Alice huffs, crossing her arms. "You make it sound so dramatic."
Stayne rolls his eye. "You were drowning. Not dramatic enough for you?"
He can still see it in his mind, though his sneer hides his thoughts well. She has turned back to her family, and is saying something, but all he can focus on is the back of her head. Her damp, golden curls, slender, porcelain neck-and the image of those locks disappearing under the surface of the ocean, arms flailing in desperation and the echoing screams of the young woman.
Overlapping with that memory is something that honestly gets to him-if only just a little bit. It bothers him, and that bothers him even more (because really, something like this just shouldn't bother him because frankly nothing like this has ever bothered him before). Because when Alice had been out in that water, fighting for her life against the ocean waves (and in a skirt, no less), he hadn't seen the woman before him now. Not the champion, the woman who'd stood on the battlefield against him, who'd spurned his advances, but just that small head of gold, standing before his trial, the only one to defend him those many years ago...
Stayne has killed before, many, many times with absolutely no qualms about it-would again, in fact, if he felt like it. He'd had every intention of turning beautiful, fully grown Alice over to the Red Queen for what would inevitably lead to an execution of the beheading sort (really, the bloody woman had no creativity or finesse whatsoever, but she typically got the job done, so he had tried not to complain and get the axe turned upon himself). That hadn't bothered him either. Maybe it would have, eventually, when he'd gotten more time to think about it and the implications had sunk in, but then again, he hadn't had any time to think at all before jumping in that ocean to save her, had he? Really, the whole debacle makes so little sense to him that he doesn't even want to think about it, for it is giving him a headache.
He slumps back into the armchair, still not caring that his clothes are still drenched and have been soaking the upholstery. He barely fits in the tiny thing (he hates furniture. Always too small!) and his discomfort only adds to his annoyance. He kneads his temples, sighing audibly so as to bring the room's attention back to himself, completely disregarding the fact that he is interrupting an apparent conversation already in progress. "Dear Alice, when shall I be getting some dry clothing? This house must indeed be suffering from a sad lack of service to let a guest-the hero who rescued the youngest child from a terrible death, no less!-go on wearing such so drenched an outfit. Why, I could be catching a cold right now."
He lets his eye reach up slowly to meet those of the lady of the house, satisfied to see his barb has hit home and she is staring him down coolly. Lady of the home, indeed. It is easy to see where her fair daughter has inherited her poise. Insulted, Alice's mother carries more dignity within her than the Queen of Hearts had ever shown in all her petty, spoiled years, on or off the throne. Pride, oh she'd had heaping mounds of pride, but true dignity? The real bearing of a queen? It had always been the White who walked with such a thing.
And that was exactly the reason why Iracebeth had been so convenient a tool (though she'd worn on him more often than not, the wretch).
Stayne takes a moment to notice the eldest daughter has the poise, too, but is obviously the more sheltered of the family. Barely breaking through the face of an insult suffered is the indignation that possesses her mother. He doesn't waste much of his attention on her, though, and is looking to Alice within seconds, his appraisal of the women going almost unnoticed.
Almost.
Alice takes Stayne's rudeness in stride, something he is beginning to think she will only grow better at, sadly. She isn't even ruffled by his comments. She sees past the barbs in his words and finds only what needs her immediate attention. "Right, sorry Stayne. We obviously don't have anything that will fit you, of course, but I'll get a courier sent out to fetch a tailor. We'll have some measurements drawn up and get you some proper fitting attire made. Until then, I'm afraid you'll either have to suffer through the damp clothing or wear something too small for you. We've still got some of my dad's things packed away upstairs. I can find you something, if you'd like, but that's the best we can do at the moment."
Stayne is pleased to see that this suggestion visibly bothers Alice's elder sister, and it is the arm of her husband wrapping itself around her shoulder that brings her polite, hostess face back to the surface. Their mother, however, seems to be in complete agreement with Alice, despite her immediate dislike of her guest. "I actually already have one of Charles' boxes open, we were going through some of your old drawings he'd kept before you arrived. I'll go pull some of his more sizable articles out."
"I'll send for the tailor." Her sister smiles, turning to follow after her mother. Her husband hesitates only a moment before following.
The three pause momentarily in the doorway, all turning the look at Alice. The blond sighs, but joins them in their exit. Obviously, there is to be whispered conversation about her rescuer in private, an idea that has Stayne rather amused.
The Hatter and the pale ginger against the wall, however, stay put, both eyeing Stayne with great dislike. The Hatter's is much more pronounced, and Stayne actually finds himself smiling at him. "Something wrong, Tarrant? Your face is the epitome of distaste."
"Ahs i' well shud be, wi' tha likes 'o you en tha room." He replies, still bristled and ready, despite the lack of weapons at their disposal. But then again, men don't really need forged weapons, do they? Being readily equipped with fists and feet and whatnot, they are more than prepared for a brawl of a more primitive sort, which suits the pair just fine. And in any case, there is plenty of furniture, should more violence be necessary. And it usually is when Stayne is involved.
"You know, Tarrant," Stayne grins, a wonderfully terrible thought occurring to him. "I couldn't help but notice the lack of reaction on Alice's part upon seeing you. In fact, she seemed much more concerned with protecting me from you. What a strange turn of events."
If Stayne had thought Tarrant was bristly before, it is nothing compared to his condition after Stayne's words. He becomes stiff as a board, and lost is the anger that had been seething from his being, replaced instead by a general gloom that clouds the fierce light that had been in his eyes.
Oh, struck a very sensitive nerve, did I? Now this is laughable.
"I suppose you just didn't make as much of an impression upon your champion as I had thought. Myself, however... well, I did save her life, after all. I'm sure she feels indebted to me, maybe even a bit taken with my gallantry-"
The Hatter cuts into the knave's sentence with what is a hardly intelligible growl. "Ya've got qui'e tha fantasay goin' on' en' tha' head 'o yours, don' ya?"
"It seems closer to fact that you are the one living in the fantasy, my dear Hatter. Just what did you come here for?" Stayne is on a roll here, and he knows it. If ever there was a chance to hurt his adversary with mere words, now is it, and he proceeds with flourish. "The fair Alice Kingsleigh has paid you no mind at all, making it very obvious that she hasn't given you much thought since she left, let alone missed you. Did you really think she would? Did you think you could come here, whisk her away, and she'd be ready to take up her mantle again as your Champion, glorious and at your side, to aid the White Queen in her time of need? Now that, that, precious hatter, is pathetic."
He spits the last word, laughing, smiling (and it is a cruel smile, the cruelest he can muster, and his laugh more real than any he can remember uttering, for the hatter is shrinking under his words, being crushed, absolutely crushed, and Stayne loves it). Tarrant looks about to reply, to defend himself in some pitiful way, but Stayne won't let him even begin. The giant of a man steps up, forward, towering over the pale milliner, lowering his head to him to whisper in his ear. "My my, Mr. Hightopp. Your world is just falling to pieces right in front of you, isn't it? Has been, for years and years, and more and more just keeps slipping through your fingers and falling away into the darkness, disappearing. Your life, your mind, it's all going. Did you think that, just because Alice had road in on the Bandersnatch to save the day, Underland would right itself again? That Tarrant Hightopp would bring his family name back to its former glory, that the White Queen would rule with perfection instantly, and that peace would suddenly coat Underland in beauty and light? No world works like that, Tarrant. Especially not Underland. Nothing can be the way it was, not ever again. And coming here changes nothing. Nothing at all."
Stayne steps away, slowly, quietly, watching and waiting and knowing. He can almost hear the timer in his head, the seconds ticking away, counting down...
Until it all boils over, and Tarrant Hightopp erupts.
Hamish has priorities. They are simple ones, yes, but they are the ones that are important, that mean more than anything else (and there is a great deal of things that mean something to Hamish in this world, for he would willingly admit he's been rather blessed). He's always felt his own life has a nice, comfy spot at the top of that list (and for good reason, for he is a Lord, a beloved son, and he is worth something) and his parents come right after. Alice and her family have also made their way right up that list, more so since he'd been rejected, something that has quite surprised him. When one is turned away so flatly, one should drop all interest in the one who obviously couldn't see what was good for them. His pride, his very family name, is at stake in such matters.
And yet.
Somehow, the Kingsleigh family just keeps moving up inside, invading his thoughts, mattering more and more even though he should have been pushing them out. And Alice... Well, somehow, Alice had went from prospective bride to practically his sister in a matter of hours, and that position has apparently cemented itself despite the confusion it has caused (and is still causing) him. Somehow or another, in some way or other, Alice will always be a focal point of Hamish's life, will always be someone of the utmost importance to him.
And that's why, despite his growing comradery with one Tarrant Hightopp, Hamish is now rushing to the Kingsleigh's kitchen instead of staying back in the sitting area, where the screams and crashes and all-around cacophony of pandemonium are coming from.
Lowel is already poking his head out of the kitchen when Hamish rounds on him, shoving him back into the room and shutting the door behind him with a good solid slam. And then he turns and smiles at the confused gathering.
Helen immediately steps forward. "Hamish, what on earth is going on in there?"
"It's Stayne, isn't it?" Alice asks, looking rather angry (and still beautiful, heaven curse her, he is never going to get over this if she is going to keep on looking so radiant no matter what face she wears). "I knew I shouldn't have left him alone, he's bound to cause a ruckus. Here, let me-"
She makes a move towards the door, which Hamish is effectively blocking with his frame (which really doesn't put up that much of a barrier, except that none of the women would actually try to remove him just out of propriety-something that won't stop Lowell if he doesn't convince Margaret and company to stay put, and quickly). "No!"
Alice stops short, looking confused at his outburst. Hamish hitches his smile back in place, nods, and continues, voice now level and within normal decibels. "No. I don't think that would be wise. It is not Mr. Stayne making the noise, I'm afraid, though I do put full blame upon him for causing it. It's Mr. Hightopp... he's... well, a bit prone to fits, you see, and I'm afraid your other guest knows just what buttons to push to set him off."
"Hamish Ascot," Helen begins, lowering her chin in what is undeniably a disapproving glare. "Just what is going on in my sitting room?"
Hamish feels the bridge of his nose pinch in frustration as his smile falls away, and he sighs. "Oh, probably the same thing that happened to my mother's. I'll be certain my father reimburses you for the damages. I am terribly sorry, I should never have brought him here after this morning-"
"You brought an unstable, potentially dangerous man to my mother-in-law's house!?" Lowell roars, finally getting a handle on what exactly Hamish is rambling on about. He'd known Hamish was hiding something about that man, and Hamish had known Lowell had known, and now it is all but proven and definitely not going to turn out in his favor. Why oh why had he ever decided he wanted to help that crazy hat maker?
"Well," Hamish begins, having not yet pieced together his own pathetic defense, but is cut off by yet another loud crash, and the echoes of a most unearthly howl, like an animal, wounded, dying, broken.
Disturbing, yes, indeed the cry could only be that of a man who isn't wholly a man, and Hamish feels torn by it. Is it truly the fault of the man when he is so uncontrollably mad?
Suddenly Hamish is thrown forward, the kitchen doors behind him having been pushed open, catching him in the shoulder blades and propelling him from his sentry post. He catches himself on the edge of a counter, thankfully missing the Kingsleigh women and instead knocking the wind out of himself. Trying to catch his breath, he turns, and finds that Stayne has apparently come to join them, grin still in place.
"Now, why is everyone hauled up here in the kitchen?" He asks playfully, leaving the doors open behind him for all to hear the full brunt of the Mad Hatter's raging pain. He is obviously taking joy in the horror etched on their faces. "Is it dinner time already? Can't say I'm averse to a warm meal."
"What did you do to that poor man?" Alice demands, rounding on her towering rescuer with all the fire Hamish has come to expect from these beauties.
"Me? I didn't do anything." Stayne replies, popping an apple up from the fruit basket and taking a bite.
"Liar." Hamish snips haughtily, finding his air again enough to resume a role he is used to, and much more comfortable with: being a pompous snitch. He turns to Alice immediately, trying to ignore the fact (as best he can, but it is rather difficult, what with Stayne having to stoop not to touch the ceiling, he is so large) that the dark-haired man is almost twice his size and extremely intimidating. "He was egging Mr. Hightopp on, with insults and such, and then whispered something to him. That's when he became so upset. That man," he nods to Stayne, who glowers back. "He did it on purpose."
"Stayne!"
Taking another bite out of his apple, the addressed merely shrugs. "So maybe I did provoke him a bit. It's not my fault he's off his rocker and is now tearing apart your lovely sitting room. You really shouldn't have let in trash like a Hightopp into your home, in any case. Wish the Jabberwock would have killed him when it burned the rest of them."
SLA-P!
Margaret gasps audibly, and the rest of the room stands staring, immobilized, at the two before them. Stayne still leans against the counter, his left hand clenched on the wood surface, glaring down from an awkward angle at the fierce and indignant Alice.
She'd slapped him.
In his right hand, Stayne's apple caves between his fingers, crushed.
"That's enough, Ilosovic." She says calmly, firmly, meeting his one-eyed glare with her own sizzling undercurrent that, despite the extreme size difference, makes them look on even footing. His eye narrows, but he makes no move in retaliation. After a moment, Alice turns and strides out of the room.
Stayne is her responsibility, and that makes this her fault. She intends to make it right.
Barely dodging a flying teacup, Alice steps into the sitting room.