Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland or any deviation of it. The concept, storyline, and plot effectively belong to Lewis Carroll and American McGee. This is merely something that came at a moment's whim, and is, therefore, not written for gain or profit of any sort, simply for enjoyment.

Confessions and Confectionary Delights

She must have been mad to have returned to this place. But madness was, of course, something in which she new quite intimately. For there it was that she stood; gazing down the twisting, winding path which led to her present quarry, to the March Hare's domicile and the mindlessly idyllic tea party that he held.

He had invited everyone. Everyone was supposed to come. Everyone—including the one who nearly destroyed everything.

Alice looked down at the invitation in hand. Strangely enough, it had been the Cheshire Cat, who had forwarded the invitation. The creature, with its perpetually maddening grin, came to her only the night before, having the audacity to come into her world and present her, rather unexpectedly, with an invitation, penned by the March Hare himself. Alice wanted to decline, but could not be so low as to reject the well-meaning summons—not after everything the poor creature had endured in her long absence…

She dared not think of it; best to leave such in the past, locked away in the dark recesses of her mind. It was easier that way; to cast aside the loss and pain and endless self-regret for a better time.

Time.

Alice shook her head at the thought. As it is always time, which seems to have a will of its own, always running against me, she thought mordantly, and frowned when she took in the familiar scene before her. A plethora of tea cups, accompanied with teapots piping buoyantly to some, disharmonious tune, where crumpets and cakes and everything that an un-birthday party was meant to be, and one that Alice distinctly remembered was laid out before her like a memory now come alive. It was a fond remembrance, of the nonsensical and impractical. Of sleeping mice and white rabbits, hares and ravens.

I've got one! Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Even now, Alice could find no answer to the confounding riddle; she doubted there was a real answer for it, anyway. Of course, he never made any sense, although he was, in all actuality, really, quite mad, thought she before suppressing a sudden pang of regret.

For like everything in Wonderland the Hatter, her beloved friend, had become just as dark and twisted as the nightmare that had encompassed him, her own insanity warping Wonderland and its inhabitants into some, hellish fantasy.

Some, in spite of everything, had remained true to her; whereas the Hatter, despite his attempting to save her so long ago, had no less fallen to it as well. Though unlike the Queen, he did come back, the distracted voice in her mind sharply contested. It was with this thought that her attention returned to the scene before her. Dusting off the hem of her dress, she made to adjust her apron, its white length standing out amidst the shadows and trees. She consciously brushed a set of fingers through her long dark hair, hopeful that she looked at least presentable to her host and friends.

Shaking her head, she could well imagine the March Hare and Dormouse seated at their respective places, the latter dozing off in his seat languidly as the former beguiled his guests with his curious anecdotes over a sip of tea before, just as curiously, removing himself and the others to another seat, a new cup of tea always in hand. Alice withheld a smile, doubting that little had changed with either of them. For her friends, regardless of what cruelties befallen them, had remained, in a manner of speaking, very much the same, both in tact and in habit, as it was these same, customary, seemingly never-ending pleasantries of theirs that compelled Alice to continue down the winding path before standing at the little wooden gate which barred her from the festivities within.

She gazed upon the happy display, almost longingly, her friends oblivious to her presence. Their sing-song banter reminded her of better days, days which brought both pain as well as pleasure. Her childhood innocence and naïveté of the world and its many sufferings had been intact then, just as the hole within her heart had been absent, nonexistent.

And yet, the hole within remained, an empty void which could not be filled. She doubted that even her friends and family could pick up the fragmented pieces that had once been her heart, and restore it to its once glorious beauty. As even with Wonderland restored and her own sanity—whatever remained of it—returned to her, there was still a shadow which lingered like a pall over her present happiness. She frowned at the thought. No, she could not deny the March Hare a friendly visit, even if everyone—everyone she had hurt with her selfish insanity—would be there, including he. She dared not think of such an outcome, if she were to see him, to even speak with him. Perhaps he will not come. She could only pray for such an outcome. The burden of having blood, now washed clean from her own hands remained, a niggling, unseen tormentor as that which hounded Lady Macbeth, driving the woman to infinite madness.

But I am already mad, her thoughts contested as her hand rested on the gate's little brass knob; though before she could turn it, she felt the presence of another—standing, somewhere, behind her. Mechanically summoning the Vorpal Blade she turned, her green eyes piercing through the veil of darkness surrounding her.

"Ever one of caution and curiosity you are, my dear Alice—a curious and intriguing mixture, to be sure, though perhaps it would be advisable that you not so idly fling that thing in the darkness before you see your quarry. You may very well come to regret it, my dear," a deriding voice came from everywhere, and yet nowhere at the same time.

Alice gave a disgusted snort, and lowered the blade. "Cheshire Cat," she acknowledged with a derisive nod, eyeing the cat critically as it slowly materialised before her.

The creature grinned at her, immeasurably pleased that he had discomforted her. "I see that you decided to come to this little party that our dear March Hare has thrown, after all. How very Alice of you," he mused, his tail encompassing the hand which held onto the gate. He cocked his head to the side, as if considering whether or not she would truly enter, and his grin deepened. The sardonic expression almost made Alice buckle under the force which his tail exerted. "I should announce our arrival," he said to her, "but, being the true cat that I am, shall not deprive you in making such known yourself." And with this, he opened the gate, that horrid grin, which held a riddle for her even now, never leaving his face.

Alice glowered at the creature, finding it even more intimidating than when it had been a mangy, emaciated facsimile of itself. The tattoos and earring had remained, of course, as well as that mocking grin, but the Cheshire Cat had no less been restored to his noisome, former self—as had all of the others,Alice found.

Thus assured, she found the courage to enter, passing the gate, and vaguely noting that her feline companion remained at her side, steadfast and damnably loyal to a fault. Alice looked heavenward in askance before hearing the booming voice of the March Hare.

"Alice, my dear, 'tis good of you to come to my little party! Do you see now, Dormy; I told you she would come. There was little doubt in that, if I do say so myself!" the March Hare crowed in triumph to the Dormouse before hopping to Alice's side. He took one of her hands in his paw, bowing to her and kissing it like a true gentleman.

Alice afforded her host a kind smile and curtsied. "It is good to see you again," she said to him, happy that he took on the appearance in which she had remembered him, his severed leg and mechanical arm returned to the healthy limbs which he had possessed before the fire. She then gave the Dormouse an acknowledging glance, almost laughing when she caught him dozing. "I see that Dormouse is ever the same," she remarked to the March Hare quietly.

The Cheshire Cat, lest he be forgotten, merely chuckled in response. "He scarcely remembers anything that happened. The medicine, if you will, the Hatter administered clouded much of the Dormouse's remaining senses. He now believes it all a nightmare."

The March Hare nodded grimly at this, undoubtedly wishing that he could cloud his own memories of that dark time as his friend had. But whether he considered this or not, the thought of such was not expressed upon his face, as his smiling visage remained, jubilant, and ready for the day's festivities. "Dormy rarely remembers a thing indeed!" he chortled merrily. "I had to remind him to come here today, after all. As we have surely been in want of good company for some time," he added soberly. "But do come now; sit you down, as there is certainly plenty of room for the both of you."

Alice followed the March Hare as he seated her at the far end of the table. She thanked her host before frowning at the curious sight before her, and hearing a strange ticking all around her. She barely noticed when the Cheshire Cat disappeared before reappearing again, just as inconspicuously, before taking a seat at her side. She ignored his knowing grin, her attention remaining solely upon the incessant sound before considering the vacant row of seats across from her—most notably, to the one whose back was facing her even now. She pondered its odd positioning for a moment before casting aside any concern for it. As I should expect nothing less from my host, mused she quietly. The peculiar habits of the March Hare made his own oddities a welcoming comfort to her, and she smiled, when she heard the Dormouse recite a poem in his sleep.

Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle…

"Asleep again," tutted the March Hare. "Oh, do wake up, Dormy! You cannot possibly sleep now. Alice is here!"

But the Dormouse, despite even the best intentions to rouse him, slept on. "Alice, beautiful Alice, and her Vorpal Blade," he said amid his incoherent mutterings. "She came across time and space to fight one whose heart was as black as a spade…"

The March Hare sighed, defeated by his friend's disturbing revelation, and he gave Alice an apologetic look. "I do apologise," he murmured to her, ruefully. "But he is, after all, only a dormouse."

A snort was heard in response. "Quite so, but then not all hearts are as black as spades. Some, with hearts so pure, can become corrupted, in the attempt to prevent another from following down that shaded path of illusive delights," replied the Cheshire Cat archly, his tail twisting, curling darkly in emphasis. "Some hearts willingly choose this dour fate, as you very well know."

The March Hare took notice of this, and he nodded to the cunning creature of old, conceding in silence. He looked once again to Alice before setting an empty teacup before her. "And so it seems that, ever the host that I indubitably am, must attend to my other guests. If you will be so kind as to excuse me, my dear," he said, and once again placed a kiss to the back of her hand.

He rose from his seat then, pointingly ignoring Alice's questioning gaze, since it was a surety that the girl was questioning what other guests there were, since she and their small entourage were the only ones in attendance. He failed to disclose his reasoning, of course, as he eyed the Cheshire Cat warily. Are you sure of this, those wide brown eyes darted between Alice and the feline, full of caution and uncertainty.

The Cheshire Cat merely yawned in response, stretching his wiry, twisting frame in nonchalance. He grinned at the March Hare before hopping down from his seat and rubbing against one of Alice's legs. He felt the girl stiffen, undoubtedly suspicious of his strange behaviour, and he chuckled. "It appears that I must take my leave, as well, since there are things of greater import, which require my attention. You understand, of course," he prompted, and grinned when Alice reluctantly agreed—surely to humour him. His smile was the last thing Alice saw, her odd companion disappearing as silently—and unobtrusively—as when she had encountered him.

The March Hare and Dormouse were the only remainder of their small company—or so she thought. Casting the March Hare a curious glance, she watched him cross over to the table's other side, to the chair which faced her. She heard him whisper something, as it was a dread certainty that they were not alone, where she comprehended at least one part of what the March Hare said: "You cannot simply leave her without anything; it is quite rude to leave a guest without any conversation. Ask her a riddle—something! You've waited this long, haven't you?"

Alice frowned, but was unable to discern what the response to his enquiry was, the green high-back chair and its silent occupant preventing her from learning as to whom it actually was the March Hare addressed.

It cannot be the Queen! A sudden fear of her seeing greatest nemesis again—and over tea, at that—flew to Alice's mind. Perhaps it is Bill, or even the White Rabbit. I have yet to see the both of them. Perhaps they wished to surprise me. She could only hope her fears proved all for naught, and that she was correct, that it was indeed a friendly face which she longed to see, for the Hare was now looking at her.

He gave her an encouraging smile, a paw resting upon the table. "I shall take my leave, then," was all he said before disappearing into his strange little house of fur and ears. The Dormouse was left to his own devices, of course, wholly oblivious to the conversation and what had transpired from it. He slept on, soundly dreaming of dreams which Alice herself could only imagine. She did not make to acknowledge the presence which loomed across the table, however; she would allow her silent companion to issue introductions first.

For as she waited for this mysterious figure to speak, she felt herself being thrust into the unwanted company of this nameless face. A sudden chill drew down her spine from it, where a cold recognition of the silence which permeated from this unknown figure forced her to consider the chair in front of her.

"You do realise, that it is quite rude to keep another waiting so—especially when it is a lady whom you so openly disregard with your negligence," she found herself say, a sharp retort which drew her companion to action.

"Do pardon me. I…am not used to…a lady's company," a raspy voice said in reply as it shuffled, as if nervously, in its seat.

Alice frowned, finding her companion's behaviour very strange indeed. Very few in Wonderland were ever this reticent whilst in her presence—especially those which had a mind to speak to her. Shaking her head, she nonetheless considered its apology, finding the voice undoubtedly male, though unable to distinguish its owner. So it is not the Queen, after all. She was relieved on that count, but still found herself quite unnerved by its disembodied presence.

"Then let us have a bargain, shall we?" she prompted him, her bravado her only front. She smiled when she heard her companion shift in his seat, for he certainly made to hear her proposal. She did not deny him of it, either. "Perhaps," she began, a thoughtful hand mindlessly caressing her empty teacup, "perhaps you and I shall come onto better terms if we were to actually see one another. I shall show you my face, sir, if you would so kindly oblige me in the same courtesy."

Her companion was silent for a moment, as if considering her offer, but then answered with his dissent on the matter. "You would not want that, I believe," was his sole response.

Alice scoffed. And how would you know what I would and would not want? she wanted to demand of him, but had the good sense to hold her tongue. "And why would I not want to see you when you are counted a friend?" she instead asked of her reluctant companion, her voice the model of true civility. "Do you find yourself so horrid, that I should not want to see your face, sir? Oh, come now, I am not like those of my sex, who faint over the slightest thing. I promise that I shall not need my smelling salts, even if you have the face of a Jabberwocky, or that of a veracious Centipede," she offered him in jest, and she almost swore that she heard him laugh.

"Very well," he conceded after a moment. "It appears you have won again, as I doubt that I could ever deny you, Alice," he spoke her name as if a reverent whisper before turning that massive green chair, the sudden movement revealing how tall his frame actually was.

Alice paled at the sight before her, her eyes widening in disbelief.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick.

She closed her eyes at the sound, the constant ticking affirming her worst fears. She now understood why she had heard the sound all around her; it was the ticking time clock which he had fashioned into a heart. She could only imagine its interior; a beastly thing made by his own hand—a far cry from what a real heart should be. It sickened her to hear it, though she no less opened her eyes, finding the courage to look at him.

"You," she muttered in contempt, suddenly disgusted by the very sight of him.

The Hatter nodded his head in accord. "Yes, I," was his calm answer. He did not turn away from her, where even her revulsion of him was duly accepted as stared at her, those yellow eyes reflecting an instance of time, of when they were an alluring blue instead of the hideous shade which now became them, matched by a face that many found amiable, handsome in its own, indirect way. The gears in his back seemed to slow in his consideration of her, finding the woman she had ultimately become just as captivating as when he had first encountered her, those many lifetimes ago. He almost smiled, remembering their first meeting.

He scarcely noticed her questioning look, his mind engulfed in a time when six o'clock remained forever fixed in his life; a time when Time was angry with him; a time when he was the carefree hatter who did not own a hat himself; a time when he was a man of flesh and blood, and not the cold, unfeeling machine he presently was; a time when he was almost…human. The March Hare had been wrong to have forced this upon them—upon her—as he had nothing to say, nothing to offer her, not even a riddle which had no answer. He had nothing, only a rusted metal frame which appalled her.

Frowning dejectedly, he looked away from her and bowed his head; his clockwork mind deep entrenched in the orderly, time-consuming prison his twisted genius had constructed for it. "Cannot go any lower…on the floor as it is," he muttered under his breath, unaware that his unfortunate companion had heard him.

Alice sat in a state of surprise, finding a strange sort of sympathy for the creature—she would not dare consider him a man, by any means—that resided before her. His eyes had born themselves deeply into her own not even a moment before, that sallow countenance remaining the sickly green shade that she remembered in her darkest dreams. And yet, Alice considered meditatively, his appearance, in some form, is changed from our last encounter.

For indeed he still wore the attire in which she had defeated him, the straightjacket worn and tattered and utterly failing to keep its occupant in a state of sanity. The slumping tower upon his head looked a bloody chessboard fashioned into a hat, the long, flaxen shocks of white-blonde hair underneath it dirtied and unkempt. To Alice, he looked just as dead as when she had defeated him. And yet, when she considered his face, she saw past the illusion he had managed, saw the haggard, almost youthful countenance that none of his other incarnations had ever obtained. To Alice, he looked almost…beautiful. Beautiful and hopelessly mad, she thought, trying to remain unmoved by his torn visage.

He sat there, his flaccid shape a personification of hopelessness. He did not breathe, did not move, nor break the seemingly impenetrable silence which kept them worlds apart. His body was that of tarnished bronze; that lifeless form rendered into a portrait of a broken puppet, his strings cut, a shattered mass of metal and dreams cast aside for a newer model of reality. No, his madness was not the kind, enduring madness of the March Hare or Dormouse, his madness was a dangerous mixture, traitorous and wholly unpredictable.

Alice gave pause, however, when the half-man, half-machine managed to lift his head. Again those yellow eyes regarded her, staring into the depths of her soul and finding naught but her own, endless turmoil. His face betrayed no emotion, no hint as to what he presently felt. His thoughts were as closed to her as the mechanical body which imprisoned him.

"Will you say nothing?" she finally asked of him, exasperated by his constant staring. "Why do you look at me so? Do you wish me to leave, for I shall if you desire it?"

But the Hatter shook his head, keeping Alice in her place. The cogs in his back creaked against the strain of his sudden movement, the gears and pulleys nearly breaking under the force he exerted when he stood, towering over her. "Alice," he uttered her name in an achingly sorrowful tone before carefully reaching for her teacup. "Please, if you would be so…kind as to allow me," he rasped in a metallic whisper as he reached for a nearby teapot.

Alice relinquished the teacup to him, watching him warily as he poured the tea with a trembling hand. He seemed so fragile to her in that moment, almost like the man she remembered when he was brought before the court of the King and Queen of Hearts. He had been on his knees then, fearful that he would lose his head, his speech deemed 'very poor' by the irate King. But now he seems even less confident than he was then. He is practically afraid of me, she silently mused.

Watching him ever closely, she noticed when he reached into the inner linings of his straightjacket, a small brown vial in hand. He made no move to hide it, merely explained it contents.

"There is no need to be fearful of it," he said as he straightened himself, and put the teapot down. "It is merely some wild root taken from the Dreamer's plant, to make the tea less…bitter." He regarded her with a sober look, that calm expression no less disturbing than the clockwork abomination which kept him alive. He unsettled her, as she undoubtedly believed that he intended to poison her. The massive gear in his back cranked in irritation. "I would not hurt you, Alice, on any count," he said, his words no more than a mechanical action. "I may have once attempted kill Time, but I would never…"

But of course, he almost had. And for that, he halted in his intent.

Once more, he turned his gaze from her, those unnerving yellow eyes falling helplessly to the dark mixture which resided in her teacup. He felt himself stiffen under her stare, knowing well that those beautiful and open green eyes measured his sincerity. It nearly made him cry out, compelling him to leave without so much as a word to his steadfast friend, who had abandoned him to this cruel punishment. Nor could he issue a kind farewell to the Dormouse, who still slept near Alice's side. There was naught he could do, however; he was caught in between two hells of his own making. He nearly recoiled when he felt the foreign touch of another hand, flinching at the warmth it radiated.

Barely registering the feel of it, he turned once again to Alice, allowing her hand to remain where it rested—on his. It was the first time she had touched him: the first, and oh, God, hopefully not the last. It almost drove him to sanity, the dizzying feeling intoxicating his synthetic soul, his senses overwhelmed by the mere, sliver of warmth found in that one fragile hand alone.

None of his automatons, his time-spun creations, nor genius could compare to it, to the humanly frail imperfection that embodied this single creature that touched him now. The cogs and pulleys in his chest groaned at the sudden force with which his inner circuitry exerted. He rattled at the continued feel of her, taking in her warmth, and thus replacing the coldness which could never be abated. Even now, she nearly killed him with only the slightest touch. The Hatter flinched. Did she not realise what she was doing? The power she held over him? He nearly collapsed upon the table, with what remained of his lungs nearly gasping for breath.

Carefully removing his hand from hers—lest he die a second death—he made to put distance between them. He looked down once more to the teacup and its cooling drink before daring to face her again. "You should not pity a broken watch so, Alice," he said evenly. "It is not becoming of one such as you, as what it is, is naught but cold, unfeeling metal, forced to reveal only fragments of time."

A dark brow rose in question. "And are you unfeeling?" Alice queried, daring him to answer. "I seem to recall how warm you once were. Has all of the happiness you felt then left you completely?"

The Hatter closed his eyes. "You know of my corruption, of my former…interests," he muttered, those hellfire eyes falling condemningly upon her. "You know of what it was that I did to those children, to your dear White Rabbit, and to those who concocted this pleasant little reunion between us." He cast a withering glance upon the ignorant Dormouse. "I have committed many atrocities; have harmed more than Time with my declamations. I have even hurt you. So condemn me now, Alice: despise me, hate me, summon the Vorpal Blade on me, if you will. Sever me completely from this hellish existence: I care not what you decide." His eyes fell closed again, his head falling forward, as if in supplication. Dirty golden shocks of hair obscured much of his face, his nose the only thing remotely visible. "I can never return to what I once was, what you remembered me to be. I cannot even begin to try. Not even for you, dear Alice. I am too far broken to be."

A sympathetic hand fell upon silent lips, a look of compassion betraying any former accusation. "Hatter," Alice murmured his name, almost moving to touch him again, though stopping herself. Yes, she hated him, despised him, even, and would have loved nothing more than to kill him, for indulging in the monstrosity he had become. But she could not find it within herself to go so far. Even for the White Rabbit's sake, and those of the children and her friends', she could not hate this pitiful creature before her.

My dear Hatter, what ever has become of you? Why have you not returned to who you were as the others have? she wanted to ask, but could not. Instead she leaned across the table, and bravely, if not a little fearfully, removed his hat. His head shot up in surprise, and she smiled.

"It appears that I have surprised you for once," she mused, her right hand brushing aside some of his wayward locks of hair as she set the slumping tower aside. "You never did have an answer to that riddle you asked me."

He looked at her, confused. "What riddle?" he muttered, almost incoherently, before finally remembering. "You were young then, and such merely came to mind at the time. How was I to know what answer to give you? I half expected you to give me an answer."

Alice gave him an unladylike snort. "You are still, ever the rude, presumptuous, pompous, conceited—"

"Ah, ah, ah," the Hatter abruptly cut in, a gloved finger reproaching her. "Repetition is not a becoming feature, Alice dear. You should mean what you say, after all."

She snorted again, this time in irritation. "And it is quite rude to use one's words against her," she sharply retorted, "as allusions to the past are not very becoming of you, my dear Hatter." She almost grinned when she heard him mutter something in protest. He had not changed—not entirely—as it was with this passing thought that Alice made to urge him to return to his chair as she sat down in her own, a small hand imploring one of his.

"I have missed this, truly, even if I was rather put-out by your constant discourtesy," she confessed to him, feeling rather unexpectedly that she, in her own madness, had, in part, caused this, caused this widening rift between them. "And yet," she thoughtfully continued, "I find that I have no less missed it, missed Wonderland." Missed you, her eyes told him, and he blindly grasped her hand.

He stared at her for a moment, silent in his thoughts before finally deciding to ask the one thing which he dreaded. "The sentiment is one shared, to be certain," he carefully admitted. "The madness of this world has ebbed away with the current, the typhoon obliterated." He allowed her a knowing grin. "Oh, yes, the March Hare has posed me with the same riddle concerning the Queen."

Alice looked at him. "And did you answer it correctly?" she enquired, completely taken in by the possibility.

The Hatter shrugged. "The March Hare was surprised by my answer. That much is certain," he remarked with a hint of pleasure. He absently tapped the side of his head. "I daresay a machine can discern far more than that of an average mind, comprised of blood and tissue, which will only rot away with time; whereas, something forged in iron will endure for far longer. A machine, in this respect, is most efficient." He suddenly became silent, as if mentally scolding himself for his carelessness. He felt her hand stiffen in his, that precious warmth threatening to abandon him. He shook his head. Best that he not ask her now, as he instead made to keep her hand in his—keep it, where his methodical madman's logic believed truly belonged.

The gears in his arms and back sped up, contorting madly over the conjecture, his chest mimicking that of a sprinter, having run a great distance before being spent of his energy.

"Alice," he spoke her name in a mindless whisper, forgetting everything else but she. He ignored the growing concern in her eyes, casting aside all notions of civility before taking that small, almost seemingly fragile hand that he possessed, and placed a chaste kiss upon her wrist, feeling the thriving pulse underneath. Nothing could equal that delicate imprint of humanity; his machines insufficient, lacking the simplicity in what it was to actually feel, to bear the breaking of a real heart, to truly be…alive. But he would never feel such again; his own heart now naught but ashes, their dusky remnants in the furnace from which he had discarded it so long ago.

"Hatter."

The sound of his name shattered the moment, and he released her hand. He became silent, though his eyes never left her face as he considered her. "I never enquired over your present circumstances," remarked he. "I know you have left the asylum; the March Hare has informed me as much, but I must ask over your welfare. How do you fare in your world, Alice? Are you living among family?"

Alice's eyes widened; and for a moment, she was utterly taken aback by the simple enquiry. "I…am living with my sister," she returned quietly. "She was not there when…"

The Hatter nodded his head in understanding, as it was the fire that she meant, and urged her to continue.

Alice returned his nod and continued. "Of course, after receiving word of my recovery, my sister demanded that I come and live with her. She was the one who took me in, as any well-meaning sister would, and welcomed me among her family. She has been…kind to me after…everything that has happened. Her house is located in the country, near the Lake District. I…have been happy there. Sometimes I go out, and stare at the water for hours, thinking," she said absently.

"And what do you think of, Alice?" the Hatter pressed, barely concealing his interest.

The girl remained thoughtful for a moment before answering, "Of everything, really. Mainly of my life before the fire, before the asylum. To visit it is an escape from my sister's intentions to find a match for which I am well-suited." She gave him an amused smile. "My sister believes that, in spite of my residing in a lunatic's asylum, I can still, somehow, manage to ensnare one of her friends' sons." She chuckled grimly. "Oh, I shall soon capture the hearts of many, and have a nice, normal husband who cares for nothing but society and his newspaper, or so my sister claims—poppycock, the lot of it. I only enjoy her home, as it is an escape within itself."

The Hatter raised a questioning brow at this. "And what, pray tell, kind of escape is it, if I may be so bold as to enquire? You are not doing something perfectly horrid among your sister's acquaintances, are you?"

A wicked grin was his only answer as Alice was mildly impressed by his sceptical humour. "Oh, nothing so horrid as driving my potential suitors' mothers to the vapours with my cynical tongue, I assure you. No, the lake by my sister's home has been a refuge for me, always helping me to forget my present concerns, what with settling down and becoming another doting wife and all. The water, in this, has been a most assuring friend."

"You should drink your tea; it is growing quite cold," was all he said, his words one of cold finality. A gloved hand held it out to her as Alice made to retrieve her teacup, though not without some reluctance. The Hatter seemed to notice this, for he issued her an encouraging grin. "Oh, do come now, you are insulting our host's goodwill. And besides which, I had quite forgotten my arsenic at home, so the tea is indeed, what you should care to deem, safe for consuminal purposes."

Alice could not withhold her smile. "Consuminal?" she reiterated. "There is no such word!"

He afforded her a droll look. "My dear girl, there is here," replied he. "I should know; I made it up. Therefore, it must be real—as real as you or I, I suspect."

Alice had the grace not to baulk at his absurdity. "If that is so," she began, glancing at the teacup in his hands, "then you will also be so good as to deem that my tea must and should be consumed by none other than myself, is that quite correct?" she asked, and received a concurring not. "And if I accept your most generous offering, then I should expect that it shall be mine and mine alone to enjoy?" Again, she acquired his nod of assurance. "You are not going to force me to move down another seat, are you?" she quipped when she accepted the teacup.

"No," answered the Hatter quietly. "The need for such has long since passed. I offer it freely, Alice, for you shall finally have your tea. I will not deny you of it anymore…"

And Alice believed him, as she sipped her tea, finding it the best she had ever imbibed in, and, by the end, wanting more. Of course, the Hatter, self-proclaimed gentleman that he indelibly was, promised her more, though at another time.

"You cannot expect to have tea of this quality every time you come to table," said he, and he promised her more, since the March Hare could never concoct such an alluring mixture, if only she came to his table in future. It was an offer that gave Alice pause, but one that she, out of haste and good manners, accepted.

The Hatter could only grin, revealing a set of jagged teeth, yellowed and decayed by his many experiments. "Excellent. Then I shall expect you at six, whenever you take a fancy to come. I can assure you, that my watch is no longer two days wrong."

"I should expect not," Alice carefully replied, debating whether or not the Hatter intended more than simply having her company over tea, as he himself had yet to partake in any. And yet, she had accepted his offer, as she would come to his time-kept labyrinth, if only to assure herself that the Hatter remained the pitiful creature he was and nothing more.

…

And so it was that Alice and the Hatter's evenings together began. She would not join him every evening, of course, since she only made to visit him whenever such was convenient. Since my sister has been pressing me more and more into those infuriating circles of frivolity, she thought morosely, albeit gladdened that she was once again in a place beyond the mundane strictures of her ordinary existence. She had missed Wonderland, missed its many inhabitants and the moments shared with them. She had found a semblance of her childhood innocence here—something, she had to forgo in the presence of her sister.

Setting thoughts of her elder sibling aside, she looked at the door before her, and stared upon its imposing, faded black surface. A tarnished doorknocker was bolted heavily against it, its figure in the shape of a clock, rusted, and no longer in use. The Hatter had changed little of his home since his defeat. The blood on the walls and floor, as well as his victims, were gone, though their chambers remained, piled up with junk containing the means for his experimentations—something, Alice was sure, that he intended to keep hidden from her.

For in her time with him, he remained ever the congenial host, never once offending her with his madness, nor his peculiar need to keep the time. He never mentioned the past, only kept focused on the present; and Alice indulged him in this, not wanting to revisit such herself, as the words 'You're Next,' though long washed away from the parlour wall, left only a dark reminder of what her friend had once been. Whereas the Twins, having also been revived, had kept well away from the Hatter, as well as she, where they remained in the forest, secluded from the madman they had once served.

Alice rarely saw them, since they kept mostly to themselves, where only the dual shaking of their heads affirmed their feelings in her many visits to the Hatter's domain. They did not approve of her relationship with the madman. But neither do many of the others, she thought before opening the door herself.

The Hatter had made it a rule that she come in without knocking, since he would be elsewhere, and would thus be unable to answer the door himself. Of course, he had no other to do the task for him, since he now lived with only the company of himself and his tea and the myriad of timepieces that he kept. Not even the March Hare or Dormouse would visit him, preferring that he come to their table instead. Of course, it was, in this matter, sensible that they refrain, since both had suffered endlessly in their once-friend's home, as the Hatter's home was still very much the madhouse that Alice had first encountered, albeit less labyrinthine now that she knew most of its turns and corners. The Hatter would often take her around, escorting her through the vast demesne he had built.

"There is nothing to fear in this place; nothing to fear, at all," he would often say to her in passing, though whether it was to reassure her, or to simply convince himself Alice could only speculate.

Of course, it never really mattered, since she would leave him at the end, and would thus adjourn to her own world. The Hatter would show a fleeting reluctance of her going, but would invite her for another visit all the same. It seemed that her visits always brought him pain at the end with their parting. He would almost reach out to her; almost take her hand instead of the teacup that she held out to him. At times, he almost offered to show her his private rooms, but would then refrain from doing so, finding such too personal, too intimate for a lady of her standing. Instead he would indulge her with another round of tea laced with root from the Dreamer's plant and the wonderful confectionary delights that he would always make.

Alice knew not what the cakes were comprised of, as even the white powder sprinkled upon each looked entirely innocent, in spite of their grainy texture. Indeed, they were beyond anything her sister's society friends could muster at their own, extravagant tea parties. Turkish delights, chocolates from foreign shores, and all of the spice cakes in the world could ill compare to the round, simple little confections that the Hatter made for her. He would serve them on a silver plate, which had seen better days, as the creamy red filling within each tempted Alice almost as much as the tea that he served. She never questioned him over their contents, half-afraid of their questionable origin. But of course, the Hatter would never disclose the nature of their existence, anyway; she would have to come to his table if she wanted any, since no other could make them—much less the tea—for her. Alice shook her head at his wilful persistence in the matter, albeit secretly amused by his desire to have her company.

He had even been a tolerable companion, engaging her in conversation almost reminiscent of their past exchanges; where he would, on occasion, ask her a riddle without a viable answer to it. In this, Alice found the Hatter of old, a man that she, in spite of her good judgment, found herself confiding in time and again. He would make it a point to enquire over her day, of her life beyond the looking glass. He would find himself wholly engaged in her life among those considered sane, and would, more often than not, question her over the lives of whom she knew intimately—most in particularly, those of her suitors'. Enraptured by her accounts of them and her constant derision of each, he would often press her to speak of her interests, of her future prospects—anything, she believed, that would keep her at his side. He even wanted to know the size of my dress! Alice remarked wearily to herself, her eyes then falling upon her surroundings.

She was standing in the foyer, where carpets and clocks of all shapes and sizes dominated the room and halls jutting out from it. The wallpaper—if Alice were to call it that—was comprised solely of dark blues and solemn blacks as teapots, all of which were trying to attain some semblance of a pattern, though miserably failing in the attempt, had been hastily sketched upon the wall, and then coloured in with what Alice could only assume as treacle dipped in varnish. He has done this since my last visit, she quietly thought to herself, before turning to the room which beckoned her.

Braving the rest of the distance it took to reach the Hatter's parlour, Alice took care to watch her step, as the water which ran through his home had lost none of its potency to poison a hapless interloper. The Hatter had been so good as to inform her not to imbibe in or consume anything that he himself did not offer her. It was a rule in which Alice readily agreed with him. For as she contemplated this, she breathed in an encouraging breath before opening the parlour door, to face the one who was undoubtedly waiting on the other side. It was in that brief instance of time that she saw him standing there, pacing fractiously by the table, as he checked his watch.

He was waiting for her. It was six o'clock; it was always six o'clock in this nightmare world of his. He had adjusted all of the clocks to read that solitary hour, never once leaving that singular instance of time, even after she had come. He had always seemed to wait for her; where, strangely enough, he was waiting for her even now.

As was his custom, he bowed to her in greeting. "Ah, you have come today!" remarked he. "I had expected that you would this evening, and always on exceptional time, too." He glanced at a nearby clock in pleasure. "I do believe that you and Time are on affable terms with one another," he mused as he pulled out a chair and urged her to sit when the clock readily struck the hour. The Hatter smiled again. "I daresay he is rather fond of you."

Alice smiled in kind when the Hatter made to serve her tea, the delectable white cakes within her reach. The Hatter smiled at her as he would a conspiring child, that subtle grin pressing her to wait; and Alice heeded him, as she waited for him to take his own seat.

After doing so, he nodded for her to claim as many cakes she wanted, happily noting that all but two remained. Again, he smiled at her, his hat slumping forward with the gesture. "Your hair is lovely today," he found himself say. "I daresay that it no longer wants cutting."

One of Alice's hands consciously touched a lock of her hair. She frowned at him, though no less enjoyed his clever baiting. "And I see that you still have yet to learn about manners, in refraining from making personal remarks. It really is quite rude, you know."

The Hatter chortled at this, before taking up his own drink. It was almost a ritual between them: Alice would carry on over his rudeness and drink her tea, whilst the Hatter indulged himself in a cup of mercury. "It manages to aid in my daily functions," he had admitted to her one day. "Of course, I know better than to serve you such, since it would not do quite so well for you—oh, certainly not, Alice dear."

Alice nearly sniggered at the thought of his affectionate namesake for her before taking another bite of her cake. The Hatter merely sipped his mercury, watching her with great interest before setting the cup down.

"You find something amusing—a memory of one of our times together, perhaps?" he hinted, and was somewhat gratified when he caught a blush. It was a rare treat for him to see her so, where he treasured those childlike sensitivities of hers before they disappeared completely. He nodded for her to take another cake as he filled her teacup to the brim. "Today must have been mildly pleasurable for you, I expect. Did your sister not throw you into another foray of those—what is that word you frequently use, intolerable? Ah, yes, that is certainly it—old bats and their sons which gather about you like a flock of borogoves. They did not offend you today, did they?" he asked, though his kind enquiry was heavily enlaced with a warning of its own. Alice chose not to indulge his temper on the matter.

"There was a tea party today," she asserted, guardedly, finding that when she had spoken of the last soiree she and her sister attended, which kept her at a late hour, the event had troubled him greatly, the main gear in his back having almost stopped completely. Almost fearing a repeat of such, Alice chose her next words carefully. "It was really far from any tea party found in Wonderland, and was not even half as diverting."

The Hatter grinned, visibly pleased. "They were in want of my tea and cakes, of course. 'Tis never really a true tea party without them, as you very well know." He then added some more mercury to his teacup. "But do tell me," he said in between pouring the quicksilver liquid, "were any of your bold young suitors there today? Did you manage to cosh one over the head with that parasol your sister gave you?"

Alice shook her head. "Only one was in attendance today, I am afraid, and he was not half so vexing as the others. Indeed, he was most amiable, in every respect." She instantly regretted her words as the cup in the Hatter's hand shook, a few drops of silver falling upon the tablecloth, staining it to a metallic grey.

The Hatter raised an incredulous brow. "In every respect?" he echoed doubtfully. "What kind of rubbish is that which you speak, Alice? Every respect. My pocket watch! You sound almost like those dithering, missish half-wits, which invariably attach themselves to any man with a decently balanced chequebook—including that flighty sister you are wont to mimic."

Alice set her teacup down. "Such may be true for some girls my age," she allowed him, before continuing coldly, "who choose money above all else in a marriage; but my sister is not the heartless creature you paint her to be, sir. She was the one who took me away from the asylum, and gave me a place to call home—something, that I have not had in a very long time. She is kinder than you accredit her."

Her companion grunted at the remark. "Oh, yes, I believe I understand you now, as you are indeed correct, of course, dear Alice: for I should very well refrain from making personal remarks of your surviving family, should I not?" he derided, before snorting in disdain. "After all, I have bettered myself in my time with you, no longer experimenting on the flies that happen to land in my trap."

She glowered at his crude allusion. "What on Earth has possessed you so?" she demanded in a firm voice. "Why are you so angry?"

But the Hatter shook his head, refusing to answer. "I believe we should move down one seat. Indeed, I think it advisable that we should." He then moved down a seat, half-aware of his guest following suit before seating himself close to the fireplace behind him.

Taking a new teacup in hand, he filled it, before downing the mercury in a single swallow. He glared at the empty teacup, staring at its liquidy silver remnants before turning to look at Alice. "I am not fond of this sudden discord between us, indeed I am not," he said at length, before moving to fill her new cup. "I would not know what to do if you left my table so abruptly, and without finishing your tea and cakes besides." At this, he handed her another cake. "They would go to waste without you here, since I do not partake in them myself—rather, that I cannot, since it seems to disagree with my cogs," he grudgingly admitted. "I can only assume what those cakes taste like, since I have not wholly forgotten the taste of idle pleasures."

A shard of empathy pierced Alice's resolve, where, of her own will, she took one of his mechanical hands in hers. Her fingers traced over the glove which concealed the metal framework and wiry system that comprised his tendons and nerves. She touched where metal met bone, where flesh met iron, her fingers pressing softly against their abnormal joining. She felt him shudder underneath her touch. "Hatter," she spoke his namesake gently, those soft eyes imploring him to listen. "I should not want for us to argue, either; I have just gotten you back. I do not want you to fall to the darkness of this place again."

"You despise my home?" he asked, suddenly affronted.

Alice shook her head. "No, only its memories," she found herself say. "You were really, quite horrible then. I hated what had happened to you; becoming what you were. I took no pleasure in killing you."

The Hatter, with a sudden lack of desire for speech, merely nodded his head in agreement. "I remember dying, feeling that horrid blade of yours sear through my chest. I hazard to admit that you broke the upper part of my framework with it. Had you not so kindly dispatched me, it would have taken me only days to repair it," he grumbled, though almost good-naturedly. "You are not half so kind to those hangers-on of yours, are you?" he quipped.

Alice closed her eyes at the tender-spoken jest. "No, not half so kind," she admitted, and then consumed the last of the cakes. "It is cruel of you not to tell me the recipe," she mused, dusting the powdery substance from her fingertips. "I should just force it out of you."

"Or you could simply remain here," he mindlessly suggested, already knowing that she would decline in his offer, "so that I may make them for you, whenever you should desire them."

"Hatter," she began, where his suggestion, subtle though it undeniably was, was not lost on Alice. "You know that I cannot stay," she tried to reason with him, hoping that he would, somehow, understand as the others had, but the Hatter would not have any of it.

"Nothing is stopping you," he muttered absently. "You vanquished her, did you not? You returned Wonderland to what it was, as everyone—even that mangy cat—is returned to what you remember them. Everyone…" Except me.

The words almost fell from his lips, but he kept them to himself, rubbing one of his gears in frustration. "You know what it is that I ask, Alice," he muttered, staring down forbiddingly at his teacup. "And yet, you desire to return to your world—to a world in which you despise."

"I do not despise it," returned Alice firmly. "I simply wish that I could live my life the way that I want it. I want some semblance of normalcy in my life, Hatter."

He looked up at her. "Normalcy?" he reiterated, and then frowned at the word. "And what of our evenings at tea together?" he pressed. "Do those not account for being normal?"

Alice stared at him, her even expression unrelenting in its intent. "There is more to my life, than simply having tea. Surely you must realise that," she said, trying to assuage him. "I would burden you with my wants and desires if I were to remain here. In essence, you would come to loathe my constant presence here."

He scoffed at this, the gears in his neck and jaw cranking tightly. "And you must surely realise that I am well-aware of your wants and needs; you have told me of them often enough," he coldly rejoined. "No, there is something more—something you refuse to disclose. What is it, Alice? I have been patient enough, do you not agree? What shameful secret are you trying to keep from me?"

She hesitated, almost fearful of his reaction. But then, he would not let her leave without an answer; it was not in his nature for a question to remain unanswered. Thus silently conceding, Alice gave in to him. "The tea party today was not simply that of its own making," she answered slowly. "Its true purpose was to acquaint me with a prospective suitor—one of whom, I had met only on a few, previous occasions. He is the youngest son of a viscount, Bertram Elias Enderby Faulkweather, is his name. It is expected by many that we shall be engaged over the summer, and then wed by the winter."

The Hatter remained deathly mute for a moment, only the rattling in his breathing broke the silence between them. He glanced at their joined hands before speaking. "And you approve of him, this Bertram?"

Alice made no attempt to hide the truth. "I am…fond of him, yes. He is kind, and most amiable, but that does not mean—"

"Has he asked you to marry him?" It was more of a confirmation than a question.

Alice shook her head. "He has yet to formally ask me," she answered, miraculously unwavering under that insidious stare. "He has barely spoken two words to me before now. I doubt he shall say more, when next we happen to meet."

"You attempt to placate me," he sneered. He glowered at her, those yellow eyes glittering ominously in the shadows encircling them. "You try to assure me of your happiness, to blind me with this ingrate's fickle affectations in pursuing you. Tell me, what does he think of your time at the asylum? Or does he even know of your pain, and how you suffered continually in abuse there?"

Alice shifted fretfully in her chair. He had struck a chord. "How dare you to presume that I would hide such from him?" Those green eyes seared in accusation. "Of course he knows! Everyone in my sister's circle knows about 'Poor little Alice and her sensitivities.' You cannot imagine how many whispers of pity that I have heard, or the sympathetic looks that I so often receive. I am treated like a veritable plaque, where most keep their distance of me." She shook her head when she saw him move to comfort her. "I never wanted to go mad, to lose myself so utterly to my endless grief and regret. That is why I am trying to make a life for myself, to somehow manage an existence that I can bear! And if it means marrying someone that I can only hope to tolerate, and having a normal, subdued life, then so be it!"

The Hatter sat in his seat quietly, doubtlessly pondering over her words. "And so with this 'normal, subdued life,' as you deem it, you shall forgo all happiness?" he queried, where, to his dismay, he received a concurring nod. "What a pity, Alice," he muttered, with great disappointment, "I had thought better of you. You could be much happier with another, you know."

Alice coloured at the remark. "Oh, spare me your false concern," she countered. "I know very well, how you despise him as a suitor. You are being incredibly vague with your intentions, you realise. As you are not what I should for in a husband," she pointed out.

The Hatter glowered darkly at this, and Alice saw, if only for fleeting moment, the dark opponent she had once confronted. "And what does he have, exactly, that I am lacking?" he demanded of her suddenly, rising from his chair. "A sane mind, perhaps? Or maybe it is simply a warm body with which to embrace you, even if it is merely for a moment in time? Oh, no, it is that of a beating heart, certainly. Or perhaps it is all three!" He threw a mercury-filled teapot aside, its curved porcelain shape shattering against the wall.

"You are mad." It was the only thing Alice could say, and the only thing she could do as she could not summon her blade on him, not as he was.

His eyes narrowed dangerously at the remark. "Of course I am mad!" he snapped. "You should have realised that long ago—certainly long before now!" His lumbering frame nearly towered over her, the gear his back emphasising his hunchbacked figure. As his hands—dear God, those hands!—moved to clasp their cold, mechanical fingers around her neck, barely exerting the slightest pressure. Alice made to cry out, to reach for her knife, but was unable to, as she sat there, her very life held in the Hatter's mad clutches. She almost grew pale by the sight of him, paralysed by fear.

The Hatter ignored her alarm, however, his hands remaining as they were, poised, a fraction of a second away from snapping that delicate throat in two. But all too abruptly his grasp lightened, the deed, strangely, left undone. It was a sign of weakness, to be sure; for although murderously driven mad by the acrid fumes and intoxicating taste of mercury, the Hatter could not carry through with his need in fixing her. She was the one piece of his art that would remain as she was: forever flawed in her humanity, as she was thus, as a consequence, forever beautiful because of it. His hands fell away from her, that tragic golden head falling forward in resignation.

"I wait for you at six; always at six, as I could, if in some small measure, be what you would have me. I could rebuild myself," he muttered in a broken whisper, the sound of his main gear ticking in harmonious dissonance, his countenance matching its shattered lament. His hands ran themselves over his face and neck, to where the metal and copper tubing were visible. "I could do this, Alice. I could manage it, for you. I could be handsome. I could even mould myself into the very image of this Bertram," he spat out his competitor's name in open contempt. "Oh, I can be whatever you want me to be, Alice; for though I may never have the power or influence of this other suitor in the world above, I still have this domain and my genius."

He tilted his head to the side, as if considering the prospect of becoming such for her, but then cursed it. "I do not have to be noble to give you that. But then, relatively, if one were to truly consider it, younger sons of noblemen are scarcely ever awarded anything that their elder brother does not, by default of his own wretched birth, already inherit. You shall be with left next to nothing if you marry this prospective suitor; whereas I, can keep you here, give you conversation, this place your own—as it is surely grander than your sister's—where I can also give you something that…boy is unable."

"Hatter," his name was echoed in a sad whisper. He meant something more than material wealth. He meant…Alice could not even bring herself to say it aloud. Whatever had compelled this madman—this murderer—to indulge in such depths of feeling was beyond rationale. The way that he shifted under her gaze, all rage and madness and loving devotion at once, was enough to make her cry.

Indeed, to Alice, he looked that of some tragic lover, broken down by his love's rejection of him. He was not to be defined as being handsome, by any means—certainly not in the same way as Bertram was. For how could the Hatter compare to a nobleman's son, with his ghastly green skin and abnormal height? His nose made Mr. Anderson's, albeit a marvellous storyteller, pale poorly in comparison with its outlandish size. To put it bluntly, the Hatter, handsome or no, could never be considered of 'marriageable' quality—not by her sister's society, anyway. As his madness…would settle him among those troubled at Rutledge, if not Bedlam, the most notorious of all insane asylums.

Though as she considered this, she saw him move, coming to her side, before standing only an arm's reach away. He paused in his intent, his breathing that of a mechanical whisper. A gloved hand reached out, as if to touch her, but did not, where it remained suspended between them. It took him only a moment to speak his thoughts. "You may think me mad, as I certainly am, but I can feel, Alice—perhaps even more than what these suitors claim themselves to exert on your behalf. They do not know you as I do. For after all," he grated out wretchedly, "was it not you, who came to this place, wanting to escape from a world with its foundations solely built on reason? Oh, why can you not accept what I feel? Is it so ridiculous, so unbelievably inconceivable?"

Alice looked away, those green eyes almost engulfed in tears. "But you cannot love. You cannot even know what it is to feel," she said, knowing it a sharp blow to his overblown pride, and yet attempting to make him see reason, make him understand that what he felt could never be what his half-deluded dreams had made it out to be.

The Hatter inclined his head, and closed his eyes in what seemed in modest defeat. "Then you do not know me," he said quietly, before reaching for one of her hands. He looked down at her, those forlorn eyes urging that she come with him. And Alice consented, no longer caring whether he intended to harm her or not. She said nothing as he led her down one dark corridor after another, the winding staircase of cards a distant memory before, finally reaching the bowels of his innermost sanctum, they stopped at a massive wooden door, carved in the shape of Time himself.

The Hatter almost smiled when he noticed Alice's wide-eyed expression of Time's face: a grotesque likeness of an old man, cloaked in age and darkness. Numbers, as well as months of the year, were carved out in meticulous detail, albeit flowing backwards round the image. Alice nearly laughed at the absurdity of it.

The Hatter had the good grace not to remark on her delight at his expense. "This door leads to my private chambers," he muttered, noncommittally, a single hand opening the large, frowning obstruction as it groaned on its hinges. He nodded for Alice to enter before he followed in behind her. They walked through its threshold blindly, for no light existed until the Hatter, with keenness of direction, pulled a switch at his side.

Flinching at the sudden onslaught of light Alice took a cautious step backwards, feeling the shape of another behind her. She sensed his body remain firm against hers, his arms instinctively moving to steady her. "I have never seen you so unsettled," he voiced in a teasing whisper. "Are you losing all caution around me, Alice? Not very wise of you, I should imagine."

Alice grumbled for him to release her, to which the Hatter happily complied. "Forgetting to keep your distance, as well as continuing in making personal remarks," she noted critically. "I doubt you shall ever become a proper gentleman before a century is out."

A golden brow rose in question at this. "A gentleman?" the Hatter returned, poorly concealing his amusement. "Ah, but I am not one, Alice dear—far from it," he taunted as he escorted her through the room in which he slept, before coming to another door. He had appreciated Alice's openness, to accept his room and all its décor, where the walls, stained crimson, added to the darkness of this place. There was no bed, of course, since she knew that he did not have the capacity for sleep, where only a chaise and bedside table compensated this loss. As his many clocks, along with a foray of books, which all, unsurprisingly, were to be read upside down, only defined his peculiar nature. Alice could not have expected any less of him, nor discount that his taste ran parallel with those considered sane. No, it was the next room—the one in which he kept locked—that made him anxious that she enter and see…

He hesitated, his hands moulding themselves firmly against its rusted knob when he placed the key in the lock. He turned to her, glancing at her and taking in that inquisitive gaze. Of course, she was curious; how could she not be? "I do not have any dead wives behind this door, if that is what you were wont to believe," he sharply retorted before turning the key.

"And no strangled horses, either?" Alice brightly returned, for once enjoying his cynical humour as his hand held the door closed. She waited for him to open it, her smile never leaving her until she peered into the darkness beyond its threshold, finding naught until a slant of light rested on something before her. She stared at its odd shape, catching a glimpse of white, though unable to discern its identity as it looked undoubtedly like a person. She frowned at the sight of it, half-wondering what other mysteries this room withheld from her. For much like a shadow, it carried a dark secret, the horror behind it waiting to reveal itself, brooding, a fathomless darkness that even the Vorpal Blade could not so easily sever. Alice almost withdrew from it entirely, feeling herself inexorably drawn to the shadows which loomed, whispering her name, beckoning her to enter.

She almost turned away from it before the door opened in full and light entered the room, the abysmal truth unveiled at last.

"Oh, my God," Alice cried out in a breathless whisper. For what stood in the centre of the room—a room that she had only seen in her nightmares—returned her stare, its hollow green eyes inordinately matching hers. A sudden sensation of vertigo claimed her, as everything spun, her senses shattered by the dizzying sensation of her own, self-denial. It felt as if Wonderland had tilted on its axis, before being purged into utter chaos. Like an earthquake, the world shook in sorrow; where, at its epicentre, was this room—this room and its many unfurling horrors. For what had lain in darkness and in grim decay, among the grimy white walls and dirty blackened floor, stood Alice herself; or rather, a lifeless imitation that embodied naught but her likeness. Alice nearly cringed at the sight of herself, as the dress she—or, more accurately, this copy—wore was no less than a wedding dress. The truth of it almost made her vomit; she could taste the bile in the back of her throat. Only her mind could function, her arms and legs useless to her, as that single, sane voice of reason in her thoughts cried: Get out! Get away! Leave while you can. Kill him, if you must.

It chanted this like a crazed mantra, persuading, pleading, forcing Alice to turn away from this false illumination, to escape into the light of day. And she drew away from it, where, to her disappointment, she backed into the Hatter. "Let me go!" she cried, feeling those mechanical arms coil around her like a serpent to its prey. She felt only cold, no warmth, no breath of life, only a deceptive representation. She closed her eyes, betrayed by her own desire to believe that any good would come of this. She could not save him; she could not even save herself. And now she was trapped: a foolish pawn to this elaborate game of cat and mouse that his twisted mind had concocted for them. She could not even reach for her knife, those cold arms holding her close.

It was only her name, uttered in the most alluring, sincere way that convinced her to look up and meet the Hatter's gaze. She breathed out as those yellow eyes gazed down at her, regarding her ashen features in silence. She almost recoiled when she him move to touch a lock of her hair, where a smile, almost imperceptible to Alice, rested at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, his hat tilting forward like a falling tower. "You fear me," he observed neutrally, his attention shifting to the other Alice. His hands fell away from her arms then, freeing her from their imprisoning hold. Alice could scarcely collect herself by his sudden, and most unexpected, change where he again took her hand.

Silently urging her to follow, the Hatter led her beyond the room's threshold, toward its gravitating centre, the false Alice lingering before them. Alice hesitated, wanting nothing more than to turn away, to leave this room and its horrid truths locked away, expelled from her memory. It was all deeply disturbing, seeing it in a dress that most girls her age would sell their fathers to have. And yet, it was, paradoxically, quite touching in own its morbid way. Alice could scarcely consider the possibility of it: of she and the Hatter, happily married, and residing in this madhouse with her doll-like twin locked in the cellars below. It was a combination that did not fit—that should never fit—though, ironically, did. She barely registered what her companion said until he spoke:

"I had never intended to show you this, as I knew this is how you would react. Even a madman understands as much," he wryly remarked, glancing almost shyly at her. He reached out and touched one of the doll's waxen arms, feeling it yield underneath his grasp. "I made her after your first visit, when the March Hare invited you to his party. I could not think of anything else but of your company, of your presence…It is why I asked for your dress size; I wanted everything—and certainly, I mean everything—to be perfect." He released the doll's arm, though his eyes remained on it. "I sometimes have her to sit in your place when you are not here, though I should rather have you than her company," he admitted, his sober confession not made in jest. He turned to her, as if hoping she would understand.

And, in a way, Alice did, as the knowledge of his desperation to have her in his company struck her, a deluge of emotions she did not wish to venture into compelling her to turn away, to look at anything, other than the frozen atrocity standing before her. "You made this…" She could not even acknowledge it, as the Hatter nodded to her in understanding.

"It was not something I have ever before done; I had never intended it…until I saw you again. It was when you pitied me for my punishment, in remaining as this, that you touched my hand—the first feeling of another's warmth that I have had since…the fire." His eyes darkened in emphasis. "We all changed as you did, as none of us—not the White Rabbit, the March Hare, or even that mindless Dormouse—shall ever be as we once truly were. It is far too late for that, Alice." He leaned forward then, his hands falling upon her face, idly tracing its delicate white plains and contours with his fingertips. "I know you would not have me in your world; you would argue it best that I remain here, where you believe I am safe." Seeing the sadness in her eyes, for he knew that what he spoke was the truth, he gave in to her silent plea, relenting, "Then I shall remain here, at present. Though if ever I should have a need to come, I am sure I will not be denied; for if a cat can visit you, then so can a hatter!"

Alice flushed madly at his suggestion, though was no less amused by the challenge he elicited. "And I doubt I could prevent you from it, either," she mused with a dramatic sigh. "Though I thought Wonderland only a dream, that I am the one who controls everything…including you."

The Hatter scoffed at this. "Such may be so," he allowed her, before casting Alice a devious grin—one that would surely rival the Cheshire Cat's. "Indeed such may be quite possible. Though contrary to what you might believe, I, dear Alice, am quite real. You have only to glimpse me in that fairytale in which you call your world to prove it. I daresay I should fit in rather nicely among your sister's acquaintances." He laughed at her horrified expression, that mechanical sound of his amusement echoing in the distance. Alice shook her head.

Conceding to his absurd logic, she admitted defeat, submitting to the possibility that he could, if he determined to shatter her hopes of a simple life with scandal, she would allow him; she had not to the power to prevent it, not really. "I suppose that Bertram is no longer considered as competition, then." She looked up at his unsmiling visage before drawing his face closer to hers. "For after all," she whispered; an octave lower, "he could never bring himself to marry me; you would never allow it."

His grin affirmed her words, and Alice smiled—truly smiled—when the Hatter, constant hindrance and former nemesis, pulled her close, all sight of her doll-like self obscured by his wondrous frame. He held her close, his synthetic breathing falling against her face as a pair of inquisitive hands possessed her hair. She leaned in against his hypnotic touch when those curious fingers moved once again to her face. She looked at him, his eyes meeting hers in subtle delight. She nodded, giving in to his silent request as he kissed forehead.

"I have been such a fool," he muttered gruffly, almost grumbling when he felt her smile. "Now, who is being rude?" he taunted, but then becoming serious as he made her turn to listen to him. He waited for a moment, his simulated mind working well beyond that of an average man's. And then he spoke: "This is madness," he mumbled; "complete and utter madness that you are here, in this room—all of places!—with me. Me! The one who brought you to tears, who struck you from behind after the Red King's defeat, who…" He felt her fingers press against his papery lips, silencing him.

"That was not you," Alice said firmly, those green eyes burning brightly in her conviction of him. "As the one who inspired so much pain is no more. That monster is dead, Hatter, and you are not he. I know that now."

The Hatter looked at her as if stricken by some unseen foe, her words vaulting through him like the swing of the Vorpal Blade. It was almost too much. Mirroring her gesture, he made to press his fingers against her lips before removing his hat, a shock of gold inevitably falling forward. He swept the wayward tendril aside before asking the one thing in which he longed. "Perhaps I was not in control of myself then," he admitted thoughtfully, though remaining, if in part, unconvinced. "But then, I remember it; I remember it all, Alice. Perhaps even a fragment of it still exists, residing in this hollow cavity where a soul should be. I may yet still be your enemy. And yet, I regret it; I regret it all. I can actually feel what is deemed remorse. I feel it as I do every spring and wheel and lever in my being." He sighed, his iron lungs contracting needless breath. "I feel it now with you. Can…you ever find it within yourself to forgive me, Alice?" He did not look at her, did not want to see her reaction, or the pity, if not revulsion that was certain to be there.

And yet, to his astonishment, all that he received was a single kiss to his cheek, and his heart, synthetic or real, beat vibrantly in triumph. He had acquired her forgiveness and something more. But he would not think of it, would not consider it as he pulled her willing form against him and kissed the crown of her dark head. "Alice," he breathed out, for once in his miserable existence content.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick…

The sound of his mechanical heartbeat seemed to drone on forever, shattering the silence with every breath and motion that he took. Like the automatons he had created, the Hatter was a statute of time, distorted into a corrupted mass of metalwork and cruelty that could not convey a single, human emotion. And yet, he does, Alice willingly conceded, and she closed her eyes, half-enjoying the feel of his arms around her, the constant ticking of his heart a soft, soothing rhythm against her ear.

She pulled away from him, if only slightly, before whispering one last assurance. She took one of his hands in hers, remembering what it was to feel that hand for the first time, and to now touch it without revulsion or fear. In a sense, she had always wanted to touch it, to feel it run itself against her, cradling her, assuring her, consuming her. It was far from the murderous appendage she had defeated. And for that, Alice was happy. "I may not be able to give you an answer today," she whispered against him, "but know that Bertram Faulkweather shall never become my husband. This, I can promise you."

The Hatter said nothing in response, only looked at her. She had not given him an answer, only a reprieve. But for now, it was enough. Anything else he had in mind could wait; wait until such a time came when it was considered appropriate to continue in this discourse. He would wait until then. Time had forgiven him, after all—Time and Alice.

Thus resolved, his hands again considered her face, where one boldly tilted Alice's chin upward and she met his gaze, their mouths only a whisper of an inch apart. He felt her breath fall warmly against his face, sensed her smile when his mouth lingered over hers. He gave pause over such temptation, knowing that Alice expected more; and he smiled, before whispering his answer to her, "Sugar, cinnamon, flour, yeast, lemon seed oil, a handful of poppy seeds, white pepper, sea salt, strawberries, custard, vanilla,"—He stopped when he caught Alice's bemused gaze, and laughed—"for such are the ingredients to my cakes, as there is, oh, one final, important ingredient." He then became silent, watching her curious expression shift from one of interest to one of undeniable frustration. And the Hatter laughed, madly so. "As the final ingredient, my dear Alice, is, and has always been," he continued at length, his mouth, once again, next to hers, "your tea."

He received a kiss for his trouble, where Alice, his one and only companion for the night, remained at his side until the breaking of a new day.

…

Author's Note: I must first apologise for any errors sighted in this. I have really only looked through this once, as I hope that I found most. But again, my apologies for any mistakes on my part; I simply wished to get this posted. It was almost like an all-consuming madness within itself, in writing this. I have greatly enjoyed it, as I do hope that the characters are not too far out of line with their gaming counterparts. I realise that Alice could have been a lot stronger and much more cynical in her verbal retorts, but then she did fall to her knees and cry when the White Rabbit and Cheshire Cat died. I thus feel that she is not completely made of stone—not as the Hatter was, as that leads me to his character.

For some strange reason, I imagine the Hatter to be a bit more sedate in his madness after the end of the game; he does stand, oddly enough, behind Alice in one of the final shots of the game. Thus, this great and very tempting plotbunny came to mind: what if Alice returned to Wonderland, as she would inevitably have to face the Hatter again, and find him changed from the mechanical monster she once destroyed? What would her feelings toward him be? And even more, what of her reaction to the friend who had ultimately become her enemy? Would she attempt to be friends with him again? And what if the Hatter, in his many meetings with Alice, developed something more than the sentiments of those considered a friend? Would those feelings be requited or simply rejected?

Again, it was a great temptation, as I do so adore the idea of Alice ending up with the Hatter on some level. Complete madness, I realise, but one, I feel, to be greatly enjoyed! ;)

Oh, and on a side note of the Hatter's appearance. I was greatly inspired by NuttyIsa's renderings of his character. Truly, her version of the Hatter is simply amazing. My deepest thanks to her, for sharing her vision with others!

Update: July 17, 2009: After looking over this again, I noticed that I had more than a few errors that I, unfortunately, did not catch in my first editing of this. I have revised the story, in hopes that most, if not all, errors are gone now, and have even added a little sequence, that I felt, aided in the interaction between Alice and the Hatter—especially near the end! (Grins.) But again, I do apologise for any inconvenience this may have caused in reading. Grammatical errors are truly vexing things to be had at times. (Sighs.)