A/N: So a review from Deskspook got me off my arse with this one.

Bit of a change here. Basically, the next three chapters will focus on one pair each time. Will be back to normal structure afterwards.

Ros and Malcolm start us off…

Chapter Six

Friday, January 8th. 19:14 (HIDE AND SEEK – DAY 1)

"I haven't been to bed this early in about thirty years," murmured Ros.

Malcolm glanced across at her. She was sat before the fire, cross-legged, with the sleeping bag pulled tightly around her. Her eyes were shimmering in the firelight once more.

"Well, you're not exactly in bed right now," he argued. "We've not even had dinner yet."

"Fair point."

There was an audible crackling sound which directed their attention back to the fire.

"I think the toast's done," noted Ros.

Malcolm removed the poker from the fire and examined the bread.

"I think you're right," he replied. "Have you got the jam ready?"

"Of course."

They spent the next few moments trying to avoid burnt fingers as they spread jam on the scalding toast.

"Shame we don't have any butter," grumbled Malcolm.

Ros grinned.

"Yeah, and some champagne and a couple of proper beds wouldn't hurt either."

Malcolm looked sheepish.

"I was just saying. And you have jam on your cheek."

- - -

Friday, January 9th. 00:57 (HIDE AND SEEK – NIGHT 2)

Ros awoke with a gasp, the ghostly figure of her father still dancing before her eyes. She could hear his voice in the silent room. She could see the reproach in his features.

"Malcolm? Are you awake?"

Silence.

"Malcolm," she repeated. "Please say that you're awake, you infuriating man."

She heard a deep sigh from the other side of the room.

"Ros, did you say something?"

Then she remembered who she was.

"…no. You must have been dreaming."

- - -

Friday, January 9th. 05:25 (HIDE AND SEEK – DAY 2)

Malcolm awoke to find that there was a hand in his sleeping bag.

Feeling remarkably calm – he was still feeling very sleepy and the hand seemed not to mean him any harm at this very moment in time – he stretched out a finger and poked it.

Somewhere, from the deep recesses of his brain, a voice sighed, 'that, you fool, is yours'.

He had apparently fallen asleep with his cheek resting on his left hand, and it was now so numb that he had not recognised it as his own. His usual course of action at a time like this was to dangle his arm over the side of the bed and wait for his blood flow to correct itself. This obviously was not an option, this morning however. The only thing for it was to sit up and shake the numbness off.

The cold hit him like so much ice water as the sleeping bag fell to his waist. He really was going to have to get the fire started again before settling back down – he'd never be able to fall asleep like this.

The third thing he noted, after the temperature and the heaviness of his arm, was the fact that he was not alone. Not that he had thought he was to begin with, but he had been under the impression that he was the only one of the room's two occupants conscious. Obviously he had been mistaken.

Ros had pulled the upper layer of the sleeping bag over her head to shield herself from the cold, but he could see her eyes nevertheless, shining through the darkness, feeding off of the glow of the moonlight. They were steely and unimpressed as they regarded him, but he could see from their glassy sheen that she was struggling to keep herself awake.

And that had probably been the case for most of the night.

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of speaking and acknowledging her obvious distress, but this was Ros,after all; the kindest thing he could do would be to pretend not to have seen, and therefore leave her pride intact.

So that was exactly what he did.

- - -

Friday, January 9th. 07:30 (HIDE AND SEEK – DAY 2)

The freezing water assaulted Ros' scalp mercilessly as she stuck her head under the tap. She didn't care.

Shampoo, no conditioner. Good.

The sink was tiny and every small movement of her head brought it into contact with either metal or porcelain, sometimes painfully. At this rate, her hair was going to be an absolute bird's nest when she came to try and brush it, and the lack of conditioner was only going to make matters worse.

Good.

Part punishment, part purification, part unforgiving rejuvenation; the less-than-luxurious aspects of washing her hair on this morning were making her feel more and more herself with each passing moment.

After a few moments, Malcolm entered the bathroom behind her – he wasn't being rude, she just hadn't bothered shutting the door behind her.

"You know, there's a bigger sink in the kitchen," he pointed out gently.

Ros didn't look up.

"I'm fine here."

He dithered for a second or two before she lost her temper.

"Did you want anything, Malcolm?" she asked; her voice as cold and abrasive as the water.

"Well," he murmured awkwardly, "I rather wanted to use the toilet actually."

At this, she did look up, and, shutting off the tap, stood up straight and made to leave the room, wrapping a towel around her hair as she did so.

Malcolm sighed as he closed the door behind her. He had decided against pointing out the scratch on her forehead; she had probably noticed it herself anyway.

- - -

She rolled her sleeping bag up briskly and stowed it in the corner, before diverting her attention to aimlessly poking at the fire Malcolm had started before going upstairs.

He had seen her last night, when she'd been mercilessly depriving herself of sleep for fear that she would have another dream about her father.

It was all very well people pointing out that he had done evil things and deserved to be in prison; he wasn't those people's father. Dad, she'd called him. She'd helped to put her dad in prison.

And now he haunted her dreams.

You put me in here, Rosalind.

Ros.

Darling.

You put me in here, Darling.

Was it worth it? Does Harry Pearce make a better father than me? Did your career survive the terrible blow? Is your pride intact?

You disgust me.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of Malcolm's voice, penetrating the silence worriedly.

"Ros?"

Her neck snapped round, and she stared coolly at him.

"You can't leave me alone for more than five seconds, can you?" It was supposed to sound like teasing, but her voice was bitter and cruel.

He surprised her. Jutting out his chin, he shot back a reply immediately.

"Your cabin fever jokes worried me – you were stabbing at that fire as though you meant it some considerable harm."

She looked down and saw, to her surprise, that she was indeed holding the fire poker. She regarded it thoughtfully.

"When I was younger, I used to wait until the poker was really hot and use it to write my name in the kindling."

She wasn't looking at Malcolm as she spoke, but he replied nonetheless.

"That's a good point, actually. You owe me some stories today."