This was going to be in the previous chapter but it all got a bit long, so here it is now. Ta.


"Nothing, love," Dan whispered. "Just a dream."

"It's alright, Dan," Jones murmured in return. " 'm here now. You're safe."

"God, you're beautiful," Dan breathed and imagined he could see Jones smile even in the darkness.

"I think you'll find that's my line, Mr Ashcroft."

He felt Jones' hand fumbling about until it bumped against his own. He wrapped his fingers around Jones' smaller, more delicate digits and gave a gentle squeeze, smiling at the contented hum that rumbled through Jones' chest in response.

He rolled up onto his side as much as his plastered leg would allow and began to run his other hand along Jones' thin frame, enjoying the way Jones leaned into the touch like a contented cat. He'd actually gone out and bought them both a pair of pajamas for this trip. Jones used to prefer a pair of boxer shorts and t-shirt for bed but his anxiety over being seen, of being uncovered, had increased dramatically, and Dan had bought him a soft, grey tracksuit as a way of telling him that it was ok. The fabric was soft and loose and it was so easy to dip his hand beneath Jones' top to run his palm across the warm plains of the younger man's stomach. He could hear the change in Jones' breathing, from sleepy to stuttered, the happy little moan that told him that the touch was welcome, and he slid his hand downwards, feeling the prominent hipbones and paper thin skin, but slowed down when Jones let out a strange, unhappy noise in the back of his throat.

"Dan, I-"

"It's ok. We can stop."

"No," he puffed faintly. "No."

Dan rubbed his hand gently over the hair of Jones' pubic bone as he heard the other man take deep, relaxing breaths, before edging downwards to touch the soft foreskin of Jones' flaccid cock. He stroked his fingers lightly along it a few times, admiring, as he did every time, how the silky skin of Jones' penis felt so amazing against his own skin, how it contrasted with the wiry hair around it so perfectly, how privileged he felt being allowed to touch Jones and bring him pleasure. But even though Jones' sounded excited nothing stirred. He leant in to press soft kisses to Jones' mouth, running his hand down to stroke his testicles and thigh and Jones arched his neck into the kiss. But he didn't get hard.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice high and wavering against Dan's lips, but Dan shook his head.

"No. It's the middle of the night, you're tired. Don't be sorry."

"But it's not that," Jones murmured. "It's... I can't... I mean, I want to, but... I don't know... And I..."

He heard Jones' muffled sob and moved his hand away but it just caused Jones to turn his head to the side and Dan could hear him beginning to weep softly.

"It doesn't matter, Jonesy," he said softly. "Honestly. I'm sorry. What sort of arsehole tries it on when his boyfriend's still recovering from... multiple broken bones? Christ. I wasn't thinking straight. I'm sorry."

He pressed a kiss to Jones' neck and sighed with relief when Jones turned back and kissed his lips, even if he tasted of tears .

"It's alright," he said, his voice cracked and tired. "I do want to, I just..."

Dan nodded. Jones had told him about times when he'd been homeless and people had tried it on. It made his gorge rise that people would try to take advantage of a kid while he slept in a bus shelter and now Dan wanted to smack himself around the head for making Jones feel threatened again when he was supposed to be looking after him.

He wrapped his arm around Jones' waist and kissed him firmly just above his ear and whispered to Jones that he loved him in as many ways as he knew how until he felt his lover's body relax back into sleep. The room wasn't so dark anymore, the light of predawn was edging around the curtains and Dan watched as the walls turned from navy to gray to pale blue while he held Jones, careful to avoid the man's injured ribs.

His leg was aching but he didn't want to move and risk waking Jones again. It was an odd sort of pain. Not the intense radiating pain of when he'd first broken it, or the continuous ache that he'd started to get used to before Jones had ended up in hospital. This pain was like something scratching and scraping inside him, like a pin in his clothing that he could feel but not find - only one hundred times worse.

Jones gave a whimper and Dan looked down at his face, wanting to smooth the frown from his lover's forehead and mouth but not daring to. Jones' eyelids were fluttering madly and as Dan watched his body began to twitch, like a puppet having it's strings pulled.

It broke his heart, every time, watching Jones dream, knowing that it wasn't a nice one. People like Jones deserved to dream of rainbows and sweets and music, and instead Dan could only imagine the cacophony of horrible images Jones' brain might be throwing together to torment him. Recently the dreams seemed to have gotten worse, at least, so it seemed to Dan. He hadn't been allowed to sleep at the hospital but he'd seen Jones sleep a fair amount over the last month, but rather than his quality of sleep improving as his pain decreased, Jones' sleep was getting worse and Dan worried that it would only be a matter of time before the insomnia returned in full force.

And the nightmares could quite easily be traced back to the visit they'd had a week before, from one of the police officers who'd arrested Jones' attackers.

He'd been young and he hadn't been able to hide his anger as he explained that only one of the four men who'd caused Jones' injuries had been charged with grievous bodily harm, whilst the other three had had their charge scaled back to actual bodily harm instead. They had all pleaded guilty at their initial hearing, which was why they'd been released on bail, and the guilty plea at least meant that Jones wouldn't have to go through a court case or testify. But it also meant that sentencing had happened without them being really aware of it. The man who'd crushed Jones' wind pipe, broken his nose and kicked his ribs in had received a sentence of twelve months. Two of the others, who'd kicked and jumped on Jones' leg until they heard it snap, had each received nine months. The last man had received four months.

Dan had been shaking with anger, as had the officer, but Jones had just been shaking. They'd been offered counseling but when Dan had informed the officer that they were moving away for a while he'd been asked to give a forwarding address and then that had been that. And he'd had to spend the day with Jones, silent and pale, and consumed by the knowledge that the men who'd beaten him would be free within a year, and would know where they lived.

And suddenly London - beautiful, noisy, filthy, beguiling London - didn't pull at him any more. He didn't want it. He wanted Jones to laugh and smile and dance about in tight t-shirts and plastic beads. He wanted to revisit the argument about the cat, because suddenly giving Jones a kitten seemed like a brilliant idea, and he wanted to learn to cook, and he wanted to buy a few dozen new CDs just so they could listen to them together and argue. He wanted to listen to Jones describe all the different kinds of rain. And he wanted to be content. Not just occasionally happy between the darkness and grayness and emptiness. He wanted to actually feel normal.

Of course, to achieve all that he'd have to actually do things, rather than just wishing for them and frowning. But he wanted Jones to feel safe. He wanted to see Jones throw his head back as he laughed and hug his own arms to stop himself flying apart in his joy.

And now the sun was peaking around the sides of the curtains and he felt tired and a bit sick but he didn't feel like he never wanted to get out of bed, and that was good. And he knew for a fact that Pingu knew how to make pancakes and that he would probably teach Dan to make them without too much pestering. Dan was going to make Jones breakfast in bed.