A/N: Hm, tough crowd. That's okay though, it's only just beginning.

I apologize in advance. I don't really know much about concussions. As far as I'm concerned, Concussion + Shock + Magic = Bad.

Whatever. This is an AU, I can do what I want.

I'm going to try and publish every Tuesday, but I'd also like to have a 2-chapter buffer before I publish a new one. Which means that if it's Wednesday, and a new chapter hasn't been posted, I was too busy being a lazy bum to write. (Or I forgot, like I almost did today :/ Oops)

And again, I do not own OUAT, OUATIW, or Alice in Wonderland.

Chapter 2

"We were lovers in a past life,

I can see it in your green eyes,

Maybe you were one of my wives,

In the long lost tribe.

...

But I, I keep on falling for you,

Time after time, time after time.

I'll make you mine, time after time,

Time after time."

/-*-*-*-\

28 years ago, Wonderland

Fucking hats.

Jefferson pitched a grey carriage hat with a large green plume across the room, causing a towering stack of other failed hats to topple over, which in turn caused more towers of hats to fall. He roared in frustration and collapsed on the ground. At this rate of failure, he would never see his Grace again.

A promise which you now have broken.

Her cruel voice rang in his head, repeating the words he knew to be true. Promise. He would not be home in time for tea. Broken. His beautiful daughter was never going to see him again. Swiping an angry tear from his cheek, Jefferson snatched up a ream of red fabric and began work on a bowler hat. "Get it to work," he murmured to himself. "Get it to work. Get it to work! Get it to-" He abruptly stopped rambling and stared at the small phial at his feet that was decidedly not there a moment ago. Blinking hard, he reached out to touch it and gasped in surprise when he felt cool glass beneath his fingertips. He snatched it up, examining its contents, a luminescent orange liquid. Noticing there was a note attached to the neck, he brought it close to his face to look at it further, looking very much like a curious chimp as he did so. He removed the note and unfolded it until it was a full-sized piece of parchment.

"Hatter-

"Seeing as how you were of such great use to me in the past, I have one final favor to ask of you. Regina is casting a dark curse that will uproot everyone's puny little lives and transport them to a world without magic and happy endings and so on. All over a broken heart. Talk about childish. But I digress. In this new world, the memories of our old lives will be ripped from us and replaced with new ones. This potion will allow you to retain your memories. You'll still be injected with a fake life, but at least you'll know the truth. Time is frozen in this new realm, so none will age. In twenty-eight years time, the Savior will return to break the curse, and the final battle will commence. When she arrives, you are to convince her of her destiny by whatever means necessary. I have seen to it your wife and daughter have received similar potions as well. Whether or not they drink them is another matter entirely. We both know what happened the last time your darling wife drank something from a mysterious bottle. Many thanks, dearie. I imagine I'll be seeing you again soon enough.

"-Rumpelstiltskin"

Jefferson read the note with utter disbelief. Then he read it again to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. It wouldn't be the first time. He set the note on the ground. An interesting proposition, indeed, he thought. But is Rumpelstiltskin to be believed? Therein lays the riddle. It seemed a simple enough task, and in the grand scheme of things, twenty-eight years wasn't that long, especially if time was frozen. Then of course there was the unspoken promise. I have seen to it your wife and daughter have received similar potions as well. What he wouldn't give to see his family again. And that there was a living wife to send the potion to only sweetened the pot. But then, nothing from Rumpelstiltskin comes without cost, so why should this be an exception? Whether or not they drink them is another matter entirely. There was no guarantee of anything.

He looked at the vial, then at the hundreds of hats stacked around him. Scoffing, he figured he might be better off smashing the damn thing and using the glass to cut his own throat. And it was that dark, yet simple realization that convinced him to drink. After all, he had nothing, and therefore nothing to lose. Jefferson tentatively removed the stopper and deeply inhaled the scent of the potion. It smelled like cherry tarts, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and buttered toast all mixed in one. "Bottoms up," he declared to the empty room, and quickly drank the entire bottle. He was pleased to find that like good bourbon, it caused pleasant warmth to spread throughout his entire being.

Seeing as how he didn't immediately keel over and die, nor did he transform into a puppet, he reasoned that Rumpelstiltskin was telling the truth. A manic cackle erupted from deep within his throat and he sprung to his feet. My darling Grace. He began to sing a simple tune and danced a waltz with an invisible partner, kicking the ream of red fabric away. My lovely Alice. He waltzed over to a hat pile and shoved it over, laughing madly the entire time. I'm coming home to you at long last.

Perhaps the most exquisite form of torture in this entire experience was the irony. He has been surrounded by hats in one way or another since the very day he was born, whether it was making them or travelling through them, but Jefferson found that despite it all, he really didn't understand the appeal of hats. You wear it to one event, with one dress or suit, and then it's shoved back in the box and never seen again. Not to mention, in his experience, the wealthy spent quite a sum of money on custom hats of the finest design and materials, only to forget about them after a single use. A waste of money if he's ever seen one. But it pays the bills, so who was he to question it?

These were the things he contemplated as he walked slowly around the shop. The Hat Trick. What kind of ridiculous name for a store is that anyways? He had checked out of the hospital that morning against Dr. Frankenstein's wishes.

(Why bother learning his cursed name if it was only going to break?)

Then again he supposed it was his shop. The permits and business license were under his real name, and he recognized several dozen hats in the back room from his time in Wonderland. It was even decorated in a way similar to the mansion he once owned with his wife in the Enchanted Forest. The walls were dark green with white damask accents, like their sitting room. Empty shelves and display tables made of mahogany reminded him of their dining room and library. As he surveyed the break room connected to the main shop, his footsteps against the hardwood floors echoed in a way that made him feel like he was walking down the hallway to the bedroom they shared. These things combined brought his thoughts back to better times. Times when his wife's light laughter and infant daughter's gurgles rang through the air. He could almost smell her perfume wafting throughout the room; feel her soft hair between his fingers. Everything was so... Perfect.

That's why he didn't believe it for a moment.

He had been lying, of course, when Emma had come to talk to him. A few bumps on the head couldn't erase the truth. Although while he was unconscious, and even in his early moments of wakefulness, he could feel the curse trying to rip it away, to force him to give in. He had nearly accepted the oblivion, seeing as how he had failed his task. But then he thought of Grace, his sweet, sweet Grace. If he didn't help the Savior break the curse, then who would? No, the only way they would ever be reunited was to get Emma to believe. There was still time. He hadn't failed yet. In retrospect, perhaps barricading himself in his mansion in the woods, waiting for the Savior to just fall into his hands wasn't the best strategy. If he wanted the curse broken, he needed to try a more hands-on approach.

If you can't beat them, join them.

And besides, he had some enemies in high places in this town. He imagined the Queen wasn't too pleased with him, even though when they had last crossed swords, she came up smelling like roses. There was also the chance she had figured out that Dr. Frankenstein's procedure to bring her lover back to life might have worked if they had actually tried. But, he reasoned, she couldn't kill him for it if he didn't know anything about it. So he would pretend. He pretended to be asleep when she came in to visit him. When she woke him up, he pretended to know nothing of the curse or how he received his concussion. As far as the mayor knew, he was walking in the woods, blacked out, and woke up in the hospital. When Dr. Frankenstein told her he needed to rest, she had wished him a speedy recovery with a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach her eyes, and then walked off. Jefferson would have to give that man a gift when this whole thing blew over.

He couldn't help but notice that although the store had been abandoned for twenty-eight years, there wasn't a single speck of dust anywhere. Benefits of living in a timeless realm, he assumed. But what was strange was that when he went into what he presumed to be his office, there was a "Help Wanted" sign on his desk. Jefferson remembered that when he checked out, Frankenstein had told him to rest. How could I rest at a time like this, he remembered thinking. This entire town is at a crossroads.

He walked to the front of the store and placed the Help Wanted sign in the window. Might as well. The entire purpose was to blend in; convince the Savior and the Queen he knew nothing. If he were a normal milliner, he would have an assistant. And he did need to rest. The small amount of cleaning up that he was doing had been surprisingly tiresome. Jefferson sighed; if he was going to open a millinery shop, or even pretend to open one, he supposed it would help to have some hats on display. That meant going back to the stock room and bringing hats up to the main shop floor, then arranging them in the windows and on the display tables and on the shelves. He was getting a headache just thinking about it.

A promise which you now have broken.

The Queen's voice resonating in his skull, he pushed the pain to the back of his mind. He had promises to keep. Walking towards the back of the store, he didn't see the young woman approaching from the street. She looked at the writing scribbled on her hand, then up to the sign. Hat Trick Millinery Shop, Main and Seventh. Ask for Jefferson Andrews. The woman briefly considered turning around and going home. She didn't have any experience in anything other than waitressing; what would she have to offer at a hat shop? As she turned to leave, her eye caught the Help Wanted sign in the window. Strengthening her resolve, Carol opened the door and heard the bell above the door tinkle her arrival. A voice from the back called out that he'd be with her in a moment. Carol shifted awkwardly in place, unsure of what to do with herself. There's still time, a voice in her head screeched. You can leave before he even sees you. Shaking her head, she cleared the cowardly thought from her mind and took a relaxing breath.

Jefferson had just opened the stock room door when he heard the bell. It was probably Rumpelstiltskin, come to collect the rent or some other ridiculous fee. Taking his time, he walked back through the break room and pulled aside the curtain separating it from the shop floor. Instead of an old man with a cane, he was surprised to see a young woman waiting for him. She was facing the door, as if debating if she should leave. Walking over to the checkout counter, he cleared his throat and she turned around.

No. His eyes widened and he clutched the counter for support. It can't be...

"I'm, uh," he stuttered, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the counter, "the store isn't- Who are you?"

The woman's forehead creased into a delicate frown, something flickering in her eyes, and she took several tentative steps towards him. "Are you Jefferson Andrews?"

Oh gods, her voice. It has to be. "I am," he managed. "Who are you?"

"Carol Parker, I'm looking for a job. Are you okay?" she asked concernedly, coming even closer. "You look like you're about to throw up."

He somehow managed a single humorless laugh. All the subtlety of a dull blade. Just like always. "A concussion tends to do that for you." She smiled at him, and it lit up her eyes in the most beautiful way. He knew that smile anywhere. There was no longer any doubt in his mind.

His beloved Alice was alive and standing right in front of him.

This woman was his wife.

The world went black for a moment and he felt two arms encircle his waist and help him stand. "Mr. Andrews! Jefferson?" her voice, the voice that had haunted his dreams for the past thirty years, called out to him. His feet regained purchase on the ground as his eyes fluttered open. "Is there somewhere you can sit down?"

Nodding, Jefferson drank in her features like they were the air that a drowning man needed. They were exactly as he remembered them, but with one glaring difference; the formerly ever-present light had vanished from her eyes. "Through the curtain," he murmured, "chairs." Alice -or whatever her name here was- led him back to the break room and helped him into a chair. His eyes fluttered closed again and he heard her footsteps echo in the room.

"Mr. Andrews?" Reopening his eyes, he saw her walking quickly towards him. "I don't know a lot about concussions, but I'm pretty sure you have to stay awake for a while." She came to stand in front of him, worry etched onto her face. "Are you going to be okay? Do I need to take you to the hospital?"

Bland white walls, the stench of blood, Frankenstein's certain "I told you so"? "No, thank you, Miss, uh," he briefly screwed his eyes shut, looking for her curse-name. "I'm sorry, what was it again?"

"That's alright," she smiled. "It's Carol Parker."

Gods, how I've missed that smile. "Well, Miss Parker," he smiled back, "you seem to be quite a valuable asset. You mentioned you were looking for a job?" She nodded quickly, a small spark of hope appearing in her eyes. "Well then that settles it. Welcome to the Hat Trick."

Her eyes widened to saucers, and she managed, "B-but you haven't even asked for any references or anything. I've never even worked in a hat shop before! Is-isn't there some-"

"Miss Parker," Jefferson interrupted with a smirk. "Are you trying to talk me out of giving you a job?"

A steady flush made its way onto her cheeks and she smiled shyly. "Not anymore. Thank you very much."

He could feel a full-megawatt grin spread across his face. "It's not a problem," he replied. "If anything, I should be thanking you. There's really not much to the job, so you should be fine." He slowly stood up under the careful eye of his new assistant. "I should probably go home and get some rest. Tomorrow, I'll get you a spare key made. Can you start at, let's say, eight tomorrow morning?"

Carol nodded animatedly, "Of course I can, Mr. Andrews," she smiled. "I cannot thank you enough."

"You're very welcome." Jefferson nodded, but there was one niggling, traitorous thought in the back of his mind. Don't question it. If you question it it'll disappear. "If you don't mind my asking, Miss Parker, where did you hear that there was a job available here?"

"Mr. Gold told me. He's the landlord for my apartment building. Why?"

"Just curious. Have a nice day." Smiling at him once more, Carol left through the front door, the ringing bell the only sound in the store. Once he heard the door click back into place, Jefferson slammed a fist onto the table, causing it to shake violently. As the noise reverberated through the room, he told himself to calm down. Assess the situation. Good news: Alice was alive and in Storybrooke. Bad news: she was cursed. But not completely, it seemed. Facets of her old personality still shone through the cracks, and he swore he saw recognition in her eyes when she first turned around. All hope was not lost. Just most of it. One thing was sure, though. He needed to have a nice chat with Mr. Gold.

He took a step forward and felt a dizzying wave of nausea wash over him. Tomorrow, he thought, clutching his head and the table. I'll talk to Mr. Gold tomorrow.

Fucking concussion.

And it all circles back around. Ain't it grand?

Song is "Past Lives" by Ke$ha. (Don't be fooled, it's really pretty and soft and totally fits this chapter.)