Chapter Text
They arrive one fine summer day. Well of course they do. They can't help it. It's always summer. All day, summer, every day. And it couldn't very well be teatime at night. Hatter, please. You're messing with the flow of the story. Flow? Time isn't a straight line; why shouldn't your story be stagnant? But it's not a story about time. Then you shouldn't have started with two temporal descriptors. Go back to your boring linear story and be more careful with your words.
Oh all right. They arrive. And before you say anything, maybe they don’t arrive; maybe they are just there where they weren’t before, or maybe they were always here or maybe this isn’t until next Tuesday. And there are two of them. Happy? Quite.
There are or were or will be two of them. A tall broad attractive man with knives to complete his arms – very capable, very good voice. Oh for god’s sake, he wasn’t you Morris. Get on with it. And a rather pretty woman who could never have been happy as a housewife. Does that suit you, dear? Shh… you’re interrupting the narration. You’re insufferable. Sweet of you to notice. Now keep going!
They are here, she says, on their way to the sea, and all she wants is to come to the final destination. But this is nice too, she adds when she catches sight of the pure loathing on her hostess’s face. It’s a sight nicer than dreary old London, now don’t you agree, Mr. T? Begrudgingly, he says, I like London; I need its harshness. It’s safe, he explains, and she says, What d’you mean, safe? The other one, she of mercury and wide brims, smiles like a crocodile and agrees. Yes safe, she says brightly, is Wonderland not safe enough for you? Please, he says, precisely one and a half times as nastily as she, Australia was more hospitable. Morris! You keep track of the points system, I didn’t know you cared. You needn’t be so surprised. You needn’t be so insulted. But Australia isn’t much better, he says, at least in London you know that whatever’s trying to kill you is human.
O-kay, says he who has said the least so far. No. Beg pardon? You’ve been telling it; you can’t possibly claim to have no words. It makes you think you’re some sort of martyr. Okay, says he of the eloquence and tact, let’s just sit down and have a nice cup of tea with no talk of geography. And dreadlocks, mustn’t forget dreadlocks! What now? The one who spoke just now – you got him wrong. It was he of the tact, eloquence and dreadlocks. Well, thank you for correcting the grievous error.
The two surrounded by minions become the two accompanied by two guests, and the four of them eat pound cake while they wait for the tea to be perfect. Naturally the tea will turn out amazingly well; how could it not? The guest picks at her food and ventures that it might be even better with people in. Not that there’s anything wrong with it as it is, she answers the murderface looking back at her, It’s just that sometimes blood is just the thing to brighten up a meal. I know what you’re trying to tell me, but the Jabberwock needs these traitors to survive, and who could deprive her of her livelihood?
At this point the tea kettle shrieks and derails the conversation. But since it’s not a train, there is nothing to derail. The barber gets faraway gazes in his suddenly soft face. It was never soft though; it has always been sharp angles and beautifully prickled stubble. The hare must have been looking wrong, because he saw gentleness somewhere. But whatever the shape of his face, he murmurs I smell blood, in true rapture. And she, in love with another sort of steaming bubbling boiling fluid, hot and wild, understands him perfectly. Her assistant, long accustomed to her antics – antics? – That’s what they are, simply passes the saucers around. I’m sorry we don’t have any of the good porcelain today, but she assures him that Silver’s good enough.
But the baker has done nothing but watch for seventeen years, so she connects to something she sees in him. The other two monologue about their separate obsessions as if anyone is listening, and so she has the chance to quietly observe, You’re her friend too, Mr. H. He, startled into truth, says Yes. Always. I don’t see what the big deal is. You are my friend, aren’t you? Oh Hatter…