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05 December 2013 @ 11:55 pm
Fic: Hatter/Knave Drabbles  
Title: Hatter/Knave Drabble Challenge (31-40)
Fandom: Alice in Wonderland, Burtonverse
Pairing: Hatter/Knave
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1000 (Well it should be, I keep getting different counts)
Disclaimer: Only wish they were mine.
Author’s Note: It's been forever since i wrote anything involving these two, and just as long since I last wrote for this challenge. I wrote these ten for day five of the advent challenge. I think there's really only one person left who might actually care about these besides me, and they've disappeared so. Probably not your thing, dear reader.


31 – Forest
He is running, and he thinks small girl, seen her before, mustn’t find her he knows why, but there were other times he ran through this forest taunting, long limbs tangling in what he can slide between even other times he had the same pursuers and the other's laughing too, no curses this time, and when he catches Tarrant, they will fall to the ground, laughing, and he wants them to catch him, doesn’t he?

They do, and for a moment “You caught me,” smiling up, tilting his head, offering he wants to say something that doesn’t fit this moment.


32 – Planet
They are like planets, he thinks, or maybe more like moons. Yes, that fits better – pale faces spinning round and round their in their orbits, their queens, (red, white, when there used to be neither) exerting force on each of them, pulling them in, binding them fast. Except moons never meet, never intersect, never want to touch; or when they do, it is disaster, a collision, everything set off its proper course.

His hips buck up against the – his – knave’s clever, teasing hands; “Yes,” he hisses, and maybe that fits after all, because this is sure to become a disaster.


33 – In the Woods
He’s slumped over Ilosovic’s chest, listening to the unfaltering beat of his heart. It’s constant, one thing he can fix his mind on as an anchor, never shifting out of alignment with the rest of the world. It may speed, as it has just done, or it may slow, as it is now, but it continues.

“I have to go back.”

He doesn’t say anything, only nestles his head more firmly, begging the heartbeat to drown out words, drown out reason and logic.

“Tarrant… there’s leaves in my hair. And in yours.”

He’s always leaving, always taking away the constant.


34 – Play
Maybe he shouldn’t have laughed, but he’s been in prisons before. He’s been threatened with death before, but always, always, they find a way not to deliver. In the end, they are always uneasy about executing a madman, mad fool, wise fool, the world turns around him like a fixed point. Never mind that he reaps none of the benefits.

But Staynsie's concern is… endearing, if unnecessary. “It’s not a game, Hatter,” he hisses, and for a moment his distress is overlaid with anger.

Tarrant laughs again. Everything’s a game, he thinks. You just have to know how to play.


35 – Straw
“Ow,” and Ilosovic sits up sharply, dislodging Tarrant, who mutters unhappily. Ilosovic glares at him. “Whose bright idea was it to drag me down and, and ravish me in a pile of, of, of hay?” he says, getting warmed up for a proper rant.

“Straw,” Tarrant interjects, closing his eyes and leaning back against Ilosovic, who wraps an arm around him.


“It’s straw. Not hay.”

Ilosovic gives him a long look. “Hay, straw, whatever it is. It pokes. And it’s uncomfortable. And…”

Tarrant silences him quite effectively. An enjoyable few moments pass, and then,

“I still hate straw.”


36 – Enemy
The red queen is coming, and hope is spilling from the white court faster than the queen can reassure them. The enemy is at the gates, they say, and where is our champion? Where is she?

She changed her mind, and so Hatter has to deal with it, has to be the one to leave the red queen’s mark on pristine stone floors. It’s so messy; if only she had the sense to stick with refusal, this wouldn’t be necessary. Stayne would agree with him; has agreed with him.

The enemy isn’t at the gates. The enemy is already here.


37 – Cave
The knave is relentless, and when his words don’t achieve the desired affects, he moves on to actions, hands burning Tarrant’s skin, somehow making the asking into a command, but Tarrant’s never been any good at obeying. He twists away, turns away from those tempting lips, that deliciously long body, folded down to match him.

“Wait,” the knave says, breathless. “What is it you want of me?”

Tarrant should know better than to look back, but he does; does and caves in to inevitability. He doesn’t have to understand to enjoy it.

If he did, he’d never have any fun.


38 – Invisible
Madness, Tarrant discovers, has an unusual and fascinating side effect. It makes him invisible.

Not truly invisible, to be sure, but close enough. People’s eyes slide over him, their minds don’t register his presence, they continue to talk as though he can’t hear them. Somehow, without paying him any mind, they manage to never come into contact, as though they are afraid madness might be catching. And what does he know – it might.

Which is why he finds himself pinned by the sharp gaze of the red queen’s knave, a man who seems to have his own seed of madness.


39 – Hide
His breath is coming fast, frantic rabbit heartbeats of distress, and he covers his mouth with his hand. They mustn’t find him; he can hear them scrabbling at the door, searching, and be very quiet, very still, don’t move don’t breathe don’t think, and if they find you. If they find you.

He closes his eyes, tighter, tighter, and if you can’t see them they can’t see you, except he doesn’t think it works that way.

“Tarrant! What are you doing?”

He knows that voice, it’s Staynsie, and that’s alright, because Staynise will chase them away, will keep him safe.


40 – Accident

“Yes?” he says, and it’s light and playful, and you never admit to anything until they’ve got the evidence in front of you, irrefutable.


“It was an accident,” he blurts out, and whoops, he hadn’t meant to say that. “I mean, what?”

“Tarrant! An accident? Do you really expect me believe an accident caused this?” Ilosovic shoves the mangled gloves under Tarrant’s face.

“Well, it’s not my fault that Chessur got into the special catnip, and it was that or my hat, and really, that’s hardly a choice.” He grins, a match to Chessur’s. “I’m sure he’s sorry…”