Disclaimer: I don't own Alice, the amazingly addictive sci-fi series.

Summary: Life is a constant process of learnings, and Hatter's got his work cut out for him here. Luckily, Alice has a very soft tummy. The inspiration for this little piece came from the prompt: Tea

One of the first things Hatter learned in Alice's world – besides how great a kisser she was, and how wonderfully accepting her mother could be, and how woolen socks did not in fact go in toasters ("No, not cotton socks either, Hatter! Throw them in the dryer if they're wet!") – was how very much Alice loved to read.

Her bookshelf completely, utterly, and shamefully overshadowed her small drawers of clothes, practically overflowing with works of fantasy, fiction, health, and inspiration. In fact, if he had not clearly been so dashingly, devilishly, deliciously and de-lovingly handsome and quick-of-wit, Hatter might have felt some competition for his lovely Alice's attention in those bindings of remarkable flammable – ("Hatter! I don't care how cold you think it is! You have over 13 jackets, for crying out loud!") – flimsy paper.

All jests aside, Hatter truly considered Alice's collection a veritable jackpot as far as his luck could take him. Forget formal education – was there a better way to learn the ways of her world than curled up with his head pillowed on Alice's stomach, freshly-toasted socks singeing on his toasty toes and a thick book in hand? History and politics were his poison of choice tonight – he'd be a bonafide Oyster in two jigs of a bee's tail, at this rate! Presently one such tome lay open, point digging slightly into his chest, something Alice had called a "textbook" for one of her old classes. He was welcome to it, she said, somebody should enjoy the evil thing. Hatter rather thought this a cruel underestimation of the books potential, as he casually licked his thumb and dog-eared yet another page about the Federal Drug Administration. He'd come back to those later, when Alice was at work and away from the discovery that Hatter may be taking too much of an interest in what he could legally get away with in this world.

He really was, so considerate.

Intrigued as he may be, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open against the heady pull of Alice's sleepy feelings. The emotions seeped through her skin like a heavy mist, lulling Hatter down into a warm feeling of laziness. Just as the letters on the page began to blur and dance, a particular forming of letters caught his eye, drawing him from his light doze. "Tea!" he thought happily, gaze zeroing in on the word. Before he allowed himself too much excitement, Hatter reminded himself that this world had very different customs, and prepared for yet another emotional battery like the one he'd received two days ago whilst reading the very same textbook. ("Alice! Alice, look here, look what I just read. This is positively barbaric! What kind of a tea party was that?!" "It was a form of protest, Hatter." "It was a goddamn atrocity, that's what it is! We are never, ever, going anywhere near Boston for the rest of our lives!") However, Hatter was pleasantly surprised to see a soothing lack of tea-murder, and read what appeared to be a quote underneath a picture of some lady.

"A woman," it read. "Is like a tea bag."

"Oh, I get that," Hatter thought, raising an eyebrow and glancing up at Alice's sleeping face slyly. Delicious, he thought. Addicting.

"You never know how strong she is until she gets into hot water." –Eleanor Roosevelt

Huh.

Hatter closed the book and placed it on his lap, brow creased, contemplating this new insight into the female Oyster. Did water have some sort of magical effect on them, like it did those amazing instant meals he'd grown so fond of? ("I just add water? That's all??" "It's called Easy Mac for a reason, Hatter." "I'll call it whatever it wants! …Who's Mac?")

Alice was very strong, he'd known that as soon as he'd seen her, and she had been wet back then. Of course, that had been cold water, not hot. Very cold. Hatter felt himself smiling dreamily.

With a soft cough, Hatter pulled himself away from thoughts of his pale, trembling love and thought again on this new conundrum. Was this why Alice shut herself up in the little toilet room every morning, forcing him to dance in the hallway as he waited for his turn at the loo, steam rolling from under the door? Was it all just like a recharge for her? And if the lake-swim, with all its cold water, really had been responsible for Alice's amazing fortitude, imagine what she could do if she were covered in hot water…

"Curiouser and curiouser," he mumbled, lifting his head from its proud perch. Alice grunted at the loss of warmth, shifting restlessly for a moment before settling back to sleep, snoring charmingly like an ox. Hatter resisted the pull once again, swaying on his feet a bit as Alice's warm contentment and sleepiness tempted him like the drugs they were. He casually reached out and bopped his hat where it hung on the bed post, sending it arching into the air with a spin, from whence it plopped onto his head with a very sound "pm!" Grinning at the greatness that was he, Hatter returned the textbook to its station on the shelf and hop-skip-and-jumped out to the hallway, meandering purposefully towards the kitchen.

The dim glow of the kitchen lights cast a bright bronze sheen on the tea pot as Hatter filled it with water. How much should he put in? Lady Roosevelt had not specified whether the woman must be drenched, or just a little damp, for the reaction to take place. Deciding to go on the safe side, he stopped the flow of water just as it reached the top of the pot, flicking on the flame and placing the kettle in its place with a satisfied and very practiced motion.

Had their neighbors been awake, they may have wondered at the source of light coming from the window beside them at three in the morning, accompanied by a soft, muttered humming of a strange little Wonderland Bedtime Song:

Kettle, Kettle on the stove

Boiling water up a drove

Bubbly-wubbly, nice and hot

Like a toadstool in a pot

Before Hatter could finish the twenty-seventh verse of "Kettle, Kettle", the weakest whisper of a scream began to leak from the tea pot. Whisking it off with a flourish, Hatter waited a moment for the steam to abate. The water must be hot, after all, not boiling. "Wouldn't want to boil my lovely Oyster, now, would we?" Hatter jiggled the pot merrily, heading back towards the bedroom once it felt the right temperature.

Sudden anxiety snuck into his gut as Hatter opened the door with a barely audible creak. Perhaps there were side effects to the process, or assume he got something wrong and broke his Alice somehow? Yet these hesitations were not to be borne – he had read about the Lady Roosevelt himself, and she had seemed an entirely dependable, powerful person. If she said hot water was all it took, than hot water he would provide. And wouldn't Alice be pleased that she wouldn't have to steam up the loo in the morning, once she discovered Hatter had already charged her up?

Mad mind made up, he stood eagerly at the head of their bed, kettle poised suspensefully overhead. Allowing himself a brief moment of peace, Hatter admired the gentle and peaceful curve of Alice's face before relaxing his wrist.

The result was instant, painful, and a gross overreaction.

Experiment completed, Hatter shivered morosely beneath the thin sheet, curled into a small ball on the living room sofa. His hand cupped his right eye tenderly, and with an immortal swear to never again test the limits of Alice's strength – because really, apparently there was none – Hatter cursed before falling into a doleful slumber the misleading words of one Eleanor Roosevelt.

These one-shots will occur spontaneously and entirely outside my own power to delegate. (Though I have heard that they are attracted and enticed by comments, reviews, and pie.) If you have any prompts you'd like to share, I would love to take suggestions! Thanks for reading!