Title: The Hat
Disclaimer: Everything is owned by the Syfy Channel and Nick Willing. And somewhere a devious little man traded my sleep for this useless insomnia which I begrudgingly claim as my own.
Summary: In which Alice ponders the hat.
Characters/Pairings: Alice/Hatter, Hat… who deserves a capital letter indeed
Notes: something hopefully humorous written with the intent to satisfy the insatiable muses and my own shameless lust for Hat. Too long to be a drabble, too short to be taken seriously, and too many adjectives than can be healthy. Possibly senseless yet oddly filling?
Word Count: 621
These days he wears it most if he's nervous -a new place or idea rarely finds him unprepared and hatless- or when he's making a stand against a new arrangement of the living room furniture. The hat is pulled hard over his head, low and almost covering his eyes as he says no, he liked the portrait of the snowy trees to the right of the telly and not the left. On the rare occasion when he's "down to the pub for a pint" it is carted along like a reluctant friend, only to return much like his master: crumpled and askew.
There are times when Hatter is simply 'wearing his hat'. It is during these exceptions that the hat is pushed back on those shaggy locks just enough to make one wonder if it isn't so much there to shield said head from the wild elements of her world as it is to fulfill some silent stance of supervision. Not a senseless theory, if one were to consider it at length, which Alice has done, exhaustively, in the months she has shared a house and home with Hatter.
Her curious mind has come to the conclusion that Hatter's hat has, now and then, seemed to take on a personality all its own. May it be a trick of light or a twinge of late-set insanity, Alice is sure to believe the hat has opinions about this new land, herself included.
Rationality advises her brain that this thought is purely nonsensical and to ignore future musings on the subject and perhaps take up some nice peaceful hobby, like knitting. But there's something so very mad about the idea of a hat having ideas and bias that seems only right, considering it's place of origin, and there is something undeniable in her observations.
When around -and normally atop something, such as Hatter's head- the hat seems to regard its surroundings with a hierarchical disdain, dismissing what it sees just as quickly as it takes it in. Perhaps it was the altitude, she muses with a laugh. Yet, whatever the long-term effects of height or shampoo choice, she is sure that it is no excuse for it's unfavorable judgment of herself -she's been nothing but understanding of it's position and lifelong relationship with Hatter- nor its completely snobbish reaction to baseball caps.
When un-perched, Alice has discovered that the hat cannot be found. She could search high and low, over and under and around every single object in the entire span of her apartment but to no avail, no hat to be seen. It was as if, when apart from it's master, the hat slipped into another dimension, beyond the ken of a simple New Yorker. Yet, the moment Hatter is in need of his accessory, there it is, pulled effortlessly from some dark corner she's sure it hadn't occupied before; merely magicking into existence from the folds of his coat or even from thin air itself.
It is when she desires further deliberation that the subject becomes a bit too fuzzy and dissolves into murky depths suddenly to deep to navigate. Perhaps it is the strain of attributing human qualities on something made of felt.
Yet, despite its possibly unfavorable appraisals and bizarre disappearing acts, of this Alice is sure: the hat must stay with its master, or perhaps, more appropriately entitled, its friend. It must navigate the world Hatter has chosen for himself, for reasons Alice may never fully know or understand. And it is because of this Alice feels only a little sorry for the thing.
A Hatter without a hat may be only less of a Hatter, but a hat without a Hatter is simply no hat at all.
A/N: and so, the end. Wish this could be longer but I feel it does it's part. I am deliriously happy with that came forth from a sentence of an idea in a forgotten notebook, but then again, it is currently very very late (or very very early) depended on your view and preference and such things can play tricks with judgment. Tomorrow (or today, again, whichever you'd like) I will probably wake up and not even remember writing this. Reviews are welcomed, adored, and rewarded with little hat babies of possible condescending excellence. Also, I understand 'magicking' isn't a word. Microsoft Word yelled at me for it... which is why I put it in italics; everything is acceptable when italicized. :]