Touch Your Woman


He touches her all the time. He doesn't go very long without reaching out and brushing his hand against any visible skin. Her hands, her arms, her shoulder, her neck. He thought about it one day over a cup of tea. Why did he need to touch her? He came to the conclusion that it stemmed from a conversation he had with March before he became a homicidal lunatic, back when he was just a raging lunatic. March's wife had let him for a Suit. And he came into Hatter's shop for some medicine. Beneath the blanket of a heavy dose of Relaxation laced with Hope he muttered something into his cup that Hatter never forgot.

"If you don't touch your woman, she'll find someone who will."

Alice isn't sure. She's battling with her pre-Wonderland self over who makes the decisions. Old Alice never let herself get in too deep too quick. But New Alice is all about the falling. She's almost a fan of it now. The stomach-sucking, jaw-dropping, knee-wobbling feeling of falling into the unknown. Chances. It's everything she needs. New, different, exciting, scary chances and all they hold. Luckily, whenever stuffy Old Alice pops into sight, Hatter is there, his hand at the ready, to brush her off.

He never wants her to disappear again. Ever since his heart bottomed out when he saw the purple coat hanging on a tree. He needs her now like he's never needed anyone. Nothing obsessive, just, dependant, in a not over-powering type of way. So when she mentions something about children, he's all in. The whole deck, bring it on. And after the hug and the thank you, and the "I'm going to work, see you tonight" and the wink and the kiss and the door slam, he feels it. The fear. That horrible little nag of a fear that creeps into his mind like a thief at twilight. His thoughts go to his father. A madman to put it nicely. All he did all day long was drink his "tea" and move his spot around the kitchen table muttering things about little girls looking for gardens. Hatter felt his little fear turn into a giant big one and he suddenly felt the need for something much stronger than a simple cup of Earl Grey.

He wasn't home in time for dinner and that was news. He never showed up late for one of her home-cooked meals. Maybe his shop was open late. Maybe he had a shipment, but he would've informed her of that. Old Alice started throwing out accusations of mentioning the 'c' word too soon. The imagined sound of crying and pitter-pattering little feet drove him away. They all go away someday, maybe today was his day. But New Alice tells Old Alice to shove it, and she grabs her coat.

He finds that a shot of this warm yet cold liquid called whiskey works fantastically well at making things way more fun then they should be. He'd lost count of how many he's let slide down his throat and was sitting in the back of the pub singing into his hat like a microphone. He felt wrapped in a warm confusion and decided to slide sideways to lie down on the booth seat. He began to count feet, but kept loosing count when they moved.

"Stand still!" he screamed at them, but the music was too loud for the feet to hear. He was about to yell it again but he saw feet he recognized. "Hey I know you feet!" he slurred as he tried to point at them. They kept swaying side to side, where they dancing? He wanted to dance! He sat up quickly to see a very dizzy Alice looking at him with a very pretty, angry face.

"Put that face away," he demanded loudly. "I don't like it. Meanie," he whispered.

Drunk as a skunk in a pub owned by Bub. Alice wasn't sure if she was shocked, but she knew she wasn't happy. She slid in next to him and held his head still. Checking his eyes for any sign of something to worry about she found only drunkenness and a guilty glare. She sighed and downed his last shot, setting the glass next to the others, then snuggled into his side.

"You could've just told me you weren't ready for kids." She said into his ear. His head bobs around until he can look into her eyes.

"That would've been a lie. I want 'em. Want a bunch." His breath could fuel enough fires to burn down the town.

"Then why are you here, drowning your liver?" she brushed his hair with her fingers. He loved that. Loved it to death.

"Scared. I'll be like the old man. Always messing up, always being awful." She pouts at this confession and he needs to explain.

"He was awful. On tea all the days. Mad as birds, mad, mad, mad."

She picks up his hands and kisses each palm. He watches transfixed as she slides in to kiss his neck. Skin plus skin times whiskey equals a happy Hatter, and he moans happy sounds into her hair. She whispers into his ear, and follows it with a kiss. He's not sure he believes her words, but they're hot on his face and sweet to his heart. He needs her to be closer to his body right now, so pulling her becomes his task. She pulls back, pulls him off his ass and out of his seat. They say good night to Bub and head down the sidewalk.

Home feels good, feels great, feels the best. And he's positive she's never looked more beautiful than she does tonight. So when her hands help him out of his jacket, his lips help themselves to her face and her neck. Her face is delicious and her beck tastes like love. She unbuttons his shirt and he knows that tonight will be bloody brilliant. His hands fumble, but manage to find their way under her shirt to leave fingerprints on her sides on their way to her breasts; those wonderful things that he can't stop thinking about half the time he's awake. So many reasons to make him happy right now he can't barely stand it.

She needs to stop him. He's too drunk for this and she doesn't want him puking on the bed. She just bought that comforter. But as usual he knows just how to play her like a well-tuned fiddle. Expertly hitting every string, sending notes flowing through her and back into him. They never had issues with this part. Never. Her shirt falls the floor and goose bumps run wild across her skin. This is how she wants it to feel always. Her fingers slide his shirt off his shoulders and aim for his belt. It's not taking advantage if they're married… right?

Her fingers are tiny geniuses. He decides to build a monument to them tomorrow as she melts him down into little more that a puddle with her touching. Everything is right. Everything is good. Everything is…. Oh God, her hands just disappeared down his trousers. Yes. Yes. Yes. Her skirt needs to come off now. Right this moment.

The bed is fluffy and white. Love on a cloud feels like flight. Sex is more than sex. Touching is more than touching and intimacy is something to be worshipped and hidden, a secret for two. She wonders if he knows these facts as well as she does, and decides that he does when his lips pay special attention to her most intimate parts. His tongue makes quick work of her and his slides back to her face to request something unusual.

"Say that again."

"Say what again?"

"What you said before, at Bub's."

Suddenly he makes all the sense in the world. She loves him more than she did two seconds ago. More than three days ago. More than now. She pulls his neck down and traces his ear with her tongue. She pulls his hips tight against hers. She pulls him into her body and moans at the contact and his growl. She steals her voice to say what he needs to hear. She prepares her words and speaks hot and wet into his ear…


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