Archive of Our Own

He dreams of Cathy in his sleep.

They're ten again, young and willful, their footsteps thudding on carpet and wooden flooring. Somewhere, perhaps behind them, a familiar voice begs for them to slow down; but why should they? It's far too nice of a day to just sit idly and waste away the hours. In his exhiliriation he doesn't notice his lungs gasp for air; as long as he's with her, he has the breathe to spare for every moment he can laugh with her. And she smiles, shining like the sun, so bright and beautiful. Laughing as she drags him down the manor's halls and away from their duties and classes, wind in their faces as they rush to the moors outside. The tall grasses poke and prickle at their skin, rustling with every step he takes to chase after her.

Her, always in movement, every step precise and carefree; him, stumbling after her, tripping over himself to keep up even though she's got a firm grip on his hand, guiding him like a shepherd guides sheep. If she's the sun then he's the heathers on the moors, yearning for her warm touch. And if she's the winds and storms, then he's the lighting and thunder that follows after in her wake. He's incomplete without her, and she will always welcome him into her embrace.

The wind whips around them, sending her wheat-golden hair flying around and she just laughs and laughs and laughs, and he finds that he's laughing too—breathless and gasping, but laughing with pure, unfettered joy in their childhood innocence.

She says something; calls for him, maybe, but the winds are too loud to hear the exact words, and she beckons with her hands outstretched for him to come closer. Sunlight glints off the ring on his finger as he reaches for her, clumsy steps turning into a frantic dash as he tries and tries and tries to get closer, to no avail. The grasses and heathers turn into ugly, barbed brambles, clawing and tearing through cloth and skin and she still stands there, smiling, offering her hand out to him despite the mournful look in those hazel-brown eyes of hers. Hooks and barbs wedge deep into his skin now, blood welling up from the gashes. 

It hurts.

It hurts so much.

But if he can just stretch out more, just take another step, surely, she could grab his hand in hers and free him from this agony. He just has to keep going.

She can help him. She can fix all his hurts and woes.

He can't give up. 

She's so close.

Just one

more

step—!

And Heathcliff wakes up gasping for air in a dark room, hands outstretched for a girl that will never be there again.

"Bloody hell...." he grumbles, running a hand over his face. Lightning flashes from the barred window, rain pouring heavily. There's no way to tell what time of day it is.

He's up already. May as well get dressed and washed.

The lights flicker overhead as he shuts the door behind him, silence replacing the muffled rainstorm. Without the other sinners in the corridor, it feels way too stuffy; the lack of windows isn't really helping either. The steps he takes are too loud and Heathcliff can't help but wince, even though there's no one around to be bothered by the noise.

"<Oh, Heathcliff! Good morning.>"

Well. Almost no one. But Dante's never complained or berated him about it, so it's fine.

"Mornin', clockhead," he replies, turning around to face them properly. Looks like they've just left their office for the day. 

"<You're not usually up this early. Couldn't sleep?>"

He scuffs the heel of his shoe on the carpet, bites his tongue to keep from spilling everything to Dante. "Sure. Somethin' like that."

From the corner of his eye he sees them nod, fidgiting a little with their PDA as an uncomfortable silence falls over their conversation. For a while, the only sound is clockhead's idle ticking, a habit that meant they were deep in thought.

"<Do... you want to talk about it? Later?>"

He shrugs. 

"<Ah... okay.>" They nod again, shuffling in place. "<I'm gonna go get some rest before the day starts then. See you later, Heathcliff.>" They scooch around him and down the hall, headed for the door to their room. 

"Oi, clockhead."

They turn around, hand on the doorknob. 

A part of him wants to chase after them, spill out all the details of his nightmare-dream with Cathy in it.

"I..."

He can't get the words out. Something as simple as asking for their time, asking for them to listen, and he can't do it. It's literally their fucking job to do that. But he just grits his teeth, and shakes his head.

"Nevermind. It's nothing."

They nod, disappearing through the door and leaving him on his own again. For a moment, Heathcliff stares at the empty space where Dante had been; imagines what would've happened if he had told them what was plaguing him. But that moment was over now, so he just turns around instead and walks out of the corridor.

The sun is barely shining through the bars of the bus windows; even the lighting in the corridor is brighter than that. Heathcliff stops for just a moment, squinting at the sky while he just stands there in the cabin. There's no storm clouds at least. It's a lot quieter and calmer without the rumble of the bus' engine, and a lot more open without everyone else shoved into their seat.

Well, almost everyone.

By the front of the bus stands Meursault. Hair slicked back, uniform clean and tidy like always. In the brief second that Heathcliff goes unseen, he notices that Meursault looks relaxed in a way he had never been around the Sinners. Like all the tension holding him together was never there. Then their eyes meet, and he stiffens up, expression back to the familiar stone-faced look.

"Bonjour."

"Hey. Uh... mornin'."

What the fuck was that??? That was the worst greeting he's given anyone! Ever!!! Heathcliff clears his throat, and tries again.

"Nice weather out there, yeah?"

Meursault glances out the window, halfway out the door of the bus. "It is overcast."

"It's T Corp," he scoffs. "Weather's always either overcast or downright miserable."

Meursault just nods, already off the bus and headed who knows where. With nothung better to do, Heathcliff follows after him. Something interesting's bound to happen, right?

"So what the hell are you up so early for? You headed somewhere, or what?"

"You are up early too," Meursault points out.

"Just answer my bloody question!"

"Mm. I am picking up a copy of the newpaper for myself, as I do every morning when possible." Then, almost as an afterthought he adds, "As well as for Don Quixote."

"Huh. Never took the lass as the sort to read the paper."

"She only reads the Fixer articles."

Heathcliff snorts at that. Yeah, sounds about right. The conversation trails off, but there isn't any of the awkward tension left from earlier, so he's more than happy to just carry on in silence.

Its not long before he and Meursault stop by a news stand. The person manning the counter side-eyes the two of them with mild disinterest, before looking back at whatever book they had in hand. Judging by how they only move a little slower than normal, they've probably got 20 hour days, the lucky fella. While Meursault goes to pick a newspaper, Heathcliff busies himself with looking around the area.

The streets in this section of T Corp. are a slightly orangeish hue; slightly more saturated than the sepia hue he's familiar with, an almost gross, medicine-like color. The streets aren't quite empty; there's probably dozens of slow moving workers making their way to their jobs, as well as the occasional rich bastard zipping through the crowds to whatever fancy schmancy breakfast joint they're headed to. 

The rich bastard bumps into one of the factory workers, immediately turning on the poor bloke and berating them in a flurry of garbled squeaking that they haven't even begun to react to yet. He scoffs at the sight—entitled prick—before turning his attention back to Meursault. He's paying for the newspaper already, thanking the standrunner politely. They wave him off, scooping up the coins he left on the counter.

"Don't s'pose we can go now, yeah?"

Meursault folds the newspaper neatly and tucks it into his arm, nodding at Heathcliff. "Very well. Let us head back to Mephistopheles."

The walk back to the bus is almost the same, and Heathcliff's mind wanders. He thinks back to the dream, of Cathy and the manor they had both grown up in. The place where he was beaten and kicked like a dog, and more recent events too. The return to Wuthering Heights, his distortion, the waves of peccatulum, Nelly, and then his other self... most of these things he could talk it out with the clockhead, but there was one thing nagging in his mind.

"Why?"

Meursault gives him a look, but says nothing.

"Back at the manor. Why'd you stop the other me? Thought you didn't do shit unless clockhead tells you to."

"I do not know."

Meursault says nothing else for a while. He wonders if he'll have to do without a proper answer, when he finally speaks up again.

"I cannot recall why chose to take such an action at that time," he admits. "The exact details elude me. If I had a reason, I do not remember it now."

"Right." He's not sure what other answer he expected. "S'pose it doesn't matter anymore."

The rest of the trip is silent and uneventful. Soon enough, they're back at the alleyway where the bus is parked. There seems to be less clouds now, he notes, stepping back into the cabin of the bus. Meursault immediately settles into his seat, unfolding the newspaper leisurely. For a moment, Heathcliff is left standing awkwardly. 

"Listen, I..."

There's things he wants to say. A thank you, maybe, for letting him tag along. Or maybe telling him that it wasn't so bad, and that he wouldn't mind doing mundane shit like this again.

"...Sorry you had t' put up with me," is what he says instead.

Meursault looks up from his paper, staring straight at him, green eyes no less intense despite the lack of color. "It was not a bother. I found your company to be pleasant, and I would not be opposed if you choose to join me again."

Heathcliff grins. That's the first proper compliment he's gotten from him.

"Glad to hear it, mate. I'll see you in a bit, yeah?"

Somehow, the sky outside looked a bit brighter. Maybe the rest of the day wouldn't be so bad after all, he thinks.