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Jervis stared wide-eyed at the ceiling and counted the cracks as one might count sheep, if sheep were shaped like grins and bared too many teeth.
They twisted overhead into Cheshire smiles.
Crooked and wet and all-knowing.
He smiled back for a moment—polite, though he could not quite say why he cared to be—but it trembled at the corners and hurt terribly to hold.
Everything hurt.
His head most of all. A dreadful pounding, as though someone had stuffed his skull full of pocket watches and set them all ringing at once.
He arched his back and discovered—quite unexpectedly—that he could not move.
He looked down and found a straitjacket wound about him like spun silk, holding him fast in a most unpleasant chrysalis. He felt smaller somehow, as though the walls and the ceiling were stretching upward while he shrank, the world folding over him like a paper doll. His arms were nowhere to be found, his breath fluttering small and weak in his chest.
Just like a caterpillar, he thought vaguely.
Though why that was comforting, he couldn’t say.
Perhaps he was meant to become something else.
But what had he been to begin with?
The question felt terribly important and quite impossible all at once.
The more he tried to think, the less he knew. Thoughts stuck together like wet playing cards, impossible to sort without tearing the edges.
He couldn’t remember where he was.
He couldn’t remember how he’d arrived.
He couldn’t remember how long he’d been lying there counting smiling mouths in the plaster.
But he remembered a face.
Not one of the twisted ones that bloomed behind his eyelids when he blinked—not the ones with waxy skin and too-large pupils and laughter that scraped at the inside of his brain.
No.
This one was familiar.
Friendly.
Perhaps the only friendly one.
Except—
It wasn’t smiling.
The memory sharpened. That face was drawn tight with anger, mouth carved into a line, eyes dark and cutting. It was an expression he did not like. Not at all.
He liked it better when it softened.
He liked it best when it looked at him as though he were the favorite teacup—chipped at the lip and sharp if one weren't careful, but still held gently.
What was the face’s name?
He reached for it.
It slipped back into the dark.
His own name seemed to follow.
His gaze drifted from the ceiling at last, snagging on the far wall where the shadows were dancing.
Who was he?
That simply would not do. Names were a terrible thing to lose. They were precious. One could not go merely misplacing them like teaspoons.
Speaking of misplacing things—something was amiss. Like a book without pictures.
The ground beneath him was hard and merciless. The air thin. The fabric against his skin scratchy and clinical.
It was driving him quite mad.
“You are mad.”
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere.
His teeth worried at his lip as his gaze swept the room, slow and searching.
“Up here.”
His eyes lifted again.
The ceiling’s grins peeled wider.
“You’re quite mad, you know. But you’re in good company.”
He swallowed. His throat burned as though he had been screaming for hours—perhaps he had.
“What company is that?” he croaked.
“Why, your own, of course.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
When he opened them again, the grins were still there, whispering amidst the cracks. He rolled over, turning his face toward the blank wall, as if that might keep the teeth from finding him.
“You know where you are, don’t you?”
He did.
He did not.
He suspected.
But he did not answer.
The voice did not require a response.
“Don’t you remember how you got here? Your friend was awfully upset with you.”
Something clicked.
A shard of looking glass sliding back into place.
He was the Mad Hatter.
Mad… of course he was.
What a ridiculous thing to forget.
And that face—his March Hare.
His friend.
His rather angry friend.
What had they been doing?
He couldn’t quite remember. But he recalled seeing the White Rabbit—waistcoat immaculate, watch clutched tight—darting along the docks, muttering something about Alice and the Duchess. Ah yes… he was late for croquet. He’d told the March Hare as much, yet his friend hadn’t wanted to come. What had he said? The words were failing him. Everything was far too hazy.
“Don’t you remember falling down the rabbit hole?” the ceiling whispered. “He followed you right down. You fell and fell and fell—upside down for a day.”
He remembered falling.
He remembered being cold. Water stealing his breath.
A caucus race perhaps—though swimming hardly dried anyone properly.
“They’d never get dry that way,” he murmured faintly.
But the rest of the pieces were missing. God, his head hurt.
He rolled again, pressing his face into the floor as if he might burrow through it and come out elsewhere.
And then… the fragments began to shift. Sliding and arranging themselves into shapes he almost recognized. He no longer wanted to think about where he was, or what had happened—but it was flooding back too fast now. He pinched his eyes shut as the memory resurfaced.
March Hare—
No.
Jonathan.
They had been at the docks for a job. The details blurred at the edges like ink in water, but he remembered the red and blue lights. He remembered insisting the rabbit was real.
“It’s not real, Jervis,” Jonathan had said, grabbing his arm.
But it had been real.
He’d seen the twitch of white fur, the flash of a waistcoat, the glint of a watch chain caught in the green underglow of the snook lights beneath the pier. The water reflected that color upward, making the dark planks look sickly and strange.
The rabbit sat in its glow, looking over its shoulder at him. Waiting.
“You see it too,” Jervis had insisted, twisting in Jonathan’s grip. “You must. He’s late—he said he was late.”
Jonathan’s fingers had tightened. “There’s nothing there.”
“There is!”
He had pulled at Jonathan’s hand then, demanding he follow before the rabbit got away. He had to follow. Of course he did. Wonderland was not something one ignored!
And when Jervis ran, Jonathan ran after him—though Jervis suspected it wasn’t because he was eager for tea. Still, he followed. He always followed.
Better for it too. For what was a Hatter without a Hare?
He hadn’t realized it then, but it was now glaringly obvious that Jonathan had been right.
There had been nothing there.
Nothing but the green water and dock lights and the faint sound of sirens drawing nearer.
Just as there was nothing here now. That voice, those smiles. They weren't real no matter how real they felt.
And yet—he wanted it.
He wanted it so badly it hurt.
Wonderland felt like a home he could never return to. A home he had never had, and yet longed for all the same.
He needed it. Needed the impossible, needed the comfort of something that could not exist.
That's why it was so easy.
That's why he had pulled away.
He had run.
He had jumped—
Not down a rabbit hole.
Off the pier.
Into the bay.
His eyes flew open.
He lurched upright, chest heaving, mind snapping into focus.
The lights.
The sirens.
White. So much white.
The canvas of the straitjacket biting into his arms.
He was in Arkham.
Of course.
A padded cell. Solitary.
Alone.
He really was mad.
Jonathan’s face rose unbidden in his mind—furious, exhausted, and with something far worse than anger lurking underneath.
If Jervis had been caught, then Jonathan must have been too.
Dragged down with him.
Thrown into the looney bin because Jervis could not tell the difference between dock and rabbit hole. Between reality and fantasy...
He had promised he was getting better.
He had been trying. His medication had kept him level—kept most of the chaos at bay, steadying the edges of his mind.
And yet…
Oh.
His medication.
When had he last taken it?
Tuesday?
Was it still Tuesday?
Was it May? No—far too cold for May. February then? Probably.
He wasn't sure.
He wasn't sure of anything.
He slumped back again, going limp as he let the back of his head strike the floor without resistance. The impact bloomed hot and bright behind his eyes.
What did it matter?
His thoughts refused to settle. It felt like he was drawing circles in the wrong shape—tracing loops that refused to close. Nothing was quite the right version of real. Every thought curved slightly wrong, like a riddle missing its answer.
Like a raven writing on a desk—no, that wasn't right.
A raven at a desk?
No.
A writing raven—
God.
He couldn't even keep his own nonsense straight.
He was useless like this.
Jon must hate him.
The thought hardened.
Jon hated him.
The silence pressed in until it felt physical. It rang in his ears, a high, thin whine that might have been nothing at all. Beneath it, there was only the dull thud of his pulse, too loud in the absence of everything else. Each breath scraped in and out of him, growing shallower the longer he listened.
The quiet made his skull feel hollow. His ears strained against it, as though waiting for a sound that refused to come—waiting for something to interrupt the void before it swallowed him whole.
He would smash the looking glass himself just to hear it shatter. Just to prove something could break louder than his mind.
Because nothing was worse than nothingness.
But then—
“Pathetic.”
He flinched.
“You’ve really done it now.”
He gave a lifeless scoff, something scraped raw from his chest. "Haven't I?”
“He’ll never forgive you, you know.”
His jaw tightened. “... shut up.”
“You belong here. All alone.”
“Shut up!”
“Jervis?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the words. “Leave me alone!”
“Jervis!”
A hand gripped his shoulder.
He recoiled violently on instinct, heart thundering against his ribs.
But that touch…
It had been real.
Warm.
He opened his eyes slowly to see Jonathan knelt beside him, hands raised carefully as though approaching a frightened animal.
His expression wasn’t angry.
It was worried.
Deeply.
“Jervis,” he said, steady and low.
“Jon?”
“Yes.”
“You—you can’t be here.”
A faint crease formed between dark brows. “Why not?”
“I’m in Arkham. Solitary. I—” his breath hitched. “You shouldn’t be here."
“…Jervis.” He exhaled slowly. “You’re at home. We’re home.”
The words didn’t land. They hovered somewhere overhead, just out of reach.
He blinked at him, disoriented. "What?"
“You’re at home.”
Liar.
Jervis’ throat tightened. “But—then why can’t I move?”
Jonathan’s gaze dropped.
“You've wrapped yourself in a blanket,” he said gently. “I was only gone a few hours. I went to get your meds. When you said you’d lost them, I—” He paused. “Sit up, alright?”
Jervis obeyed, clumsy and stiff.
He looked down.
No restraints. No buckles.
Just a thick cream blanket wound tight around his arms and chest, twisted by his own hands.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself free.
“What happened to your lip?” Jonathan’s hand came up before he seemed to think about it, fingers brushing Jervis’s jaw, tilting his face gently toward the light.
The contact was careful. Almost reverent.
Jervis flushed immediately.
“I—what?”
“You split it," Jonathan murmured. His thumb hovered just beneath the cut. “Bit clean through.”
“Did I?”
Jonathan shook his head. “You do that,” he said quietly. “When you’re trying not to make noise.”
Ah.
So that was why his throat felt raw. He must have been screaming after all.
His tongue found the copper taste instinctively. He pressed at the tender edge with his teeth without thinking—
Jonathan’s thumb shifted, catching his chin.
“Hey. Don’t.”
Jervis blinked, dazed. “I’m not—”
“You are.” The words weren’t sharp. Just tired. Concerned. “You’ll make it worse.”
You deserve worse.
Jervis swallowed.
He kept his eyes on the floor, tracing the pattern of the rug like it might tell him something useful.
“You—aren’t you mad at me?”
“Mad?” Jonathan blinked, seemingly taken aback by the question. “Why would I be mad?”
Jervis swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek. “I nearly got us caught. I ruined our heist. I—” He faltered, brow furrowing. “What were we even doing?”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Jonathan said quietly. “There wasn’t a heist.”
He’s lying.
Jervis frowned faintly. “There—wasn’t?”
“No.” His thumb slid away from Jervis’ lip at last, only to smooth lightly along his jaw before withdrawing. “We were scouting the docks. That’s all. You said the south pier had fewer patrol routes on weeknights.”
Jervis stilled.
That… did sound familiar.
“The sirens?” he asked, voice thin.
“Ambulance,” Jonathan replied evenly. “Not for us.”
He’s minimizing it.
Jonathan didn’t react to the way Jervis’ shoulders tensed. Instead, he shifted closer.
“You started talking about a rabbit,” he continued gently. “About being late. You said the water was the only way through.”
Heat crept up Jervis’ neck.
“I told you there was no rabbit,” Jonathan said. “You argued with me.”
A pause.
“You said if we missed croquet it would be my fault.”
Jervis’ mouth went dry.
“I tried to get you to step back,” Jonathan added, not unkindly. “You pulled away.”
The memory flickered—cold wind, the smell of brine, the world tilting sideways—
“You ran.”
The word landed softly.
“And then you jumped.”
Jonathan’s hand slid to the back of Jervis’ neck again, warm and steady.
“I went in after you.” His mouth tightened slightly at the memory.
“The cold hit you hard. You lost your breath the second you surfaced.”
He paused again, choosing his next words carefully.
“You were shaking so badly you couldn’t get words out,” he continued, voice even. “You could barely stand by the time we made it inside.”
Jervis frowned faintly. That explained the heaviness in his limbs. The ache in his bones.
The words weren’t sharp. Nor scolding. But they carried weight.
“You weren’t arrested,” Jonathan said quietly. “You weren’t taken anywhere. I brought us home.”
Jervis didn’t meet his eyes.
He couldn’t.
The floor was safer.
Jonathan waited. Not long, but long enough. His voice lowered a fraction. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Jervis did.
Jonathan studied him carefully, looking him over for damage.
Look at him. Disappointed. Tired of you. The voice murmured, softer now, but closer. He hates you.
Jervis swallowed hard. His gaze searched Jonathan’s face, desperate and afraid.
“… do you?” he asked hoarsely.
Jonathan frowned faintly. “Do I what?”
“Hate me.”
Something shifted in Jonathan’s expression then—not irritation. Recognition.
“Jervis,” he said gently, “what are you hearing?”
The question was quiet. Routine. Not alarmed.
Jervis hesitated.
“… the usual,” he muttered.
“Mm.” Jonathan gave a small nod as his thumb brushed lightly along Jervis's jaw again. “Is it loud?”
“No.”
That, at least, was true.
Jonathan shifted closer. “Give me your hand.”
Jervis obeyed automatically.
Jonathan’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, measuring his pulse. A steady pressure. Clinical. The faint tremor in Jervis’ hand made the rhythm uneven beneath his touch.
“Still elevated,” Jonathan murmured. He stared into his eyes then, checking his pupils. “Did you hit your head?”
“I don’t remember.”
His mind scrambled. Nothing felt solid.
“Think.”
Jonathan’s hand moved, sliding gently into his hair. Fingers parted the curls at the back of his head, searching carefully for swelling.
The touch was deliberate. Practical.
Jervis’ breath stuttered anyway.
He leaned into it without meaning to.
Jonathan noticed. Of course he did. His expression softened, but he didn’t comment.
“No blood,” he murmured. “No swelling.”
His palm settled briefly against Jervis’ forehead instead, gauging temperature. He was cool, though slightly clammy.
“You’re not febrile,” he said. “That’s good.”
He’s cataloging you. How damaged you are.
Jervis’ throat tightened again.
“Jon,” he asked quietly, “are you sure you’re not angry?”
Jonathan’s hand withdrew from his forehead, returning to his own side.
“I am not angry,” he said evenly. “I was worried.”
The word seemed to confuse him.
“Worried?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
Jonathan exhaled through his nose, something almost like restrained disbelief flickering across his features.
“Yes, Jervis. For you.”
The voice tried again—faint now.
He’ll grow tired of this. Of you.
Jonathan didn’t reach for him this time. He just held his gaze.
“You frightened me,” he said quietly.
And that did it.
Whatever brittle panic had been holding Jervis upright began to give.
He let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob. He wanted to curl into Jonathan, wanted to pull him closer—but he only nodded, keeping his lips pressed together, tasting iron and salt.
Jonathan moved slightly and Jervis' reaction was immediate. His head lifted sharply, tracking him with his eyes.
Jonathan paused halfway to standing and looked back over his shoulder. “I’m just making tea and getting your meds. I’m not going anywhere.”
The tightness in Jervis’s chest loosened a fraction. He nodded again, slower this time.
From the kitchen came the quiet clink of ceramic and the rush of water into the kettle. Ordinary sounds. Real sounds. No whispers underneath them. No laughter in the walls.
Jervis pushed himself upright and shuffled to the couch, wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how cold he still was until he shivered softly, teeth chattering, feeling the chill creep up through his chest.
Jonathan returned quickly, two mugs and the small orange bottle balanced in his hands. He set them down on the low table, then pressed the pills into Jervis’s palm without comment.
“Drink,” he said gently.
Jervis obeyed. The tea was hot—almost too hot—but he welcomed the burn. It spread through his chest slowly, steadily, chasing out the last of the chill as he downed his pills in one swallow.
Jonathan sat beside him, close enough that their legs brushed beneath the blanket. The warmth was comforting, anchoring.
Jervis tilted his head slightly, resting it against Jonathan’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, finally letting himself lean in, just a little. They didn’t need words; the quiet warmth of shared space was enough.
For a long moment, nothing intruded—no voices, no sirens, no imagined grins. Just him and Jonathan and the blooming heat of the tea in his hands.
And in that, Jervis found a strange sort of peace.
What would I do without you? he thought softly to himself.
He exhaled, letting the tension leave him as he wrapped the blanket tight around both of them. He let himself stay there, warm and safe, if only for a little while.