crown the sun.

behind every summer; pushed beyond blame, this nightmare already a problem known—even I know the score

[mdhvre]

tigerwillie​:

His words cut across her mind sharp as a slap to the face. Quite easily. She can’t fathom that to be true. But, who is she to challenge him on this, when without a doubt he knows more of this city and the world at large than she can hope to?

It takes her a moment to come up with a response sufficient to escape the matter entirely. “You reap what you sow, as Aunt Jess would say.” The laugh tacked onto the end of her words is light, hollow, bird-boned and stolen away by the wind. It’s her aunt’s favorite thing to say in just about any situation. In fact, it was the last thing she ever said to Willie before the line clicked dead and she has known better than to try calling again. It had been meant as a warning, hadn’t it? To be careful what you put into the world, lest it come back for a limb or more?

She falls into step beside him. “I’d like that.” This is much more genuine, because stark honesty or not, he does make her feel a little better about the state of things.

He watches her absorb his words, how the aftershocks ripple through the reflections of her eyes under the street lamp’s dull cast. There is surprise there, but also an acceptance that comes far too easily for his comfort, as though protest is not something she is accustomed to. Perhaps it has to do with this Aunt Jess she quotes, and the poor excuse for a laugh that crawls out of her throat—all something to be filed away for further observation.

“Indeed. There is some merit to the saying.” But all that is a talk for another day, another Time. There is no need to expose her to the reality beneath the veneer she sees the city as wearing, least of all the one that lives beneath her feet. He would be happy enough to keep her entirely ignorant of Under’s existence for however long Wonderland will allow.

For now, he is content to let the silence sit comfortable over them as they wander deeper into the night.

[lifeinpoetry]

I’ve been trying to go home my whole life—

Chelsea Dingman, from “Psychogeography,” published in The Los Angeles Review

[mdhvre]

lily-grl​:

A lack of motion, a body burdened and weighed down from its usual movement around the shop as time continues to tick, in opposition to the scene Ashley is surrounded by—or rather, that encroaches upon him. An almost claustrophobic feeling with the many jars and packages that clutter the back of the shop of which he is but another perfectly still piece.

“You’re fine—I’ve been over so much you don’t really need to tell me where things are more or don’t touch that anymore,” she gestures carelessly at a whole host of items, an ambiguous motion that doesn’t suit her. “I wasn’t really looking for Theo. It just made sense to come here—wait,” approaching the back counter, she rests her jacket on the edge of the table before turning to look at him, eyes sharp and alert in the light that filters down from shaded lamp above.

A curious thing: “What do you mean whenever it’s safe for her to come back?”

(He doesn’t make sense, a side she’s never seen; it is weak in the light.) 

The White Rabbit was perhaps her only bastion. A place safeguarded from the world she had grown from as well as the one she had been planted in, now overgrown. What had become of it now? What had breaches its walls or perhaps, its keeper—shaken and pale.

There’s an animal inside, coiled dormant somewhere between his third and fourth ribs and hibernating for too long now, an awakening long overdue. It crawls up his throat and turns his head, a mechanical rotate and click precisely 90 degrees to the side, directing his gaze to follow her as she trails closer.

Precocious child, too assured in her own ability to fight her way out again to know better than to gravitate too close to a satellite verging on collapse. The rope of scar tissue wrapped ‘round his neck tightens at the reminder that his is a mind tearing at the seams, and she has grown accustomed to a stability he cannot afford her at the moment. Even an incomplete noose like his is still enough to hang a man. “Nothing, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Perhaps it would have been better if Willie were here tonight after all, at least to act as a buffer between the tide of his moods and whoever is unfortunate enough to seek him out at these crossroads. He moves away as she moves closer, retreating further still into the kitchen, but the kettle remains untouched—another deviance from normalcy best not to dwell on.

“Do you need something, Clementine?” the eyes that find hers are frosted glass, the usual clarity there exchanged for a murky obscurity not unlike the clouded depths of a corpse’s stare. “What are you doing here tonight?”

[mdhvre]

hxtters​:

It is all too familiar a feeling of being observed, strict eyes had watched her when she was taught to be a porcelain doll, hungry eyes had watched lone figure seemingly waiting to be devoured, frightened eyes had watched tiny angel of death, and so many a time curious eyes that only see an unsolvable puzzle.

Useful, to know when and how to draw attention, when and how to disappear from plain sight.

“ Was whinin’ bout how I didn’t call him out for a ‘venture, ‘s not my fault he can’t keep up, can’tcha brew a lil somethin’ for him ta quit it for a while at least? ” Rabbits are always late in Wonderland, but too many messages were delivered all too often. Scrunching her face, at the refusal, what a pity, another avenue of fun cut off again. Was it then a surprise the city would cook up some excitement? “ Aw, wouldn’t have been that serious. ”

Fortunately, he comes up with something else for her, and a spark is back in her eyes, hands eagerly hugging the container. “ Don’t really want ta kill him, though? ‘S shame if he can’t help ya anymore, ain’t it? Besides, city won’t run too good if he goes splat right now. ”

“ Oh, do I gotta measure or somethin’? ” Says this from the top of the shelves, having made use of them to be able to see at eye level, knowing that for all they appear they will be able to hold her weight. Ashley has always been so precise, and she was here to help, after all. A few jars are selected, but as she bounds down a thought suddenly occurs to her.

“ Hey, ya ever put any of my deliveries inta stuff for ‘im? ”

Trying to convince Theo to operate at a pace other than his own is an impossibility that he doubts even his teas can change. Besides, his rabbits don’t tend to respond well to his more ‘altering’ brews. More than once, he’s caught the boy drinking or nibbling on something he shouldn’t, and each time has resulted in some side-effect that left both of them occupied for the rest of the day.

“Don’t actually kill him, though he has proven surprisingly resilient...not sure if that’s a good thing or no for him.” A shrug, and he returns to weighing out dry ingredients, all the while keeping half an eye on her as she goes about the shop. The little terror has been over enough times to make something familiar of the twisting aisles and their ever-changing residents, and though her habit of climbing the shelves to get what she wants earns a small frown,

“You should, ideally. Here.” He pulls a second weight out from under the counter, setting it up next to his own. What he doesn’t say is that it in this particular case, it won’t matter much if she does measure or no since she doesn’t know what each ingredient does. And he doubts either of them has the patience to go through with an entire lesson about what each individual does in what quantity. So he lets her do what she wants this time, as long as it allows him to work undisturbed.

If Lukas can survive recklessly drinking his concoctions in one sitting rather than pacing like instructed, he doubts Ruby will be capable of coming up with anything that will do the man permanent damage. If she does...well, at least in the shop, he can do damage control.

“Yes, and no, he doesn’t know about it,” a pause now, filled by the angry rustling from a jar of black beetle-like creatures, trying to escape his plucking hand. “He doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell. It works better that way.” His own order filled and secured into a bag to await pick-up, he turns to watch her play mad-scientist. “What are you planning to make for him anyway?”

[mdhvre]

queeninwhite​:

Refreshing, just as she said. Ashley may not give her answers, but his mind is a finely-tuned clock, pressing forward without pause. He forces her to examine her own limitations. Perhaps it’s his detachedness or neutrality, or perhaps because she respect but doesn’t quite care about his opinion - either way, she finds her stubbornness less of an obstacle here.

“All manner of trouble is caused for less here than personal gain.” Which is to say: yes, those are possibilities, but they don’t align well with the evidence left behind. Just an arm, laden with teeth? The body she could agree, a botched murder or something else gone topsy-turvy in traditional Wonderland fashion. 

She too sets her eyes away from him, looking at Nothing, more or less. “The obvious seems to be the convenient explanation. Who would be surprised by Queens squabbling? Its precisely what appears suspect.” Did Rebecca have the capacity to target both her rivals at once, or the power to defend their potential retribution?

Or did she, or whoever truly did this, know they would be too busy trying to gauge the probable threat this posed to their domains to strike back?

“Tell me this. Perhaps this is not a play at any one or three Queens already on the map, fine.” She doesn’t believe anything is truly apolitical, not in a world where everything is about structure. “Perhaps the goal is to stir everyone up and cause paranoia and chaos. But even in this city, very few are interested in chaos for its sake. Not even the little Rabbit who darts around your heels acts with no mind to his motives, simple though they might be. So then, what is this meant to cover?”

So she doesn’t believe all of this is mere coincidence or happenstance. Perhaps she has a point—perhaps laying the blame on the Queens themselves this time is all too convenient, and exactly the kind of distraction that the real perpetrator wants to create. Or they could all be overthinking, and wasting their time chasing imaginary rabbits down dead end roads.

In the end, none of this matters to him personally. The squabbling of those on high is hardly the business of those like him who live below, and whether or not there exists a link between disasters here is inconsequential in the aftermath.

“There are plenty who would love nothing more than to see the city unravel under its own weight, particularly those hiding away from the sun. But assuming there is some other purpose to be covered up...no, that’s still not something I can help with.”

The hour is getting late, and he really should be getting back before Theo comes chasing after him or worse. He turns to watch her watch nothing for a time, wonders briefly what she sees out here in the dark the rest of them cannot, before making for the main road back the way he came. “You already know you won’t find the answers you want up here on the surface. Go Under.”

[mdhvre]

rcdqueen​:

Mina knows what she is going to ask before he even agrees to let her do so. See, there’s only one question that matters is a place like this, one made of hallowed walls that have stood before her time and have remained unchanged despite the changing landscape; Wonderland is a chessboard, true enough, but depending on the view, sometimes Wonderland is also a game of Monopoly.

See, if she, Cerisse and Rebecca play long enough, nothing will remain unowned or unclaimed. They’re three different women who source their power and lay claim in different ways, but they are similar in their single-mindedness. If they want to possess something, the object of their desire must have power of its own in order to sustain its neutrality.

Her gaze plays about the cafe then, taking in a space that has—at least thus far and by her view—a sort of ephemerality, admiration bleeding into her expression as she thinks on timelessness; she cannot help but admire things that last, cannot help but admire the power of it, of staying and surviving.

After all, her fingernail taps against the teacup in beat with passing time as she thinks.

A Black Hallows girl cannot help but admire such a thing. After all, Black Hallows girls are dime a dozen with odds stacked heavily against them; they cannot think of thriving until they know for certain they will survive.

A Queensland woman cannot help but want to claim it. After all, Queensland women—or even more so Wonderland queens—do not belong to the world, so much as the world belongs to them; they will never imagine being denied and will be perpetually surprised should it happen.

If she had less a care, she would go about expressing all this bluntly. Only, Ashley’s done her a favor without demanding anything in return and Mina isn’t eager to alienate him or turn neutrality into something less than unless it’s to her favor. There is another sip of tea, but rather than setting the teacup down, she studies him over the rim and pitches her voice to a simple sort of curiosity, “Do you have another decade or several of neutrality in you? I can’t imagine Wonderland has ever made it easy and I know we certainly don’t.”

There is a circuitous question in all this: what would it take to earn your loyalty?

Every once in a while, he gets questions like this.

How long can you hold onto neutrality? Do you really think you can stay out of the conflict forever? What if I give you what you want most?

Does it ever get boring, asking questions you already know the answer to? It hardly seems polite to repeatedly bring up a subject so well dissected by this point there is nothing left to pour over, though recent escalations would appear to warrant a status check.

The cup turns another quarter of an hour as he considers the potential fallout coming.

“I don’t know,” honesty is the better policy he decides, or at least a partial truth in this case. “I don’t put much weight in looking too far into the future, you tend to lose track of what’s right in front of your nose.” Another tap, another turn. By this point, his tea has made a full hour rotation in its saucer, and is almost certainly cool.

“So no, I cannot say for sure that I have another decade or longer of neutrality here, but I can say I have nothing more than that to give. Should the day come where neutrality is no longer possible, this shop will simply cease to exist. That is all.”

He picks up his cup and rises, all that can be said on the matter laid out already. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for my 4:15 appointment. Please enjoy your tea.” A nod, and he leaves her to make her exit at her leisure, a final allowance in light of this last failed transaction.

FIN.

[mdhvre]

rebeccabanks​:

     “If this goes well enough, I might be inclined to make you a business offer - you’ll tell me you’re not interested, you don’t need the money. But how much further, do you think this shop could go?”  He refuses to flinch beneath the influence of her gaze, and she’s tempted to admire him for it - but the feeling cools quick enough, replaced with her usual tepid estimation. Rebecca itches to tear the tea-shop apart, spool its hidden treasures across the floor; the rumoured concoctions, priceless. “I have a friend of sorts, who I’d like to give a present.” Ever precise in her word choices, she begins to pace; the sound of her heels, unrelenting in their imprint onto the ground, filling the poised silences. “She’s terribly fond of late-nights, overworking, and I think she could do with some rest. A break. But when she does return - I’d like her remain….comfortable.” 

   Retribution, justice; she doesn’t play coy, out of trembling fear that her intentions would have consequences. But Rebecca can’t trust the very man she seeks out - The Hare operates in his own world, claiming neutrality as his allegiance. She doesn’t believe in the concept. Every man is bound to a price, and every person’s heart, easily swayed into service; if a rival were to hear of her plans, so be it. What Rebecca would not tolerate, is two-timing - thus she works in circles, speaks in riddles; as long as the end result is the same, she’s played her hand well enough. “I don’t want a sleepytime tea, and I don’t want something that smells like parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme - I want something new. Something this town’s never seen before.”

Incredible, he often thinks, how these Queens seem to synchronize so well despite their professed rivalry and detestation for each other. In the end though, despite their methods and justifications differing, they really aren’t so dissimilar beneath all the enmity. Only days ago, Red had approached with a similar question on her tongue, no? His arms fall to his sides, and he pushes away from the counter to return to the other side of it.

How far will they go? Well, he’s managed this long without interference from any higher power, in all likelihood he can manage just fine for a time yet. And should the day come that he cannot, he would rather see the shop consumed than fall into the hands of a tyrant. But he keeps the thought to himself—no need to go and agitate the hornet’s nest—and lends an ear to her request.

She speaks in circles, paralleling the grooves she is trying to carve into the floor, and while her word games are not the minefields he’s used to navigating with Mina, they are no less tiresome. By the time she gets to the reason for her visit, his fingers are tapping again, a soft tempo against the countertop that speaks of a patience fast fading.

“I see.” Something never seen before...if nothing else, this should prove to be an interesting diversion for a few nights. His mind is already turning over potential combinations to test. Hopefully, Lukas isn’t busy the rest of the week. “How long do you want the sleep to last?”

[mdhvre]

kingofentropy​:

underland, the oozing birthplace of many a nightmare, is no match for the madness that blooms inside the mind of a man facing down the cold barrel of death — such is proven by 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔞𝔫, or so the legend spins. while amos warns partakers of the substance’s price (a hefty dollar amount and the somehow less important small print: YOU MIGHT NOT COME BACK FROM THIS TRIP), his ochre vial has finally gone dry. an excursion to overland is warranted, but even he, a man as cloaked in myth as the substance he seeks, cannot trick the sun. its all-revealing glare deepens the beveled and black half-moons under his eyes. he knows when he reaches the white rabbit that he very may be turned away for appearing unannounced and in such a state.

yet, he pushes in anyway.

“apothecary,” he calls, his voice demented by silent normalcy — where is the persistent din of his beloved under? how does one concentrate with such piercing quiet? suddenly, his own inner voice slouches up, a forgotten being born in the swamp of mind. nary a worse sound has he heard since his last venture top-side. 

“i’m fresh out of you-know-what.” his empty vial meets the counter with a sweet knock. once, it had been labeled, but the the symbols have since worn off. acrylic smudges, lonesome fingerprints, a warped reflection are all that remain. “considering how messed up everything is, i thought i’d be sittin’ in the hole on this one for a while. but once again, the kind, wholesome folk of underland have humbled me and my arrogant preconceptions to speechlessness.” there’s dirt and paint beneath his fingernail and it taps once, twice, thrice on the side of the empty bottle. 

“people out there are just dyin’ to let go.” a conspiratorial smile appears when his eyes meet his supplier’s.

Apothecary. He’s heard it more than a handful of times now, but the word still rings unnatural to his ears, even more so when it rolls off a tongue that sounds as out of place speaking out under the open sky as the owner looks standing in his shop.

“I’m not an apothecary.”

The man takes up more space than should be possible or reasonable, looming like some day-mare night terror made real, edges just a little too blurry and darkened to belong in this particular reality. Glass eyes narrow in calculation as the shop owner tilts his head slightly, peering up into a madman’s face—how Wonderland can stand to let one like him roam free on its surface without immediately rejecting the foreign contaminant is a mystery.

“Just ‘Ashley’ is fine.”

He knows what Amos is here for before the Caterpillar even opens his mouth again—there is only ever one thing that requires them to meet like this, every Red Moon, an empty vial more sinister than appearances let on resting between them.

“Charge more then, if you’re running out so quickly. This kind of thing isn’t easy to get for me either,” his voice comes muffled from where he’s retreated into the back kitchen, rummaging through the fridge there for the equally-innocuous Tupperware container he set aside a night ago. The three sacs swimming inside hardly seem worth the effort to extract, especially in comparison to what all else the human body has to offer, and yet..

They join the unmarked vial on the front counter, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold just yet. “You’re not using it yourself, are you?”

[mdhvre]

ofhvmpty​:

bitter and dense smoke still cloud the sky above houndstitch like an omen despite the disaster dissipating, nothing but ash and bone remaining. he watches it roil, watches it clear. his hands ache with dead heat and dull singeing - even the memory of crashing through the burning wood seems like nothing but an echo. a dream. 

he sits by the curb, filthy, watching the church turn to ruin. there’s a sense of loss in spite of it all the sordid history, one marred with transactions and close calls; he’d used the orphanage as much as it used him. the children here had been raised to go to the slaughter, yes, but this has been a shelter for those who were lucky enough to be spared by wonderland, and his acts of philanthropy were as much for them as they were for his image. 

his cross necklace burns. henrik wonders if it’ll leave a mark in the aftermath. distantly, he wishes ashley had been here, if only so he’d have a matching imprint. what would he think of this place going up? perhaps relief. a sense of retribution long overdue. 

he does not have to hope long - his own prayers have a way of answering themselves. he spots ashley, a stark silhouette cut against the smoke, and he stands, lips upturned into a familiar, bitter solace. “i’d wondered if you’d heard.”

The smell hits first—ash and ruination with a sickeningly sweet undertone of meat being put to burn. Remember how that heat felt reaching for you? Remember how close you came to that cleansing yourself?

Next is the sound—sirens and cries and the roar of an angry god harmonizing into a chorus of suffering the likes of which the city hasn’t heard in a long time. Do you think they went screaming?

His eyes are drawn immediately to the spire as he finally stumbles out of the city’s labyrinthine network of twisted streets. This highest point of the church structure, closest to the heavens, is a blackened stake breaking through the clouds of greasy smoke rising steadily higher.

How often has he broken his neck gazing up at it in childhood memories? God is watching. How often has that assurance—warning—passed over his head without consideration? And now..

The scene in front of him unfolds in slow motion, figures silhouetted in black against the fire’s fury moving with the alacrity of creatures trapped in Time’s grip. He weaves through the crowds of spectators, scanning for the one face he cares about in this mass of faceless ants.

It takes far too long, but there comes a break eventually, and he is finally able to breathe again. His fingers close around the cross that hangs from Henrik’s throat, pressing still-warm metal into his palm as though trying to brand the mark into his flesh, a focal point to make all of this feel real.

“Kanta came by to taunt me,” the distance between them is negligible at this point, and though he pulls back enough speak face-to-face, he does not relinquish the grip he has on his anchor. “What are you doing here anyway?”

[nkamotoyuta-remade]

I became a zombie

[mdhvre]

FOR: @tigerwillie DATE/TIME: 09/20 AM 6:00 LOCATION: the White Rabbit

“I thought I told you, you don’t have to come in for a while.”

It’s not safe for you anymore, he doesn’t add. I’mi not safe for you anymore.

She wouldn’t understand, and he can’t explain to someone so completely different from himself, detached from the world he comes from. Wonderland birthed him into the gutters and tried to bury him in an early grave with all the others like him—what crawled out again is something, after twenty years, he’s still not convinced counts as a human being.

The rabbits are happy enough to have her company, the lot hopping over each other to keep pace with her familiar steps. He doesn’t bother stopping them or trying to convince her to go home, not now that she’s here already. So he retreats into the kitchen to put the kettle on, leaving her with the decision to follow him further in or not. “Did you need something?“

[mdhvre]

akarablooming​:

“i found a door. inside the church ruins.”

there’s no clever way to ease into anomalies, and so he dives into his findings - he thinks ashley might appreciate the bluntness, with how forthright the man seemed to embrace for himself. 

akara is soot-stained, pale with ashes dark discovery, and covered with remnants of his intrepid exploration. he’s not sure what it is that compelled him to walk straight into the ruins, doesn’t expect to see anything beyond the ragged skeleton of its foundation and smoking pews - but he’s yet to resist when something beckons, and something certainly called him to the back of the ruins, to a door that remained largely unscathed. 

he sits across ashley in the kitchen, catches sight of his reflection in his tea. unruly and and stained suits him. “and a staircase leading down. it traveled quite some way, i could see it descend down into under, but i couldn’t get very far, i’m afraid. debris blocking the way, and i didn’t quite fancy falling to my death if it gave out.” he tilts his head, dark gaze inquiring. “you’re an orphan, no? have you seen the door?”

The air seems to drop in temperature at this utterance, all the shop holdings a collective breath as they await the fallout that is surely coming. A door in the church ruins—what could be more natural. Every building comes with doors after all, and it stands to reason that with a structure as large as the church, one or two might have survived the burning.

But they both know the meaning behind Akara’s discovery even without further elaboration.

“You shouldn’t have gone back in there.” Especially considering where that particular passage leads, down and down straight into the belly of the beast. Time has done its job well, eroding the finer details of his memories away into a haze of approximated images, but there are things in life and death you never forget, no matter how much you try.

He leans back against the sink, moonlight a silver halo almost real behind his silhouette against the window, eyes staring through the boy at his kitchen island as though he weren’t there.

“Yes, I have. What do you really want to ask me, Akara?”

[pointlesscrapilike]

[mdhvre]

lily-grl​:

A home has history—it is erected on a foundation, built out of sourced materials, its insides decorated with heirlooms. Even gutted, renovated, wearing a new face, there is an underneath, a necessary before. Nothing is a blank slate, tabula rasa. This place, like all things is no different, the man before you, no different though he appears to her as nearly that. 

A placid facade, a single wall seen through an open window. Ashley is like that—opaque, a fog that settles around you, cool and comfortable.

She can’t help but wonder as she steps through the threshold tonight with hardly a quick knock. She is bandaged in places, all patchwork, the skin underneath healing around the remains of the fire that sleep beneath her skin. They will become but a few of the marks that grace her skin, near-misses, a dormant, sleeping memory. 

Towards the back, Clementine spots him like a part of the shop itself, and walks towards him, pulling her jacket off and carrying it in her arms, “It’s quiet so no Theo tonight, huh?” Something uncharacteristic about the place; frame uneven on the wall, chairs askew. She can’t quite place it; it is barely her home, not even in name. “What’re you working on?” 

He knows when she arrives, hears her knock and approach with the same detached acknowledgement he’s wielded against the rest of the world these past few days, but does not move from where he stands in back. The jars this far into the shop are larger than a small child, their contents shifting under the lights and rustling against the glass, as though disturbed by the shop-owner’s aura.

“Nothing.” That in itself is highly unusual, to find him with idle hands, neither creating nor deconstructing. Even the rabbits seem to be subdued, wary in a way they rarely are in the safety of their four walls. He still doesn’t turn to face her.

“I’m not good company at the moment.” It’s only fair he at least give her warning, leave her with the option to leave before she sees something she shouldn’t come out of him. “If you’re looking for Theo, he’s with his Cat, I doubt he’ll be back until late tomorrow. Willie is off until whenever it’s safe for her to come back.”

This shop was only ever barely a home for the wayward souls that gather here, in the loosest of definitions, and now it is not even that anymore.

[mdhvre]

rebeccabanks​:

   The day was bitter and dark; the wind and rain owned a terrific influence, pouring down relentlessly. Rebecca had moments of affection for the rain, marveling in its ability to calm all life, and subdue it into a sorrowful state of reflection. But as her heels sunk into a puddle, she cursed the heavens and its creator in a myriad of foul words - for ruining, her Gucci. If life had not demanded Rebecca slink from her penthouse for an errand, she would have been content to survey her empire from the comfort of home; til the sun fell below night’s power and fled, casting the city in shadow. The little tea shop had escaped Rebecca’s interest for years -  until it seemed to burgeon overnight, with tales of remedies and a peculiar owner. Rebecca’s business was to know everyone, uncomfortably well; and so, in an hour of need, she knew the establishment to seek out. 

  As always, a small bell greeted her entrance with an innately blithe chime -  it could be counted on a single hand, the amount of times, she’d come to the White Rabbit. The tabs she kept on it, could fill a small room. “Whiting.” In a mildly friendly tone, Rebecca turned to the shop’s prolific keeper, dark eyes trained upon his face. Always, she addressed people by surname - having changed her own thrice over now, names meant so little. “I hoped to find you open, and by god, am I pleased to have my way. I’d like a private consultation, if possible.” Her gaze flicked to a lone customer now, who seemed rooted to the spot; her eyes, enlarged as she surveyed the interaction. “I think you’re just the man to help me - that is, if you’d care to lend a hand?”

Nights like this are either a reminder or a heralding, never an in-between, and he has yet to decide which tonight’s shall be when the warning comes through: someone late for their appointment is approaching. He’s tempted to ignore it all, lock the door and dim the lights and pretend this space is a point lost neither here nor there.

But he can’t do that. Past attempts have taught him it is better to bury his own mind and volition than to fight the inevitable. So he finishes ringing up the last regular drop-in with little fanfare, and leans back against the counter to wait, fingers tapping a steady rhythm of muted agitation that doesn’t show on his face, keeping time with the tick-tick-tick of the clock that hangs overhead.

Enter now, Stage Left, the last of the Queens to seek him out.

The rabbits scatter as soon as the doorway darkens with her shadow, seeking their usual refuge in the darkened corners of the shop where no unwelcome guests go. The earlier customer seems to snap to her senses after a second too-long of a delay, ducking her head to scurry past the imposing figure that fills the front of the shop. Smart. Best to stay out of the way of this one and her infamous temper.

“Of course, if it is something I can help with,” he answers neutrally, tracking her progress from door to register with the same calculated stare he levels on all those who approach with the intent of making a transaction. "What can we do for you today?”

[mdhvre]

FOR: @ofhvmpty​ DATE/TIME: 09/12 AM 6:10 LOCATION: Houndstitch Church

“I take it you haven’t heard then?”

He doesn’t look up from where he’s elbow-deep in a jar of what might pass for red gelatin if not for the sheen, the smell. the way the gelatinous matter clings to his skin when he pulls his hand back. “If I had, I doubt you’d be here asking.”

They’ve known each other too long for him to play Kanta’s games, something the Cat already realizes, yet insists on testing each time he stops in. A familiar shadow shifts closer to overlap with his own, both now leaning over the jar to observe its contents.

“True. Then again, if you had, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

An interesting choice of words, and it has the desired effect. He finally straightens, lifting his hand out of the jar entirely and lifting his head to meet with that same ever-shifting grin, an unsettling smile that only grows wider as the wearer revels in having his undivided attention at last.

“This is the day you’ve been waiting for. There is retribution to be had at last, and if you hurry, you might get to catch the last of the pyre before it burns out.”

The rag he’d been cleaning with freezes midway up his arm. The Cat’s grin has taken on a predatory note.

“Oh, and lest I forget, he’s there right now, your favorite orphan.”

He’s running before Kanta even finishes. It’s been twenty years but his feet still remember the path to take to return to Houndstitch, to carry him home.

[mdhvre]

killtherabbits​:

lily-grl​:

“I’ll do my best too,” even here, you are not home. “You should go to sleep, I’m beat too.” 

She smiles at Theo and then at Ashley; inevitable, her battles are her own. A silly thought, for her to escape the Under, the cheering of the crowd, to come here—there is no use running in-between.

here, you are safe, or at least the closest to the word that you will know. you could be considered lucky, having people close enough to rebuild the meaning of the fickle word for you. 

you could be considered unfortunate, having people close enough to lose. 

but we’ll save that for another day, another Time  —  for now, the rain is a cleansing and not a weighing. for now, the moment is still sugar-spun and dulcet, lovely and untouched by the city. 

“‘m gonna hold ya both to it, y’know. ‘m gonna be gettin’ your pinkies in the mornin’ for a promise, swear on it.” he pouts, trying to swallow a yawn in the process. frowns only deepen at the mention of sleeping, but the lull of the bed is nothing short of tempting, and it’s easier to end a memory here lest he accidentally sours it one way or another like he is prone to doing. 

practiced, how he burrows himself into the blankets, grabbing clementine and ashley and pulling them closer, a few stray rabbits joining in the huddle. 

he dreams of nothing, and it is closest to sweet that they’ll deserve. 

FIN.