A/N: Sorry it's been so long between updates! Since there's not a great deal of plot to this, and it's just a series of one-shots, I'm writing entirely as the mood takes me.
Let Us Talk About The Weather, That Subject Is Sure To Offend No One
They were at tea.
The Dormouse had recovered from his seeming lunatic episode and was now calmly dipping his paw into his cup and fingerpainting on the no-longer-pristine white tablecloth. He drew a crooked little house, and outside of it a long table, at which sat a man in a hat, a tiny creature with big round ears, a rabbitish-looking thing, and a mishapen form that looked like a creature from a child's nightmare.
Alice was a little insulted; but, she considered to herself (for no one else was listening) the monster in the picture might not be her after all.
The Dormouse dipped its paw back into the tea. Alice, it scrawled above the monster's head, and drew an arrow pointing downwards.
Still, Alice told herself, it might just be a case of the Dormouse's poor drawing skills. One must never be unkind to those who bear no natural talent, for it can't be their own fault.
Another dip for more tea. Boy is she ugly, the Dormouse wrote, leaning its chin on its other paw.
Alice shook herself and straightened up. No sense in paying that any attention. She glanced up instead at the sky, seeking a neutral topic of conversation. "What a beautiful day," she said.
"That's what you think," snapped the March Hare. "I declare it looks as though it will rain."
The Hatter's reaction to this would have been most curious from any man in his right mind. Being as the Hatter was decidedly in his left, it hardly deserved a comment. He leapt do his feet and shook his fist under his friend's nose. "It. Never. Rains," he said, savagely.
The Hare cowered a little behind his teacup.
"It must rain here sometimes," said Alice, petulantly, feeling as though this were a conversation she could easily get in on. "Or else how would the flowers grow?"
"Who says they do?" retorted the Hatter, with a show more of pointlessness than actual conversation. He subsided back into his chair. Alice looked at him a moment, and went on.
"It's not nice to argue with someone for the sake of arguing with them. Daddy always says that's politics."
"Who says I am?" said the Hatter, leaning back in his chair and spreading his arms wide. Alice crossed hers, and frowned at him.
"You're not much of a conversationalist, I must say."
"Who asked you?" said the Hatter, covering a yawn with one hand. Alice decided there was truth in the saying that discretion is the better part of valor. Discretion, in this case, would almost certainly point to leaving while she still had her wits about her. Not that she can say this to the Hatter, of course; she could picture his retort with disturbing clarity. Wits? he would cry. Who said anything about wits?
Or, even worse: Too late.
"Well, if you're going to be like that--- you obviously aren't in the mood for company. Good day, Mr. Hatter." And she turned on her heel and prepared to leave the garden. But the Hatter had risen from his chair, he was reaching out a hand towards her, he was saying,
"Who says I'm not? Alice."
She turned back.
"Alice," he said, with what would almost be a kindly smile on any other face. "Don't go just yet, Alice. All I said was, it never rains---"
"But it must!"
"It never rains, but it pours," he went on, and waved her to a chair. "More tea, my dear?" The pot hovered over the waiting cup. He hung on her answer.
Alice took a deep breath, and a seat, and a firm hold on herself.
"Thank you, Mr. Hatter," she said. "I believe I will."