Possible Side Effects, Ch. 25

[wanderamaranth]

Summary: Jabberwocky blood is valuable, but has a short shelf life. Then, there are the possible side effects...

Rating: This Chapter is Rated M, folks, for sexual situations.  I have a T version posted on my ff.net account if you'd prefer that, too.

A special thank you to manniness  for her supportive comments on the small chunk of the chapter she previewed. Without her encouragement, this version of this chapter would not exist.

"Come in, Stayne."

A young woman with a larger-than-average head sat in front of a vanity with a gracefully curved, heart-shaped mirror, calmly removing tangles from her long red curls. No cosmetics adorned her face, and the lack of her usually painted-on eyebrows made her face look starker and more alien than usual. Flicking her brown eyes casually over the man, she noted his predictably torn and muddy clothing but (unusually for her) said nothing of him making her chambers less tidy. Nodding her sharp little chin once, she said imperiously, "What news of the Slough, Knave?"

The long-limbed man stepped forward, ducking his head to hide his face behind a curtain of hair. If he could just make his report, then be gone before she wondered…Words and information concerning things that were never really important to begin with (certainly not important enough for the loss he had suffered) tumbled out of his mouth…truly, if she was as selfish as all whispered she was, she wouldn't even consider to notice, and then he'd be able to slink away, he'd-

Iracebeth sat down her hairbrush and tilted her head to one side, considering him for a long, silent moment once the report was complete.

"Raise your face, Stayne."

Ilosovic felt a shiver run through him at the request. He'd been hoping so fiercely that this would be beyond her notice; he didn't want her to see him this way, to see what he'd done for her! His Queen was a very happily married woman, and she would not thank him for his rash attack on the band of Outlanders that dared to impugn her name-not in the manner that he was only beginning to admit to himself he wanted her to.

"I…would rather not, your Majesty."

Even with his eye carefully trained on the floor Stayne could see her oversized forehead wrinkle in disbelief. "I am sorry if I gave you the impression that what you would rather or not rather do matters a whit to me." she said in clipped tones. "I told you to raise your face."

The Red Queen's Command was absolute; he could not deny her. Blinking his now singular whole eye, the Knave lifted his face to his Queen's gaze, and sat in absolute silence as she surveyed the damage wrought there. Purple-red lines criss-crossed over the sunken ruins of his orbital socket; the field healers had done what they could, but without the eye itself, there was no way for them to reattach it and give him his vision back. The orb was lost forever, destined to remain some nameless Outlander's grubby token of victory (and that was if it were lucky!). He damned, not for the first time, the Outlandish habit of collecting bits and bobs of their opponents to showcase their bravery-and that the eyes of their foes were considered one of the finest prizes one could possess.

"What caused this?" Iracebeth asked, voice and face unreadable.

"My own foolishness." Stayne replied, causing Iracebeth to frown. It was true enough; if he'd been paying proper attention, his guard would have never gone down on that side-his weaker side, the one he should have known to protect!

Her small, soft hands cradled his face, then, and she bent to him. Ilosovic held his breath, barely daring to believe that his Liege could possibly consider touching such imperfect, spoiled flesh!

She did more than consider. She kissed the scarred ruin where his eye should have been, and in that moment Stayne Swore he would follow Iracebeth of Crims to the end of the earth and beyond, with or without her Dominion Over Living Things guiding his actions. With that one kiss, she had shown him more kindness and consideration than his mother would have ever dreamed of doing. To the young Knave, it was overwhelming.

Iracebeth straightened abruptly, and promised in a high voice to have a comfortable patch made for his use. "Foolish or no, I am pleased you were not more devastatingly injured." the young Queen had sniffed. "But really, Stayne, my Knave…" her voice was soft, disquiet and compassion clear, "please do be more careful in the future."

Ilosovic woke slowly, the haze of the dream-that-was-a-memory lifting from him incrementally. First he realized that the events of the dream were long in the past. Then he knew he was not in Salazem Grum, as the bed coverings and decorations surrounding him were much too White for that. Finally, as if had every morning since the event, the reality of what it was he had done to his former Queen came to him last-how easily the sword had slid past skin, scraped along bone, and back through the other side-how she'd flailed against the blade, her hand and stump both straining towards the bit of metal in a combination of disbelief and acceptance.

He sat up and threw his bed sheets aside. The emotions that had been buffeting him since her death-no, since he'd killed her, he forcefully corrected-were as unwelcome as they were foreign. Why should the death of a woman so homicidally Mad render him this way? It had been years, veritable lifetimes since he had seen glimmers of the strong and secretly compassionate woman from his dream…could it be, somewhere buried deep within himself, he'd somehow Hoped that she would rise out of the Red Years, and be as she was once more?

"Ridiculousness." he spat. "Foolish sentimentality!"

It had been long-many, many years-since he had been the starry-eyed youth of his dream-memory. The illusion of Iracebeth being an understanding Monarch had been destroyed along with all the other horrors of the Horvendush Day…it was not lost to the Knave that the ordering of Tertian's execution-something he, with how he'd felt for the Queen at the time, should have been celebrating-had been the very act that had lifted the infatuation he'd held for her from his heart, letting him see her for the Mad creature she was.

Afterwards, he'd led the charge up Hightopp Hill, plundering and pillaging with the hope in the back of his mind to be struck down (something he now found to be abhorrent and weak minded of himself, but then, he'd been a dramatic lad at the time, and prone to histrionics). Instead, he found the Vorpal Sword, and with a smirk on his face and a laugh on his lips that he didn't feel, he'd ridden from the remains of the Hill (why had not one single Hightopp lived long enough to strike him down?) to his waiting Queen, and laid the Sword at her feet.

Her response had been a dismissive sniff and the order to hide the blade somewhere well-guarded; she didn't care where, just so long as she never had to look at it, or concern herself with the possibility that it could be taken. Ilosovic had suggested the newly-constructed Bandersnatch stables, to which Iracebeth, who had only ever touched him gently before, to strike him harshly across the face. The shock of the blow was more painful than the strike itself. Pride forgotten, he had bowed before her, begging forgiveness, kissing the ground near her feet, before picking himself up and slinking away, determined to never speak a word that could raise the Red Queen's ire towards him again.

"That," Stayne muttered viciously, "worked better in theory than in practice."

Dressing quickly (in a plain, soft grey tunic and trousers-the closest, he had been informed stiffly by his tailor, in color to black that was considered fashionable in Marmoreal-and Stayne did worry about such petty things as fashion. How was he expected to attempt to ingratiate himself with the citizens that lived in this milquetoast City if they snubbed him merely for the color jacket he wore?) he then exited the room, thinking perhaps he would attempt to find Snellum and explain to him (once again!) that the Chessur Cat had absolutely no bloody interest in him at all, (and how, he wondered, had his life come to be such where he wandered almost aimlessly through Marmoreal's halls during the day, and dreamt of the last woman he killed at night?) when his toe kicked an envelope that had been slid underneath his door.

Noting the Royal Seal of Marmoreal pressed into the wax keeping it closed, his more mobile, unscarred brow lifted in surprise. Cracking it and pulling the missive out quickly, he was even more surprised to see it was an Invitation. It seemed he was expected for a low tea in the White Queen's Conservatory at his earliest convenience. How strange…and a welcoming distraction. Tucking the card into his pocket, he left the room with a new purpose, thinking the Mouse could do without him for a while longer.

---

Alice straightened her collar, then shook the skirts of her dress so that they laid just so. The loose fabric felt odd on her form after she'd spent so long in trousers, but then, she did wish to look as presentable as she could, didn't she? No longer did she stop to question herself as to why she should wish to look attractive in the Hatter's presence. Women in love will do many things to make themselves absurd, she assured herself, not just fuss with their outfits or worry about the persistent tangles in their hair.

No, instead she questioned why she was bothering to fuss with her outfit in such a way for a very different reason; the weather had become contrary that day, and was almost unbearably humid. The dress that Alice had so carefully selected the night before (not that she'd had much of a selection; Mirana had offered to allow her to borrow a gown from her, and Alice had accepted, but upon trying on one of the Queen's garments had discovered that it fit her woefully ill. That left her with the option of begging a gown from a courtier, or wearing the extra trouser suit she had packed with her from London. It was not a difficult decision. A courtier of her approximate dimensions had been called, and was more than willing to lend her a better-fitting gown in pale sage green with delicate pink trimmings.) Because of the damnably moist air, as soon as she fluffed her skirt it fell woefully flat once more. No matter, she chided herself. If it made her feel better, what could be the harm? Time would understand that she wasn't really wasting him, wouldn't he?

"Muchness, Alice." she said to her mirror, chin raised high. Satisfied as she was ever going to be with her appearance, (Why did the trim have to be pink? She'd have sooner liked lavender…stop it, Alice! She firmly chided herself, You should be thankful you have a nice dress to wear at all!) she walked over to her bureau. Pulling the center drawer open, Alice picked up the small key that was the drawer's only contents and placed it in her pocket. Taking one last glance in the mirror to see that the brooch was still nestled comfortably in the hollow of her throat, Alice then quit the room.

A small winged shadow took flight just behind her as she walked, but Alice paid it no mind. Over the course of the last week, she had grown rather used to her silent companions. She knew that not always the same Magpie followed her-the shadows they cast changed sizes considerably-and she never spoke to them, but the presence was comfortable nonetheless.

It took the young Champion nearly a half hour to get to her destination, for it seemed that somehow (Alice strongly suspected the Cheshire Cat) all of the occupants of Marmoreal knew of her errand. Smiles, words of luck and hope, and companionable chuffs upon the shoulder greeted her as she walked by. Just when she despaired of ever getting there without being terribly late, a tall dark figure stepped into her path. It was Stayne, and his mouth was curved down into a vicious frown.

His eye had a dark circle ringing it, and the scars surrounding his eye patch (now a simple circle, until a more desirous shape could be settled on for his design. Alice had suggested to him two days prior that he come up with a design of his own liking for his eyewear, for he'd asked her what symbol she was going to take up for her reign. She was still highly uncomfortable with the idea of being a Queen at all, and despite both his and Mirana's encouragement, was certain that if she attempted to earnestly rule, that she would make a terrible botch of it.) were a swollen, livid pink-purple against his skin.

"Ilosovic." Alice greeted, unable to keep the relief from her voice. The tall man inclined his head to her. (She had, at least, finally won the argument on him bowing and scraping before her, and he no longer did either.)

"Would you please escort me to the Queast facing gardens?" she asked.

"The entire grounds are vibrating with excitement, your…Alice." Yet another point that she had gotten him to concede to recently was the use of her name rather than her 'title', on the agreement that she would avoid calling him by his last name or former title of Knave as well. Thinking it more than a fair trade, Alice had agreed. "Something about you, an Invitation, and the White Queen's Hatter?"

Unable to help herself, Alice blushed, and cursed both her fair complexion and the efficient chain of gossip on at the castle. "I am attempting to pay a visit upon him, yes." Alice agreed, "but am having the devil of a time getting there."

"Hence your request to have I escort you." The statement was said bluntly, without bitterness or malice, but Alice still winced at the implications rife in it. Her first thought upon seeing Ilosovic had been that he'd make an excellent companion for the rest of her walk on the principal that the vast majority of Marmoreal's inhabitants avoided the man like the pox. Knowing how they felt (for she had been very Uncomfortable in his presence right after Iracebeth's death, as well) but having overcome her squeamishness (for she realized, without him having to snap it at her, that Iracebeth had hardly been the first person he'd likely killed, just the last, and she'd been alone in his company before without feeling more than mild irritation. If the man had meant her harm, he'd had plenty of opportunity.) was now on the track to being a sort of friend of his, or at the very least, a more-than-casual acquaintance.

They had met several times since Iracebeth's fall, each meeting becoming less and less awkward than the one before. Alice had greatly enjoyed telling him bits of Above history that she knew of (and Stayne was especially interested in how linear Time worked Up There. "Perhaps he misbehaves so Down Here", he'd said, "because the people hold him to such strict standards There?") and Stayne had reciprocated by informing her of the various duties he'd performed for the Red Queen, (both willingly and not) and what he would be able to assist her with, should she decide to stay in Underland.

Initially, Alice had been quite surprised that Stayne was not immediately returned to Banishment; after all, he was still the same person who had done Iracebeth's bidding, gleefully at times. Beyond that, he had shed blood in Marmoreal-something Alice had been certain the White Queen would not have been able to look past. However, after a stiffly formal Exchange of Words (which had been neatly wrapped and topped with a bow, that could only be opened by the intended recipient in the privacy of their own quarters) nothing had happened; she was terribly curious at to what Words Stayne and Mirana could have given each other, but had never quite found the opportunity to ask either one of them without seeming extraordinarily rude. Mirana had gone her way, and Ilosovic his; it seemed the former Knave was permitted to stay, at least temporarily.

Stayne held his arm out to Alice, and she accepted it. There was silence between them for several paces, before the Knave said, "I will not pretend I am well pleased with…your acceptance of this invitation. If you are curious as to the more…fleshly delights of Underland, I would be honored should you allow me to show them to you. I am certain I can offer you…a greater abundance of what it is that you seek than the Milliner."

Alice laughed, and felt Stayne's arm stiffen under her hand. Were they not good enough of friends for her to find humor in his more indelicate jokes? Looking up at him through her lashes, though, Alice was startled to see his previous paleness completely overtaken with the darkest of blushes, and only realized too late that he had been entirely serious. To apologize would be to add further insult to her companion; the only way out of the situation was through. "I am certain the honor would be mine, Ilosovic. My mother, however, always told me that it is possible to have too much of a good thing; I believe that would most certainly apply here."

A reluctant smile stole across Stayne's thin lips as the tension left his body, and his flush subsided slightly. "Although your mother appeared to be a woman of uncommon sense, this once I wish you would not heed her advice. You can never be truly certain that it's too much unless you try, Alice. It may be just enough of a good thing." He paused outside of a sloping archway leading out into a disordered garden full of marble stone and random wildflowers. "Your last chance to find out." he warned, already knowing what her answer would be.

"I've already found my just enough." Alice's eyes twinkled with amusement. "But I thank you kindly for thinking of me, anyways." She knew enough of the man now to realize that he often hid true feelings behind his bluntly crude sexual innuendo, and tended to craft her responses to those true feelings rather than the words that actually came out of his mouth. It made for interestingly mad conversations to an outside listener, but the Knave and Champion knew what it really was the other spoke of.

Face becoming serious, Alice removed her hand from his arm and faced him, brows slightly drawn together. "I never thanked you."

"No?" Stayne asked. "I am quite certain you just did."

"I mean, for…" To say 'thank you' for killing his former Queen seemed bitter and wrong (in addition to not being what she wanted to thank him for at all!) but other explanations seemed to stick in her throat. Finally she was able to say, "I know that many things have happened in the past weeks, many things where you could have chosen different actions than the ones you have. I wanted to thank you, Ilosovic, for choosing the Path that has led us both to here. It is a pleasanter place, is it not, than another that we could be in?"

"It is." Stayne nodded and cleared his throat. "I believe I am keeping you from an eagerly awaited engagement." Gesturing towards the archway, he said, "You had best go, before that ridiculous wool-sniffer begins to doubt your arrival. Besides, I have an appointment of my own to attend."

Before Alice could ask him what appointment he could possibly have (as the only individuals in the castle that she had seen talk to Stayne besides herself and briefly Mirana were Geoffrey-who was currently on the training fields-and Snellum, who was so actively avoiding the possible gaze of the Cheshire Cat that he had no time for anything else) the tall man bowed (oh, stars and garters! She was certain she had broken him of that habit!) and quickly left the area. To call him back would be to admit that she was stalling, and she was through with that.

It was time to see the Hatter.

---

"A quarter turn more." Tarrant said under his breath. He nudged the plate of heavily frosted cakes until they faced the most proper direction, then nodded. Yes, that was considerably better.

He'd risen exceptionally early that morning (well, if he were to be completely honest, it would be better to say that he'd never slept the night before-but there was currently no one present to admit such a thing to, and if he wished to tell himself a White Lie, he felt that he was more than permitted to!) to begin preparing. With a bit of assistance from an eager staff (who were asking him questions of a ridiculous nature-really, what difference did it make to them whither he wore his kilt for this meeting or not? Upon receiving many wide eyed stares of incredulousness and the furiously insistent recommendations of several present, though, he decided that perhaps he would wear his Colors-after all, he had issued a Formal Invitation, had he not?) he was able to have a table brought to the garden.

With a few words to the wildflowers (whom really weren't all that untamed, despite what their name implied) soon a small clearing was opened to place the table in, with two chairs following that-just two, he had been very specific upon-one for he and one for she. The Hatter had gone in to see to his wardrobe while the kitchen staff placed the foodstuffs he'd requested out, and when he returned, all there was to do was to wait. And fuss. And wait a bit more. This, Tarrant decided, was a considerably worse wait than the one he endured between killing Time and the Gribling Day…at least, with the Gribling Day, he had been certain that she would come.

Finally, though-thankfully, wonderfully, amazingly!-during one of his many nervous and apprehensive glances towards the Castle side entrance to the Gardens-she appeared, walking slowly towards him, wending her way past whispering herbs and tittering flowers. A gown of his creation clad her-something that he normally would have been quite (extraordinarily, breathtakingly) pleased to see-had it been one that he had crafted with her in mind. If he had known that one day his Alice would be wearing any of Lady Sacoridia's gowns, he would have put extra care (and a few Alice touches) in their creation. The pale green still looked lovely on her, and Tarrant was then exceedingly happy that he had taken the advice of his morning's companions and worn his Full Dress-he would have felt woefully grubby next to her resplendent beauty, otherwise.

"Hatter." she smiled, a small half twisting of the lips, and he knew then that everything between them, while not forgotten, was forgiven, and that was near enough to perfect to please him.

As soon as she was close enough, he pulled her to himself, arms twining around her back in a motion both desperate and needy. Directing her head to just under his chin (a perfect fit-somehow he always knew they would fit thus!) he rubbed his cheek along the top of her head, nestling closer still to her. Alice, for her part, angled her body flush to his, arms under his and hands clasping his shoulders in a searching grip. "Tarrant!" she said, voice urgent.

"I'm here, me beamish boy." he gasped, straining to bring her closer still. They clung to each other in this manner, each pressing harder upon the other, hands occasionally scrabbling at the other's back, their neck, their shoulders, until finally they each accepted they could get no closer to the other. It was only then that they stopped, each panting softly; Alice thought she could feel the wetness of tears on her curls, knew for certain that a few of her own decorated his vest.

"Hatter, I'm so sorry, I should have never said-"

"Shh. Dinna fret, lovlin. Ye came to teh invitation; tha is enough." He leaned his head back from hers just enough to look upon her face, bending his neck at an awkward angle to do so. "Words are perfectly lovely, but not what now is for." Still holding her tight against him, he dipped his face to hers, pausing just above her trembling Alice lips. For all of their interaction in Somewhere Else, they had never actually, real-body-fully-flush-to-real-body, kissed.

Despite the Badness flickering at the corners of his mind, urging him to takeMARKhave her in the most demanding way possible, he forced himself to close that final gap between them with a gentle press of his mouth rather than the plundering the darker side of him desired.

A small, hungry mewl left her throat as her hands changed from their clinging grip on his shoulders and fisting themselves instead in his curly hair. Still he refrained from taking her the way he initially had in Somewhere Else, wanting this, their second chance at a first kiss, to be about more than just fulfilling the demands of the Badness. No, this would be for he and she, nothing else.

He tugged her bottom lip with his upper teeth, and Alice returned the favor, suckling his upper until both their mouths opened wide and there was a brief struggle of teeth scraping tongues twining lips twisting before they found a comfortable rhythm of give and take. The Hatter was the first to finally pull away, causing Alice to let loose a just as small and hungry as her mewl had been moments before.

"The things you do to me, Alice." Her name was gasped, as she choose that moment in his speaking to apply her lips to his throat, firmly sucking and licking the flesh there. He hadn't quite meant the things that she was physically doing to him, but this was quite-very, very, spectacularly, he amended-nice as well.

He'd had every intention of being noble, of calling her to him to beg for her forgiveness and possibly the renewal of their friendship…and, yes, he could admit to himself, he held Hope for a few stolen kisses, as well (for what other reason would he send that particular type of Invitation? He'd been lucky March had the vellum cards around after all, but imagining why the twitchy Hare needed such cards himself was enough to nearly put him off of his current activity, so he shut that particular Idea way in its proper Box-one clearly labeled Do Not Open-in order to fully enjoy Alice's rather enthusiastic ministrations) but to have her offer herself to him, like this-! He was not unselfish enough to deny her advances the way that he knew he should.

"Don't stop!" he cried out, and his horrible, vile, traitorous body thrust against hers before he could fully explain to it why doing so would not be a good idea at this venture, particularly if it wanted to partake of those activities that thrusting could (if Fate and Luck were very, very kind to him) potentially initiate. Alice's lips froze against his neck, and then…then she rubbed against he as well! It was at a poor angle, and hesitant, but obviously purposefully done.

He had never adored Muchness more than in that moment.

Wrenching her away from himself, he stopped only long enough to look into her eyes-her fully blue, wonderfully full of only she and lust and love eyes! Then he was sat her atop the tea table, right upon the edge, heedless of the carefully selected cups, saucers, and consumables present. The only important thing now was this, what was happening between them right then. His teeth found her collarbone, and she arched against him, gasping his name. Fingers fumbling, she found the folds of his kilt just as he was reaching the bottom hem of her skirt; a few moments more, an adjustment to their angle, and then he was Home.

"Alice!" he said, body quivering with the need to Move. Why he had not thought of this, why had he not expected the barrier which he'd just destroyed…he fought with equal parts Dismay and Satisfaction, that he was the First (the Only, the Badness suddenly growled) to Know her in this way.

"I know, Hatter." she said, tears in her voice. "But I needed you." Laying back, her hair trailing into the spilt tea and upset creamer, she held her hands out to him, pleading. "I still do."

He leaned his face into her waiting hands, kissing her fingertips, focusing on not moving, allowing her the Time she would need to become accustomed to his foreign presence. "As I need you, my brave little boy."

"You have me, Hatter." she said, and her assurance encouraged the Movement he so craved. He began pumping in and out (in and out!) of her welcoming warmth, giggling nervously when the tea-things upon the table rattled from his actions. In the beginning, when his thrusts were more tentative, the cups merely trembled on their saucers, but when the uncertainty of Moving being Welcomed by she began to be more fully replaced with Wonder and Joy (he and Alice-! She had Welcomed him! They were-!) and his movements became more and more assured, porcelain fell over (and in some cases, off the table all together) as it jumped, rattled, and shook right along with he and Alice.

It lasted hours and yet only minutes. Tarrant felt he had always been here, or at the very least, always longed to be here-yet he knew that his time within her was considerably shorter than his Pride would have liked. One moment he was pressed against her, with every full intention of making this even a fraction as enjoyable for her as it was for he!-and the next her legs were wrapping around his hips, ankles locking behind his back of their own accord, and he was Lost. Two more sharp snaps of his hips, and then he was emptying himself inside of her, groaning her name with all the passion of a man Saved.

The warmth of his release made Alice's eyes open in surprise before they fluttered shut again in no small amount of fierce feminine contentment. (She had not known that she would feel this powerful, this Muchy from What Occurred Between Them! It was no wonder things of this nature were not spoken of in company!) She hadn't thought that she could feel any more satisfaction from the act (yes, there had been pain at first, but the expressions that had danced across his face, the way his body had quivered in reaction to her slightest touch, the obvious pleasure she was able to bring to him-all far outweighed any discomfort she herself experienced) but then he'd pulled out of her body (making her feel almost bereft and Alone again already!) and applied his fingers to that spot within her that he'd just vacated, his large thumb swirling over a very sensitive bit of flesh-!

Her lungs could not gather enough air; she gasped once, twice, as his thumb continued to swirl, and she felt muscles she wasn't even aware she had flexing, squeezing, straining…

"Alice." he said. Just her name, spoken in a low, reverent voice, beside her ear-but it was enough. Those heretofore unknown muscles clamped down hard upon his fingers as she ground against his hand, her sudden, loud, wordless cry echoing through the hushed garden. She then collapsed into a near-boneless heap, wondering what, exactly, had just happened to her. Hatter stroked her a few times more, gently, before withdrawing his fingers.

Crawling up onto the table beside her, Tarrant shoved what remained of the broken dishes and smashed delicacies to the ground. There was just enough room for them to lay side by side, and (after seeing to cleaning up their persons as best they could with the only clean piece of linen they could find-the handkerchief in Tarrant's pocket. Sadly, Lady Sacoridia's dress was completely ruined) so that is what they did. His hand found and wound around hers as they lay there, contemplating the sky and listening to the titillated murmurs of the surrounding flora.

Minutes, or hours (the Hatter was not sure which) passed, they both laying together, their breaths slowing. When Tarrant felt he was master enough of himself once more to speak, he turned his head to his Alice's (his Alice! Well and truly his Alice!) face, and said, eyes glowing with contentment, "I love you, laddie."

He no longer feared how she would react to those words.

Her lips formed that right-perfect Alice smile, the one her face only formed when it was just he and she. "And I you, Hatter."

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