#dark!jefferson

"Of course, you are a good woman who follows the rules," he teased. "I just know you would be so good for me, too. When you're with me, I can see everything so clearly."

In retrospect, it felt like just a matter of time before he escalated things. He'd secretly been working on the lock and hinges of his door, making sure he would never fully be locked in. When it was ready, he waited for your next shift, confident in his plan.

You'd barely started mopping the floors when you felt his hands on you. You tried to gasp, scream, anything but he stopped you with a passionate kiss.

"My Queen of Hearts, in my hands at last," he breathes as his hands continue to roam. Your instincts had you freezing up which made him think you were into his touches.

"So much softness and sweetness," he purrs, his smile looking like the Cheshire cat's.

Security must have finally noticed the activity in the cameras because Jefferson was subdued soon after, swearing, vowing to never stop loving you. Promising to have you in his arms again, vowing to follow you everywhere.

Three years ago and you've yet to feel safe again.

Moving to a city in another part of the country was all you could think to do. It was easy enough to find another janitorial job. Not many takers for manual labor at off hours. You'd started keeping mace in your purse and in your work apron. Yeah, you were cleaning up empty buildings, but you couldn't be too safe.

Especially when assholes like Travis liked to jump scare you. You tolerated him because he was actually a good coworker who did his share of the work and did it well. But damn did he still get on your nerves. You'd started listening out for the clinking sound of his St. Joseph necklace to give you a heads up that he was around.

The fact that you hadn't heard from him all night actually had you more on edge than if you were expecting him around every corner.

As you finish work, you pack everything up, triple checking the locks and still keeping an ear out for trouble. The tension in your shoulders is hurting so much you're tempted to use some of your meager paycheck for a massage. It's a pipe-dream for now, though. You remind yourself to just get on the bus and get home. Then you can rest.

Rent for your little studio apartment takes up the majority of your paycheck, but it's in a secure building. Lots of locks, even a security camera or two. It's not great, but it's those touches that help turn your little shoebox into a sanctuary.

It's why you didn't notice the lights were on when you opened the door.

Jefferson grabs you, pulling you inside and smiles that Cheshire grin that haunts your nightmares.

"J...Jefferson? How?" you stammer.

"Of course the Queen of my Heart remembers me," he coos, caressing your cheek. "It's taken me far too long to get back to you but I promise, I'll make it up to you. I even have a gift for you!"

He moves you to the tiny table where he's set up a small tea party with a bouquet of black roses in a vase. From one of the flowers you see a very familiar St. Joseph necklace.

"T..Travis?"

"Ah, my Queen has cleverly deduced one of her presents," Jefferson beams. "He will not be bothering you, ever again."

"What did you do?" you breathe, not trusting yourself to speak above a whisper.

"I made you some tea and biscuits," he answers, matter-of-factly. "Another way of showing how I will take care of you, now that we're free to be together."

He holds out a chair and you sit. You're too in shock to try to fight him.

"I understand that this is a lot," he remarks. "Considering how happy I am to be here, I can only imagine how happy you are to see me."

"You were...in prison."

"Emphasis on 'was' my dear," he winks at you. "You'd think they would have learned after the first time that I'll always find a way out. And this time I only had to kill one person to get out!" You gasp and Jefferson takes your hand. "He was in between us and our happiness, my Heart. It had to be done."

"And...Travis?"

"A gift to beg your forgiveness for taking so long," he replies.

"You killed him, too?"

"It was the only way to be certain he'd stop bothering you."

A tear falls as the weight of Jefferson's crimes hit you.

"I know, it's overwhelming," he smiles softly. "But you'll never need to be afraid again."

You cradled your bruised hand, nestling it closer against your corset. The rivets were expensive and ribbons colorful, but your bloodied fingers were ruining the workmanship.

You’d give it all up- forgo the fine tea parties and discard all the enviable riches- to be able to return to your small village, away from him. But to regain your freedom and leave Jefferson behind was a hope cruelly curling up and dying inside you. 

You tried blocking out what just happened. The event created a headache behind your eyes, but the thoughts still wouldn’t stop repeating themselves.

The way the bedroom door broke open when he screamed at you for trying to lock it. The look on his face when he crashed through it, yanking you across the room without stopping. How he seemed to take it personally when you tripped over the bedroom rug and fell onto the ground.

Snarling like an animal, he flipped you onto your back and dragged your body across the floor.

His rage paused for a moment when you caught him off guard, grabbing onto the bottom of splintered door frame, bracing yourself.

You gripped the broken frame harder as you begged Jefferson to leave you alone and calm down. You thought he might- until he came by your side and slammed the door against your hand.

“There are no locked doors in my house!” Jefferson roared over your screams.

The pain was blinding and it allowed him to easily pull you down the hallway as you cried and clutched your fingers.

Each of his steps sent your skirt peeling further back up along your thighs. Your feet bounced against the kitchen floor when he finally dropped your legs.

“It’s not broken,” Jefferson straddled you, grabbing your damaged hand. “Behave- and keep it that way.”

Your mouth wobbled without sound, your shaking lips were enough for Jefferson to know you heard him. 

With narrowed eyes and a nod, he stepped over you, crushing the embroidery on your skirt with his boots. He rummaged and cursed throughout in the kitchen, pulling open drawers and slamming cabinet doors.

You attempted to sit up without adding any extra weight onto your hand, cautiously watching him put the kettle on before setting out two cups and two teapots. You tracked him with wary eyes and tried smothering your pain. Despite it being excruciating, you knew better to complain.

Fear prickled the back of your neck when he pulled a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked the side cabinet. He removed several glass jars of herbs by feel alone- too consumed with cursing under his breath as he filled each teapot with different glassed ingredients.

“Take a seat at the table, rabbit,” he ordered, the kettle screaming over him. After dropping loose tea in both teapots, he filled them with the boiling water.

You knew what kind of blend was steeping in the one pot, your teapot. A special mix Jefferson served whenever you suffered from emotional outbursts. Hysterics brought on from being kept here and no one daring to cross the Mad Hatter by helping you out. Ordinarily, he would calmly pour you a cup and tenderly tell you to drink, promising how he’d make you feel better. Then he’d push a plate of biscuits over and tell you to eat.

But he was far from calm now. 

Bile burned your throat as you readied yourself to sit. The ends of his misshapen curls brushed the high collar of his tailored coat and hid his sneer until he fully turned towards you.

His anger scared you away from the chair, surprising yourself at his disobeying his order. 

“I told you to sit,” Jefferson reminded you coldly, placing the teapots and tray down on the table.

His eyebrows rose as you silently took several more wobbly steps away from the table. 

“Ohhh... don’t run now, rabbit,” He mocked, wrenching a sewing tin off the pine shelf. “You were doing so good.” 

Shaking the tin in the air, he easily closed in on you when the bookcase halted your retreat. The edge of the table dug into your hip when you tucked yourself between the two pieces of furniture along the wall. 

“Please... Jefferson, I’m- I’m sorry,” the frantic pitches in your tone revealed how scared you were.  

With a few heavy steps, Jefferson cut the remaining space between you both. His eyes moved rapidly before settling upon your injured hand. 

“Remind me again, rabbit. What were the rules,” his voice hardened around each word. 

Rules? Law? Orders? Everything was a command from him. And there were too many to remember, but you knew better than to say that. You tried pushing down the fear, thinking of a way to quell the rabid look in his eyes. But your delay only chafed him further. 

For all his dangerous past outbursts at others within the town, you never saw him quite this unstable and threatening before to you.

His whispered nickname for you held more weight now, fully understanding people’s unease when he became agitated.

But this was more than agitation. His pupils were dilated, his breathing monstrously loud, his hair twisted along his brows from sweat; this Jefferson before you, he was in every sense the Mad Hatter. 

With a swift kick, he knocked the table against the wall causing it to jam further into your hip. Pain bloomed along your side and the framed paintings rattled beside your head.

“Don’t make me wait, rabbit,” Jefferson sneered. “Say what you did wrong.”

“... I shou-shouldn’t have closed the door-”

“-In my face!” he spat.

“In... in your face,” you repeated slowly, eyes to the floor. "I'm sorry."

The air in the room thickened and solidified. Neither of you moved, predator and prey. The room fell almost completely silent except for the heartbeat echoing in your ears as Jefferson’s chest heaving. 

“Go on,” Jefferson taunted, moving the sewing kit from one hand to the other. “You’re not done yet, little rabbit.”

“I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have tried to lock the door.”

“Ohhh, there it is, bunny,” he cooed with encouragement. “Heart of the matter.”

Your eyes rose, surprised by his quick change to a calmer tone. The pet name lit a small spark of hope.

Absent-mindedly you traced the scars on your hand. Honing in on the tender dots that peppered either side of your thumb and index finger. Shiny and smooth, slightly puckered and raised, the marks ran themselves in a line along your skin.  

Remembering that small spark of safety that day, you scoffed. Hope really was like steam running away from a teacup- breaking itself apart in order to flee faster. 

“Take yourself back to the table,” Jefferson ordered. “Drink your tea.”

“But. Please, Jefferson...”

“Go.” 

Cradling your hand, you shuffled to the chair with him at your heels.

“I’ll take care of you, bunny. I’ll help you remember the rules,” he pulled the seat out for you and pushed you closer to the table.

You looked at the place setting, the teapot with the special blend set in front of you. 

“Here. This will help,” Jefferson nudged the cup closer and placed the sewing tin by you. 

“Would… would you like me to get some biscuits?” You asked between hesitant sips, testing the air between you two. 

The tea tasted different than your usual dose of docile blend, a bit sweeter. But there wasn't any sugar on the table.

“You really think you deserve a treat?” Jefferson chuckled darkly into his own cup. “Take another drink, rabbit.”

You glanced up over the rim, noting the change in pet names.

He stared at you harder, eyeing the lip of the cup resting against your mouth that you weren’t consuming.

The cup felt heavy for a moment, then it felt oddly and incredibly light. Closing your eyes, you blew on the hot liquid and took another sip. 

“Good,” He nodded at your compliance. “Drink more, bunny. You’ll need it.”

Jefferson’s voice sounded further away- but when you opened your eyes, he was still seated at the table. You blinked and the teacup tilted slightly in your hand. 

The liquid dribbled down over your fingers. It felt… wet? You set the teacup on the table, afraid it might slip from your grasp. A rush of lightheadedness ran over you.

“How do you feel?” Jefferson opened the sewing tin and removed the cloth covering the stitching tools.  

It took you a moment to realize he was talking to you. It took another moment to understand his question. How did you feel? You didn’t feel... right. 

“I think... I think I need to lie down,” you slowly mumbled. “Please.”

Jefferson grunted with amusement, “Such polite manners at our impromptu tea party. It’s a shame you couldn’t remember to mind them earlier, rabbit.”

His chair scraped the floor as he moved closer, taking your injured hand in his. You felt your arm being moved, but couldn’t feel his actual touch. Your head lulled heavily to the side. 

‘Rabbit,’ you thought with a frown. ‘Rabbit, wasn’t the good pet name. Was it?’ 

You fought your eyes from closing when you heard Jefferson rustling through the sewing tin. 

“Relax, bunny. I’ll fix you up,” he vowed, threading the heavy, curved needle. “Like embroidering fine leather. We know how good I am with my hands.”

‘Bunny,’ you smiled, your head tipped back, loosely this time. Everything felt weightless. ‘Oh, Bunny. Bunny was the good name.’

Jefferson covered his forearm over yours. Pushing your injured fingers together, he squeezed your thumb up close. Pinching the skin together with a small clamp, he eyed the perfect guideline of skin that appeared between your finger and thumb. 

“I’ll help you remember the rules, bunny,” Jefferson promised.

Raising his hand at an angle, Jefferson pressed the thick, hooked needle against your soft flesh and pierced you easily. Lightly humming, he slid the head of the needle through the other side of your skin with little resistance. As the needle’s sharp point emerged from you, a satisfied smile covered Jefferson’s face. 

“Your skin is such a fine material, bunny. Much more buttery than any expensive leathers,” he complimented.

With a slight twist of his wrist, he rotated the pliers in his hand and followed the curve of the needle.

“No, no. Don’t fight. I don’t want to stitch a crooked line,” Jefferson warned, pulling the thick needle fully out.

Extending his arm, he dragged the curved hook away from you and closely watched the thread tunnel itself through the holes of your soft skin. Tugging the string taut with a grin, he knotted the end with a jerk, testing your skin to jump and comply. 

“Good, little bunny,” he praised, knotting the thread again. 

You whimpered on the second piercing, this one deeper than the first. Your eyes fluttered at the slight pinching sensations the thread made as it traveled in you.

You closed your eyes tighter when he pushed and pulled too harshly. You refused to look at his craftsmanship, the thought of the thread moving through your flesh made your legs kick out under the table.

“Don’t act like a scared little rabbit, bunny. I’m helping you,” Jefferson remarked impatiently, moving his body and pressing his weight down harder on your arm. “This will be your reminder to not touch the things you shouldn't.”

The drug-infused tea left you too lethargic to fight. But you finally saw what he had done, after allowing you to pull your arm out from under him.

He finished knotting the end of the thread and cut away the extra string. Unclamping your skin, he leaned back in his chair, permitting you to see the tailored project.

Jefferson didn’t fix your injury with stitches like you initially believed. Instead, he had sewn your thumb up against your index finger. 

“Without the use of your thumb, you won’t be so tempted to close doors and turn locks,” Jefferson kissed the top of your head and gathered his tools. “Never worry, bunny. I’ll always be with you to help you remember.”

Before you passed out at the table, you heard him say, “One can feel dead and still be breathing, bunny. I know how that can be, but I won’t let that be you. We’re going to make each other happy. I’ll wake you later to finish your tea. I don’t want you in too much pain. There might even be a biscuit for you.”

A waking groan traveled out of the bedroom, followed by a deep morning cough and the sound of the bed shifting. Those scarred specks on your hand were now your reminder. Probably the most important one- the Mad Hatter would always be yours.

Quickly wiping your eyes, you shook away the memory. The smell of the biscuits cooling and the fireplace crackling offered a small, temporary comfort. Until his footsteps sounded across the kitchen floor and you felt his presence by your back.