They walked back to the house alone, Cathy's left hand tucked into the warm pocket between Heathcliff's chest and elbow, the right biting into his free hand. It was getting dark, dusky, and the wind was picking up now; rustling the leaves on the trees, taunting the still grass. Above her head a moth – or perhaps a particularly dull-coloured butterfly – was being repeatedly knocked off course by the force of it, its wings spinning, the wind howling as it stirred up trouble for the innocent thing.

"You know if you touch a butterfly it leaves magic on your fingers?" she asked Heathcliff dreamily. He was staring ahead at the curve of the cobbled road, curling up from the village into the recess of the moor. He was glowering, his jaw sliding slightly as he grated his molars.

"I always thought it was dust from the wings when you rub them," he replied dispassionately.

Cathy rolled her eyes, "You'd think a mermaid was just a funny fish, wouldn't you?"

"Mermaids aren't real, so I'd be right."

"Mermaids could be real," she insisted, grinning up at him, "nothing is impossible."

"Everything is either real or not real though, isn't it?"

Cathy sighed as she watched his unchangingly disturbed face. It was so very alive and assured of himself here, as though he was sensing the night in his taste buds, savouring it growing richer in flavour, and feeling the altering Earth under his big paws as it shifted and made noise.

"Are you real?" she asked quietly, enthralled by his face, the movement of his body.

For the first time since they had begun walking Heathcliff's face was contorted by a huge black shadow, which she realised unnervingly was a smile.

"What do you think, Cathy?"

Cath-eey – oh how she was growing to like that funny voice of his. Her eyes widened as she took in that dark face and eyes, the thick, carefully bowed and rounded mouth, the velvety-looking black curls, just swept back enough by the wind to reveal a soft patch of skin by his ear.

"I think you're a dream."

"I'm not a dream." He shook his head and then smiled lopsidedly, baring his teeth at her, playfully demonic. He pinched her, hard. She winced, giggled.

"Then you're a miracle!" she beamed.

He shook his head, the smile instantly twisting and dying. "I don't think so."

"You must be!" she sang at him, "You were set to me. From God. Like an angel, God sent you to me."

She had been ever so proud of him as he accepted the oil on his forehead, ate the tasteless wafer they offered him. He hadn't the heart to tell her that he did not believe, and that all of the time, of course, he had been pretending.

"I don't know whether God can do that," he said instead.

"He can do anything and everything," Cathy answered highly, "I'll lend you my Bible and you can read about it all properly."

"I can't."

"Come on, Heathcliff, I know it can be boring, but –"

"No," he interjected, and the gentleness of his voice seemed to shock her. "I can't read."

She was momentarily thrown off-guard, her lips pressing together awkwardly, thoughtfully. She smiled within another few seconds and squeezed his shirt between her fingers. He swallowed, elated. It was extremely easy for him to feel embarrassed and ashamed in front of her, but she didn't seem to care. He truly couldn't thank her enough for that – the idea of her genuinely being disgusted by him was absolutely sickening. He had been afraid, of course, before. But when she showed him how to run a bath that morning, a few days ago, she had nothing in her eyes but pretty, dancing blues, depth and tenderness, no revulsion. He had never known what it truly looked like before, a purely positive regard towards him.

She had dipped her soft little hand into the clear film of the water a rubbed the luxurious warmth of it over the back of his neck, slowly, slowly, slower until her fingers grew dry. He had thought, at the time, that it was baptism.

"Then I'll teach you!" she told him excitedly. "Howie can't tell us off for reading the Bible, after all."

Heathcliff disagreed – even if he made no action and caused no reaction, if he sat mute, if he did nothing, Howard would nonetheless have found something to be hateful about.

"I doubt it."

Ah dowt et – she simpered and wriggled, enchanted by his weird speech, losing sense of the words. Had she the common sense to slow down and listen she would have realised a long time ago that Heathcliff was very scared. He watched her and could almost see her mind just reeling away through her bizarre blue eyes.

"I don't care what people say," she told him. "He can tell us off all he likes! Dad'll get him for that, he loves me to read my Bible."

She didn't understand, he realised. He trudged his way further up, pulling Cathy with him, still tucked into his arm. He hoped they were all asleep now – surely they would have missed the buffet and the talking part of today. The Wake, Cathy's Dad had called it. Nobody would have spoken to him anyway, even when it was polite to, and so he would have been left stood in a corner watching powdery-faced old women pinch Cathy's cheeks. Heathcliff was glad. It was better this way.

Now the bullet-coloured farmhouse could be seen not too far away, sat on the edge of the world, away from life, a misanthrope's dream. Heathcliff gazed at it, pining.

"Home," Cathy sighed happily, elongating the vowels. She did a little hop as she walked. "I can't wait to get to sleep."

It was clear that she needed it, her eyes growing slightly heavy, leaning on him a little more. He squeezed her hand in his. "Not too long," he assured her. They pushed on until he was close enough to push open the door and tug her inside with him.

Heat and the smell of food wafted about the house – he recognised cooked chicken, vinegary salad dressing, something spicy, maybe onion bhajis. No doubt they'd have gone all out on the food, with the poshest caterer they could find – he half expected to see a silver platter of caviar and roast quails sat among the ham sandwiches and teacakes. The door to the dining room was slightly ajar, but from the hallway he could see nothing but empty cake stands, and a few black bin liners stuffed with paper plates.

Cathy tip-toed to whisper into his ear, "Shall we call out, Heathcliff?"

Heathcliff watched and listened for movement, but nothing replied.

"No," he answered quietly, "they'll only shout."

"I don't like it when they shout at you," she agreed – she knew perfectly well that the blame for their absence would be a burden placed on his shoulders. As much as Mr Earnshaw believed in fairness and morality he was in too weak an emotional state to see reason beyond the loudest noise. And Howard always made the most noise, whenever he had even a small opportunity to.

"Let's go upstairs, put our pyjamas on, and go to sleep," he whispered.

He began walking forward towards the staircase, holding her hand as tight as he possibly could, so tight her fingers began to fold in and crush each other. She wriggled her fingers, but he did not let go.

"You're hurting me!" she hissed.

"If Howard comes he'll take you away," Heathcliff warned, "I know he will, he's angry."

"Why would he do that?" she wondered aloud.

Heathcliff did not look at her when he spoke, "Because it upsets me to think about it."

They ascended the stairs, swiftly and silently, clinging to each other. Cathy walked, frowning at the back of his head. His voice had been trembling. She rubbed his shoulder and they flew up into the corridor.

"I live here!" she told him jollily, "I won't go away!"

Heathcliff clicked the door open, oh-so carefully, so quiet, gentle. She was gradually becoming more and more enthralled by his stealth – she imagined him like Mowgli with the wolves, or with the Indians, painted red and black and white and hunting boars with spears. They tumbled into the room and Heathcliff locked the door behind them, heaving out a relieved breath.

"Well you're locked in now," he told her. "So you can't anyway. No-one can get in or out now."

"I'm trapped?" she asked naughtily, grinning, knowing what to expect. The light through the windows was navy blue. Heathcliff whipped around, his hair smashing against his cheek, and smirked like some handsome prince from Hell. The darkness of the day's death delicately accentuated the white of his teeth and the smooth, gently stretched black curve of his lip. She felt excited by it, her stomach clenching reflexively.

"Well, not yet," he replied softly.

"What do you –?"

She was cut off by him running at her, face first, with such force and speed her feet literally flew up into the air and her shoe slid off, banging against the floor, hard. He shoved her into the luxurious soft give of the bed, and she fell into it gladly, giggling and choking herself. He pressed her hands down as he crawled to kneel beside her, dangling his face above hers, teasing her, perhaps, she couldn't tell, but she felt purely mad, so close to him now, so close she could see her own face, gasping and crazed and delighted, reflected in his dark eyes, so close his chest rubbed against her belly, so close she wanted to run her fingers over the straight, strong bone in his nose, his cheek, chin, brow. She had play fought with him so many times on the moors now, but it always ended with this, and Cathy struggled to understand what it meant, or how to quite explain it, but it felt sinful and elating all at once.

"Trapped!" he exclaimed, laughing manically. "Now I am a pirate, and you are my treasure, and you'll stay locked in a chest in my cabin!" He dramatically stuck out his chest and curled his index finger to a hook, running it down her throat. "Ye salty dog, I've fownd meself a let-ull wench ta keep, worth a hundird thousand pieces o'gold!"

She laughed joyously, wriggling for her freedom, squeezing her eyes shut and sticking her tongue between her teeth. "No, Captain Hook!"

"Ney, 'tis Lowng Haefcleff Silver!" he boomed.

She beamed at him, "Do you like pirates, Heathcliff?"

The metal hook against her face became his warm palm again, and the crooked, toothy smile slithered from his face, and he stared at her blankly.

"I like stories about pirates," he answered. "By the dock, there were always stories about smugglers in the olden days."

"What's a smuggler? What's a dock?"

"Where your Dad found me, it's a place for boats to get to shore. And a smugglers a pirate, taking treasure from people and hiding it on land," he explained, and then dropped down onto his elbow, watching her face from above, his smile steadily returning. "When we grow up we'll buy a boat and I'll smuggle you away with me."

At that moment she could not have dreamed a more wonderful fate – what could be better, than being away from it all? From Mum's grave, Dad's crying, Howard's boisterous hate.

"You're not as boring as you make out, Heathcliff," she smiled. He returned it, and then stood up.

"We should change, now."

Once again Cathy organised that he would use the bathroom to wash, while she would change, and then they would swap. The bathroom was just opposite Cathy's bedroom, with the door to Howard's room being directly next to it. To Heathcliff's amazement, the door was open.

Howard was sat, leaning against his bed, facing the left hand wall of the room. He had no lights on, but the milky moonlight was pouring in through the windows. Were his cheeks glittering? Were there tears? Heathcliff paused, silent, frowning. Howard had a bottle in his hand – and Heathcliff knew the dark, feminine curves of the glass suggested something alcoholic, whisky, maybe, perhaps vodka. He glugged, tipping the bottle high into the air, a little liquid sloshing over his chin. He swallowed. Tipped. Swallowed. Tipped. And again.

It wasn't a sight Heathcliff was unaccustomed to, but it felt deeply wrong. He must have stolen in from the dining room, from his Father. Initially, he admired him for stealing something without being caught – it had taken him at least a year to master pick-pocketing and food-snatching without being shouted at and forced to return his kitty. But then the thought dawned upon him that this had been stolen from Peter Earnshaw, who was a man Heathcliff felt a splinter of respect for, and that Howard was not a rough-faced middle-aged scouser, but a fourteen year-old boy. He thought perhaps he should say something, or try to stop him; but he had seen drunks – been drunk. And God, your head hurt in the morning...

He wet his lips, smirked awkwardly, and slipped into the bathroom.

Cathy did nothing to change his actions too. He heard her call "Howard?" to him rather sheepishly, and then heard the door creak closed. He did not mention it, and neither did she. She simply waggled into the bed beside him, ensuring to ruffle the pillow and blanket sat atop the camp bed, to trick Dad and Howard into believing Heathcliff had slept there. She sat her chin on his shoulder and looked up at him pleadingly.

"Will we be safe?" she asked.

"Of course we will," he answered, and tentatively placed his hand on her shoulder. She breathed him in, the smell of soap and hair gel, and pushed her face closer into the gap between his shoulder and jaw.

"But Howard his drinking drink, and Dad's crying on the sofa, and you don't smell the same," she whispered. "Why're they so changed?"

Heathcliff curled his arm around her back and rubbed it slowly.

"They've lost something they love very much."

Cathy was silent for a moment, and he closed his eyes to absorb the wondrous sensation of her three fingers tracing strange, imaginary shapes on his forearm.

"I don't feel like that, though," she whispered. "I'm not very sad."

"It's good that you aren't sad," he reasoned.

"But I should be sad if I loved her."

Heathcliff said nothing, unsure of love and in afflictions and associates. He was not sure how to answer because he did not understand what was appropriate to feel, or what was incorrect to feel.

"I would cry if you were to die, Heathcliff," she continued dazedly, and it sounded as though she was talking to herself, or a ghost. "I'd miss fighting with you, and collecting ladybirds, and drawing birds and looking for birds' nests. I'd cry so much. I haven't cried enough."

"Then I'll at least make sure I don't die before you," he said softly. "Then you won't have to cry."

"Today Dad didn't even smile once and he's all grey and quiet and he cries. He's like a sad little ghost, he's like Casper."

He had no idea what a Casper was. "No-one wants you to feel dead."

"But I think I'd be that way if you were to die."

He glanced down at her, and Cathy felt some sort of smug smile on his face. She didn't understand, but now her mind was too tired to try. She could feel his pulse on the end of her nose and somehow, despite everything, slept easily that night. Heathcliff's rhythmic breathing stirred her hair and pushed against her face, and it swept away all the bad thoughts she could conjure.

A/N: So concludes Chapter Six!

Firstly, I've got to say to everyone reading this, I'm so sorry. Unfortunately motivation has been something extremely difficult for me to summon lately, and I was beginning to give up on this fic completely – until yesterday when I saw more people were reading and enjoying this fic more than I thought! I want to give a huge thank-you to Namuyesol and VIOLET for their lovely reviews – it honestly inspired me to continue with this and so I've worked extra hard to get this chapter out as quickly as possible for both of you! Thank you again! And of course thank-you to my ever-faithful reviewer The Mighty Gazelle for his constant support and love.

I hope everyone enjoys this, please let me know what you think!