his hands together tighter. Her hair – he's grasped it in his hand! – tumbles over her shoulder rather than down her back, as usual. Her lips – he's savored them! – curl into a knowing smile. He can think of nothing to say to her. He can barely keep his mind from drowning in the frothing, churning, raging tide of everything-he's-ever-felt-but-is-suddenly-feeling-all-at-once!
And then she places a hand against his cheek. He closes his eyes, feels his knees buckle, and...
Perhaps he hits the worktable on his way to the floor. Perhaps he lands on a pile of hats. Perhaps he falls through a looking glass and into another world entirely.
He has no idea.
Nor does he particularly care.
"Excellent work, Alice. Just spectacular," Alice mutters as she staggers under the Hatter's weight. When he'd swayed, she'd ducked under his arms, hoping to somehow maneuver him over to the battered sofa against the far wall, but after the third step, she'd overbalanced and after that... well, she's just glad he hadn't hit his left side on anything. And that she hadn't kicked it again.
She pulls bolts of fabric down to the floor, lifts his head and slides the softest of them under it for a pillow. She hesitates over how to make him more comfortable on the cold floor of his workshop. "Well, the cravat looks a bit tight..."
Alice loosens it and releases the top button on his shirt. Wisely, she leaves his jacket, waistcoat, trousers and boots alone. She makes a seat for herself on an assortment of fabric bolts and then spreads another – the warmest-looking – over him. With that done, she presses a hand to his forehead but he feels normal. Perfectly normal. No chills or fever. Not in the conventional sense, anyway.
With a sigh, she tidies up the things the Hatter had knocked over first when she'd surprised him and then when he'd been working himself into a frenzy of regret and, finally, when he'd passed out.
"Some Champion of kisses you are, Alice," she murmurs, setting a bowler hat with a jade green hat band on the tabletop.
When she's picked up everything within arm's reach – even a few tiny pins and a dusty button, Alice turns back to the Hatter and once again places her hand on his brow. From there, it migrates into his vivid hair.
"Soft," she muses. Softer than she'd expected. The kiss had been as well. When his irises had suddenly burst into that unmistakable violet, she'd had no idea of what to expect. But his hand in her hair had been nothing but gentle. And the way he'd curled his body down to her had been alarming only insofar as how her own body had tingled in anticipation. Then, before she could be shocked at herself for wanting to kiss him, he'd settled his mouth against hers.
Alice closes her eyes. His breath had been as sweet as his blood. Blue blood. The taste of which had been... like caramels and bergamot. How strange. But then, everything about the Hatter is strange. Always has been, at least since she'd first arrived in Underland. Alice feels that his strangeness is one of his finer qualities. Equal to his ability to see straight through to the truth of things.
Alice is not looking forward to disappointing him. Again.
In the silence, she rehearses her explanation:
I've decided. I'm the Queen's Champion now. I'll be careful but I'll need your help every now and again when I get lazy and soft. I'm staying. And I know about the Trial of Threes. You're half-mad and I'm out of my mind so we'll find an answer between the two of us...
Actually, Alice muses, that's not half-bad. "Of course you wouldn't be awake to hear it. I'll probably forget the whole thing by the time you come around."
She huffs out a breathy laugh. "And here I'd always thought it was the ladies who swooned from a kiss..."
But, no, it hadn't been the kiss that had caused this. There'd been something else in his eyes. A storm of triumph and panic and... something else. Perhaps he hadn't meant to...
Alice tries to ignore the fact that her heart is sinking into her stomach.
Yes, there's every possibility that he hadn't meant to kiss her at all. Perhaps it had just been the madness. And it is madness for her to assume that anything has changed between them.
Regardless, Alice grasps his hand in hers, leans back against a nearby set of drawers, closes her eyes and waits.
[End of Chapter 4]
NOTE: And if you can't wait to find out what happens next... well, you'll be able to read more on my homepage. *pokes FFnet Bio*