Story: Yesterday I Was Different Person

Rating: T (Um, for now. We'll see how that goes later on.)

Genre(s): Humor, romance

Summary: Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, tea time with a Mad Hatter she has always felt a bit more fondly of then any person should feel about a fictional character from their own mind, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the world the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.

Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland, in any form. Though I wouldn't say no to it.

A/N: Yeah, first things first, give it up for ingenious_spark for beta-ing this, despite the tense changes and Hamish running amuck. She's my hero, and she should be yours as well. Um, so, I really have no excuses for this, and I'd apologize for it, but I'm kind of in love with it. For reference, all the jumping between past and present tense is totally intentional, and is being used a literary device. I suppose if I have to explain it further then that, I've made a complete muck of it, and it didn't work. So, there you go. Please leave a review and let me know what you think of it, as I'm far more nervous about this story then any other I've ever done!

Alice Kingsleigh, it was said, died on her return trip from China on the ship Wonder, two days from docking in it's homeport of London. Consumption had taken her quickly, it seemed; if not quickly, then slowly enough that no one – not even Alice – noticed the signs before it was too late. Unsent letters found in her belongings, as well as her private journal, made it clear that she not only understood the severity of her illness, but also – after a time – accepted she would not survive the disease that was eating her from the inside out.

I have discovered that death is only another Adventure, her sister Margaret would come to read after Alice's death, within the pages of Alice's leather-bound journal. And I do so like Adventures. It is not death; it truly is a transformation, as Absolem told me. He tells me now, while I spit up blood and he pretends not to notice, that I will always remain Alice Kingsleigh. I have more Adventures to partake in, you see, and Promises to keep.

Alice's death rocked the small Kingsleigh family. Their assets and titles were passed on to Edward, her cousin, the eldest son of her father's brother. Helen Kingsleigh never recovered from the death of her daughter, mourning steadily for the husband and child that left her far too early. But it was in a world separate from the one Alice had been born into – a world that, many who were educated on the manner would agree, was the world that Alice rightfully belonged to – where the mourning was taken to a level that few could possibly comprehend. Not by all, though Alice is loved and treasured, a myth more then a reality to the public.

No, it is most deeply felt by one man who had offered Alice his heart in riddles and his devotion on the edge of a sword he never wanted to take up. Tarrant Hightopp – the Mad Matter, Royal Hatter to the Queen, and last surviving member of the Hightopp Clan – sank into a madness that was worsened by mercury poisoning and past trauma, but could in no way be solely blamed on those things. There are times, of course, where this new madness resembles the one he has been inflicted with for many years before the death of the Champion of the White Queen; he rambles in unanswerable riddles, spends hours conversing with teapots, and sits at the molding tea table where he had first served Alice tea, when she had been a young girl with bright hair, questioning eyes, and a boundless imagination. He falls into rages that leave everything – even his own body – ravaged in the wake of his mindless destruction.

But it is mostly much worse then even that. He simply sits, unmoving, unseeing, collecting dust and cobwebs, weaving broken dreams and what had once been the dearest, unspoken wishes of his heart between his scarred fingers. He speaks to no one in those times; not his friends or enemies, not even the Queen he would have once willingly sacrificed his life to see put back on the throne of Underland.

At least, not until a vivid blue butterfly lands on his nose, and sits – waiting – until he rouses from the nightmare depths of his tortured mind. Three days, Absolum sat, until the Hatter's eyes take focus and he draws in a deep, ragged breath that shakes dust and dirt from his shoulders and shirtsleeves.

"Come with me," Absolum orders softly, "I think there is something you need to see, Hatta."

Tarrant follows, of course. Not willingly, not unwillingly, he simply does, because it is easiest thing to do, at that point. It has been years, several years (or so others have said; Tarrant has killed Time and so Time has forgotten Tarrant, leaving him adrift in life without any real knowledge of the passage of the shapeless creature), since the death of Alice of Aboveland. He isn't quite used to walking, anymore, and finds his legs shaking as he shuffles, half blindly, after the glimmering Absolum.

"Unroll the Oraculum." Absolum demands when they are encased in the white walls of Mamoreal. Tarrant, silent, does as is bidden of him. It unfurls, as it always had and always will, only to the point that it needs to be seen. It leaves the past eclipsed and the irrelevant future unseen; Absolum flutters down, landing on the edge of a certain scene and directing Tarrant's gaze towards the moving figures.

It takes Tarrant a long time to understand what he is seeing. It takes further days for him to emerge from the disbelieving madness that overtakes him when he does understand the picture and it's meaning. Then, as though no Time has passed at all, he goes to his dusty workroom and reclaims his position as Royal Hatter.

No one – not Thackery or Mally, the Queen or Absolum – ever speaks, in his presence, of what the Oraculum has shown the Mad Hatter. The Cheshire Cat might have, but he fears that even his evaporating skills would be useless in the face of the unbalanced Hightopp's rage, were the subject to arise.

"I'm waiting," Tarrant takes to telling his hats quite often, "Time has forgotten me, but I am still waiting! Alice went away, you see, but Alice will come back. She made a Promise. She broke half of it, but she will keep the rest. I know she will."

Though Time ignores Tarrant, it marches onwards throughout Underland. Until, at last, Tarrant sweeps his forearm across his brow, and leaves Mamoreal as quietly as he had entered it those long years before. He returns to Thackery's broken windmill, sweeping the remains of a long ago tea party from the many tables pressed together that made one long tea table. He covers it in a fresh, white cloth; he lays out scones and crumpets, little sandwiches and bits of fruit. He brews several new pots of tea, and when Mally and Thackery take their seats, he cheerfully sets about leading them on a tuneless, keyless, off-time rendition of Ode to the White Queen's Toes.

And there he plans to wait, until New Alice – Always Alice – makes her final return to Underland.

Hamish Ascot often had a reoccurring nightmare that involved a blood sausage with legs, a very large table knife, and Hamish being dressed as the Red Power Ranger. Alice Kingsleigh (his childhood best friend, flat mate, and sometimes the pain in his arse) had always insisted that dreams had a meaning, if a person cared to examine said dream closely enough. They had both agreed, however, that there was very little sense to be made out of blood sausages and Power Rangers, except for the fact that Hamish always harbored a secret wish to be a ninja, and his mother refused to let him take karate classes a boy.

He dreamt of being a Power Ranger for perhaps an hour, before he dreamt something Different. Now, Hamish had always left things like imagining and creativity and artistic fits of rage to Alice, because that had always been her area of expertise. (He also suspected that much of her creativity came from ingesting too many finger paints when they were children, but as he had no proof, he'd keep that quiet until the doctors actually tell Alice she has some sort of strange growth that is linked only to Crayola finger paints from the late eighties and early nineties; and then he'll do "I told you so" dance all over the lounge, because that is the way their friendship worked.) Alice talked to her sketchpad and caressed her canvases in a strangely erotic fashion; she had stern conversations with doorknobs and walls, and often asked their plotted pants their opinion on her clothing.

Odd duck, that Alice. But Hamish couldn't imagine a life without his best friend at his side, asking silly riddles and making strange observations about the decline of taking a proper tea. She was his absolute and utter opposite in nearly all things, and Hamish relished – no, he needed, really – to be the solid foundation of reality in Alice's life. Why, if it wasn't for him, she never would have completed her A-levels, or even shown up for classes half the time. She would have lost her keys within two days of moving into her flat, and he suspected that she would also wander around in mismatched socks. (She did, actually, but he always reminded her to match them up before they went into public, and that was what really mattered.)

On the same hand, Alice kept Hamish from being far too serious. She made him fly kites on summer days, and watch their favorite movies from childhood – complete with singing along and dancing around their flat in their jim-jam's – despite the fact they were twenty-three, and really had no excuse for such things anymore.

Simply put, Hamish and Alice went together. Peas in a pod, they were, and right happy to spend the rest of their lives driving each other crazy and eating take-out curry at one in the morning.

So, when Hamish fell out of dreaming of being a Power Ranger defeating the Evil Blood Sausage, he wasn't too worried about it. A bit excited, really, because having the same dream since he had been an age where he actually wore Power Ranger jim-jams got a bit old. Perhaps, he mused in the fuzzy part of his brain that was fully aware he was dreaming, he would dream about something exciting. Megan Fox in a bikini, waxing his father's Bentley, and professing her undying love for men with red hair, freckles, and a secret collection of Star Wars figures.

He didn't dream of Megan Fox, or even Star Wars. He had a nightmare. No, he was going to take a page out of Alice's book, there; he had a Nightmare. The worst Nightmare that a bloke could have.

"Alice Kingsleigh," he found himself saying, aware that he was kneeling down in the gazebo in his parent's vast and well-manicured garden, before a crowd of at least a hundred people. Alice was a wearing a positively silly frock that was pale blue and lacey, and made her look far more like a little girl then ought to have been allowed. He knew he was about to do something desperately important, important because his mother had been nagging at him to do this for months, now, ever since poor Charles had passed away.

"Someone has to take care of the girl,"he could hear his mother saying, a memory of another dream, perhaps. "And it will be most beneficial to us all. That is simply all there is to it, Hamish. Chin up!"

"Hamish," Alice answered him inside the dream, staring pointedly at his shoulder.

"What?"

"There's a caterpillar on your shoulder," Hamish, even in the grip of his dream, wanted desperately to shriek, fall to the ground, and flail like a fish out of water. But his mother and father were watching, as well as a rather large crowd, and if he couldn't be a ninja, at the very least he could not act like a little girl. "Don't hurt it!" Alice scolded him in true Alice fashion, before plucking the thing off his shoulder, and setting it aside.

"You'll want to wash that finger," he informed her seriously, and every part of him agreed whole-heartedly with his words.

And then her hands were back in his, and he was peering into her rather worried eyes.

Buck up, he found some part of himself wanting to whisper to her, It's the best option either of us have, old girl. You don't want to be an old maid, and I'll kill myself if I have to court one of the Chattaway Sisters.

"Alice Kingsleigh," he began again, "Will you…be my wife?" He could feel the hopeful, pleasant grin stretching across his face. He could even see the panic-fear-horror-WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, HAMISH CHARLES ASCOT? flashing through Alice's eyes.

Every part of Hamish that was not an active part of that Nightmare screamed. Shrieked, really, very much like he had the first time he'd watched The Grudge, and had spent the night cowering in Alice's bed, twitching at small noises and shaking her awake every twenty minutes to go check and make sure there wasn't an evil boy-cat-monster-thing hiding in the loo.

"No!" He bolted upright in his bed, blankets and sheet tangling around him like the bonds of holy matrimony, leaving him to wail like the idiot blonde in every B-rated horror movie ever made, before he tumbled off the side of his bed. He slammed onto the floor with a hard thwack, panting heavily, sweating so profusely that his hair was stuck to his neck. "No, no! You can't make me, mum, you can't make me!"

"Hamish!" By the time Hamish lurched to his feet amid the tangle of his covers, Alice was halfway across his room, and holding a cricket bat with the obvious intent to kill-whack-maim-bludgeon the first thing she saw. She looked frantically around the room, eyes wild and wary, hair tangled and knotted halfway down her back. Hamish screamed again and hurled a pillow at her. "What's wrong? What – oof! Hamish, what the hell?"

"I had an awful dream!" He very nearly sobbed, sinking back to his bed, his fingers leaving furrows through his damp hair. "Oh, Alice, it was awful!"

"Did the sausage eat you, this time?"

"No," Hamish gave her a stricken gaze, watching as she dropped the cricket bat and crawled onto the bed with him. "It was worse!"

"Worse?" Alice stifled a yawn, pressing her back against Hamish's headboard, folding her legs under her. She grabbed him by the back of the neck, tugging until he toppled to the side, his head resting in her lap as he curled his knees towards his chest. She ran soothing fingers through his damp hair, humming a moment in the back of her throat. "What was it, Hammy?"

Hamish was so thankful to have Alice there, being best-friend-Alice and not future-wife-Alice, that he couldn't even be angry over the use of his much hated childhood nickname.

"It was us," he choked out, shuddering softly. "You were wearing the stupidest dress I've ever seen, and I'm positive I was wearing a cravat. A cravat! I hate cravats. And we were at home, my home, Ascot Estate…and there were tons of people there, Alice, hundreds I think. And we were standing in the gazebo, and I remember thinking that Mother was making me and we didn't have choice, and then – and then -"

"You realized you were only wearing your cravat?"

"No! I asked you to marry me!" The only sound, for a very long moment, was that of Hamish's choked breathing. And then –

"You what?" He twisted until he could see Alice's face in the shadows of his room, noting her wide, horrified eyes. "You asked me to what?"

"Mother made me! I told you it was a nightmare!"

"A Nightmare," Alice corrected firmly, "Heavens, Hammy, you poor thing."

"It was awful."

"Shh, now. We're never going to get married. Not even if your mother tries to make us."

"Promise?"

"I promise, Hammy."

"Alice?"

"Yeah?"

"You promise you don't want to marry me?"

"Not if you were the last man on earth and the survival of the human race depended on us procreating." Hamish let out a long sigh, snuggling his head a bit deeper into her lap.

"Thank God. You're like the annoying kid sister I never wanted, you know."

"And you are the idiotic big brother I never wanted." They shared a moment of silence, before Hamish patted her knee, crawling out of her lap to rest his head on a pillow. Alice slid down in the bed, helping Hamish untangle his blankets after he'd pulled them back onto the bed. After a time they were as snug as bugs in a rug, Hamish with one hand toying with Alice's fingers, a comforting gesture from the days when their mother's used to put them down for naps together.

"Alice-bear?"

"Mm, Hammy?"

"Tell us a story?"

"Which story, then?"

"Hmm…" Hamish wriggled a bit, brow furrowing as he mentally went through the vast array of stories that he and Alice had either acted out as children, or Alice continued to create as an adult. Finally he gave in – both of them knowing which story he was going to ask for, as it was always the same. When Hamish was ill or under the weather, when Hamish was suffering from nightmares or insomnia, or even when Hamish was feeling particularly childish, he requested the same story from Alice. "Tell me about how you slew the Jabberwocky."

"I didn't slay the Jabberwocky," Alice corrected him – as she always, unfailingly did. "It was a different Alice, you know that, Hamish."

"If any Alice was going to go around slaying Jabberwockies," Hamish said mulishly (because it was his part, his line, his turn to speak from the script they had been bouncing between each other for as long as they could form words), "It would be you. Only one Alice could do it."

"Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh," they giggled together, before Alice flipped and turned until she was on her back. She freed her hands from the blanket, and began to sketch shadows on the ceiling with her fingertips. "Alright, how I slew the Jabberwocky, son."

"Snicker-snack," Hamish muttered, "Don't forget the snicker-snack."

"Who is telling the story?"

"You forgot last time."

"I'll never forget again. Alright, let's see…" Alice continue weaving the mingling of darkness and light into pictures and scenes that normally only she could see, but with the moon full and pregnant in the sky, with childhood magic glittering on Alice's lips and tongue, Hamish closed his eyes and clearly saw the Room of Doors that began the story.

"She found a key on the table," Alice narrated, "And she tried it in every door. But it didn't fit one!"

"Not even one?" Hamish asked, lips quirked into a small smile.

"Not even one. But when Alice jerked back the curtain – sure she would find a –"

"Right Proper Sized Door!" they chorused together, heads turning to grin at each other.

"She found a door fit only for dolls and cats! 'What a silly door,' Alice thought, but tried the key in it's lock all the same. And it swung open! She poked her head through, her head and a bit of her shoulder, and she found -"

"Alice found Wonderland…" Hamish breathed, his mind painted with the vivid colors of Alice's fantasyland. And when he fell asleep he dreamt of Wonderland; twisted, beautiful, wonderful Underland…

He rides on the back of a Bandersnatch, fingers curling tight into its deceptively soft hair, wind rushing past him, stinging his eyes. He slides off to find himself at a mismatched tea table of moldering crumbs and a dormouse dozing a teacup, while Thackery Earwick sternly lectures the saltshaker on proper teatime etiquette. And the Hatter – poor Mad, Sad Tarrant Hightopp – converses to an empty chair.

"Wouldn't you like some more tea, Alice?" Hatter asks, pouring tea into an already overflowing cup. "You take tea the same, don't you, Alice? You'll be back soon, won't you? You did promise. You promised, Alice, and – and I know it, Alice, why did you die? Why did you leave? Alice? Alice!"

"Ne'r talk 'bout Alice," Thackery reminds the salt shaker, "Tis cruel, sal', verra cruel! Hatta – HATTA! Cup…" And then Thackery is gone, giggling hysterically, hands pulling his ears over his eyes.

"Alice, dear, I don't suppose my son has risen from the grave?" Alice tapped her spatula against the counter beside the stove, before turning and eyeing Hamish. He gave a noise that sounded very much like a zombie hungering for sweet, tender flesh as he stumbled into the loo, door slamming solidly behind him.

"Not yet," she answered after a brief pause, turning back to the eggs she was frying. "He had nightmares last night."

"The sausage again?"

"No, no. Something different. Want me to have him call you?"

"That's alright, dear, I can tell you as easily as His Sleepiness. Aunt Tildy is very upset that the two of you haven't come to see her. She has been here for two whole days."

"I've been working, Prudence," Alice said automatically, face crinkling. "And so has Hamish. Otherwise we would have been down to see Tildy much earlier!"

"I'm sure," Prudence answered in a tone that suggested she knew Alice was lying through her pretty white teeth. "Well, it is a Saturday, and there's no work to be had. We are expecting you for lunch. And bring a change of proper clothing, Alice; your parents are coming for dinner this evening. As well as the Chattaways. I don't know if your mother told you, but Brandon Chattaway has recently returned from New York, and his acne has cleared him very well! Fine young man."

"Are you and mum trying to set me up with Brandon Chattaway?"

"He's a very nice young man, Alice. And you won't be a twenty-something forever!"

"He cut my hair when I was seven, and he made Hamish eat dirt."

"You were children!"

"I'm sure he's very nice, Prudence, but I can't see myself spending the rest of my life with Brandon Chattaway."

"Very nice young man," Prudence repeated sternly, "Very handsome, now. You bring something nice, and pack Hamish's good cologne. The one I like. Fiona and Faith will be there, of course."

"Hamish will be delighted." Alice said dryly, scooping the eggs out of the skillet, before dumping them onto a plate.

"Do you think so?" Prudence asked rather brightly, and Alice could almost see visions of grandchildren dashing through her mind. "I'm so pleased. Now, go on, just between us girls, which one is it? Faith or Fiona?"

Hamish took that moment to emerge from loo.

"Coffee," he groaned, hair sticking up in gravity defying ways. Alice pointed him towards the coffee pot, where the first pot of the day was waiting for him.

"Your mother's on the phone," she said, tucking said phone between her chin and shoulder as she picked up the plates of eggs and squeezed past Hamish, making her way towards the small table in their equally small dining room. "We're having dinner with our parents this evening."

"Ugh." Hamish grunted, banging through the cabinets on his daily hunt for his favorite hazelnut creamer.

"And the Chattaways. Fiona and Faith will be there, Hamish. Your mother wants to know which one you prefer."

"Clever Alice," Prudence whispered – as though Hamish might hear her, despite his distance from the phone, "Ask him while he's in his morning haze!"

"Gay," Hamish grumbled, "Tell her I'm gay."

"Brandon's home, too."

"Bugger all!"

"Did he just say he was a homosexual? And he wants to – to bugger Brandon Chattaway?"

"Your mother wants to know if you want to bugger Brandon Chattaway."

"No! I – damn it, Alice, it's too early for this!"

"Gay or not," Prudence sniffed, "The Chattaways are a fine family."

"I'll be sure and let Hamish know."

"Bring that blue dress. You look darling in blue."

"Blue dress, Hamish's good cologne. Got it."

"Since Hamish is setting his hat on Brandon, should I seat you next to Fiona or Faith?"

"Neither, I like redheads," Alice answered easily, "It's why Hamish and I get on so well."

"I wouldn't have to go through these problems if you and Hamish would make it legal, dear. You already live together. What's the harm?"

"Goodbye, Prudence. We'll see you this evening."

"Alice Ascot sounds delightful, you know, and it doesn't have to be a very large wedding! We can -" Alice hung up, tossing the cordless to the table. She plunked down before her plate, watching as Hamish banged his way to the table, slurping at his hot coffee.

"Well," Alice lifted her pale eyebrows, reaching out snag buttered toast from the saucer she had sat it on before she'd started the eggs, "Your mother is dying to marry us off to the Chattaways. She's perfectly willing to see you in civil partnership with Brandon."

"No," Hamish shuddered, "No, no!"

"She offered to set me up with one of the twins."

"Only if I can watch." Alice lobbed a bit of crust at Hamish, which he ducked easily. "Do we have to go to my parents this evening?"

"Do you want to listen to our mothers nag us if we don't?"

"Do you want to listen to our mothers nag us if we do?"

"Damned if we do, damned if we don't." Alice sighed, shrugging.

.#cutid1DIsclaimber