Jones looked across the table at Dan's mum. Over the years he'd tried to picture what she might look like. Dan hadn't brought any photographs with him when he'd moved to London because, well, that was Dan - even if he did now carry a polaroid photograph of Jones in his wallet - when he'd been young and had first moved away from home he hadn't seen the point in carting around pictures of his parents and annoying, little sister. So Jones had never seen a photo of Mrs Ashcroft.

Now, looking at her, Jones could see where Dan got his looks from. Claire looked like her dad, in a good way, but Dan's jawline and cheekbones were all his mother's. As were the curls. He'd tried to imagine her as short or tall, but could never decide and now it turned out she was the same height as Jones and even in her early sixties she was one of the most striking women he'd ever seen.

But she could be pretty damned scary, too.

Pingu, Harry as they were all now calling him, had spent the first hour dropping things and breaking things and apologising with his eyes on the floor, until Mrs Ashcroft had suggested he might like to go and visit Claire and Dan's father in his study. Claire had blanched like it was a punishment but it turned out that Harry Pingu and Roger Ashcroft got on like a house on fire. A very quite fire, but still. Claire had escaped the house under the pretense of taking a walk around the neighbourhood and then it had been Dan, Jones and Dan's mum.

"My name is Catherine, love, you can call me that or you can call me mum, but if I hear you call me Mrs Ashcroft again, I'll..." She looked Jones up and down and sighed.

Jones knew he looked a sight. He'd been helped out of his parka when they got into the house because Dan's parents were the sort to have the house heated to a steady twenty-six degrees all year round and he couldn't have kept it on, but he felt vulnerable in just his jeans and the old, ripped and faded t-shirt Dan had dressed him in that morning. The dressing on his shoulder was visible, and the one on his chest pressed against the fabric, plus the leg brace was on full show, and he felt like a failed attempt at a cyborg.

"Sorry, Catherine." he mumbled but it just made her sigh again.

"Oh, don't be like that. I won't actually do anything to you, love. Look at you. I did threaten to smack Daniel around the ears if he made you cry again. Has he?"

"What?"

"Has he made you cry? Say the word and he'll feel his mother's palm."

"Mum!"

Jones couldn't help laughing at that because mums were supposed to be sensible and Dan looked scandalised, and because he was nervous and laughing was way better than crying.

"That's better," she told him and Jones ducked his head to hide his blush.

"You're a right laugh, Cathy," he told her as she moved around to the kitchen to pour the tea, pointing at them both to sit at the table. "But don't hit Dan. We'd both fall apart like a couple of Kinder toys."

"All right, dear," she'd told him with a nod and a wink. "For you."

Dan had shaken his head and looked rather disgruntled until his mother brought over his tea. It was proper Earl Grey, in a cup and saucer, with fancy biscuits that looked homemade but were just stupidly expensive sitting delicately on the side.

Jones had laughed at the excitement in Dan's eyes but had to admit it was good tea. Even the steam felt especially nice against his cheeks. And Dan's mum kept giving them both more and more biscuits, telling them they needed fattening up, which was a bit genius.

"Claire told me you'd put on weight, Dan," she said behind her tea cup. "But I don't see it."

"I had," Dan told her. "But then Jones disposed of my booze."

Jones chuckled at that but he had to admit that Dan had lost weight. He didn't think it was all down to their new, alcohol free lifestyle either. He was pretty sure Dan'd been eating very little while Jones was in hospital. There hadn't been any money coming in and Dan's cooking skills were limited to pot noodle and reheating last night's take-out. Without the take-out Dan's diet had been pretty restricted.

"Well you're both too skinny," Cathy told them. "You need protein to rebuild your muscles. When you head out to Hornsea next month I hope you'll remember to eat properly. I don't want to find out you've been living off fish and chips."

Jones had hidden his grin in his own tea cup while Dan griped and moaned at his mother's lecture because he knew that secretly Dan was rather pleased to be there, where he could let someone else take care of them for a bit.

"I wish Claire wasn't ducking off so quickly. We might need her help to get you both out to the shack. I can drive you there but one old woman isn't going to be much help getting you two inside and settled."

Dan just shrugged and Jones could see he was nervous.

"She thinks I'm still mad at her."

"Well have you told her you're not?"

"I..."

Listening to Dan and his mum talk was strangely relaxing. They were so comfortable with one another and with their small, half-lidded eyes, they looked like they were about to fall asleep, which made Jones feel sleepy too.

"You haven't told her, because you still are," Cathy stated, looking off into the sitting room and the family pictures on the wall.

"I'm not."

Cathy tutted and Dan made a face but in a half-hearted way, like he knew she was right.

"You are a terrible liar, Daniel. You're angry at her. And that's alright, love. It is."

"Is it?" Dan muttered, staring at the plate of biscuits, which his mother then slid across the table to him, without once moving her eyes or seeming to look at him.

"Yes, love, it is. And I know that's how you feel because you and I... we're a bit the same, perhaps. But Claire's different - Don't think that about your sister and don't look all innocent I know what you were thinking - Claire is just different from you and I. She needs to talk about things. It's just who she is."

Jones pressed his lips together so that he wouldn't laugh, because Cathy Ashcroft was even more amazing in person than on the phone, and Dan was pouting because his mother knew exactly what he'd been thinking about his sister and had called him out on it. Then she turned her eyes to Jones and he wondered if he was about to get told off as well, but she just gave him a look that let him know that it was ok to be in on the joke.

"I don't know if I can talk to her," Dan mumbled, then jumped when both Jones and Cathy turned to look at him.

"Then write her a letter," his mother said, with a note to her voice that declared the matter settled. "You are good at words, Daniel, and she needs to know that her only brother doesn't hate her. Now Jones, would you like more tea?"

"Yes please, Cathy."

She smiled at that, bringing the pot over to the table and pouring him another cup, hand on the porcelain lid and all, properly elegant.

"I like that. Cathy," she told him as she sat back down. "My mother used to call me Cathy. And you, Jones? Are you just Jones?"

She had asked the question with care and Jones knew that she was good at asking questions and finding out what she needed to know, but he didn't much feel like dragging his past back out again.

"Yes please," he replied, ducking his head and stirring his tea with the tiny, silver spoon he'd been given.

It made a nice noise, delicate and innocent, the same colour as the milky tea in his cup, but he tried to focus on what Catherine was saying and not get distracted.

"I do know your full name, of course. I read the article (for want of a better word). I just wanted to make sure that Jones was what you wished to be called. It's rather short, when introducing you to people."

Jones nodded.

"Not like Daniel Roger McFarlane Ashcroft."

"No," she agreed. "Or Catherine Elizabeth Ashcroft nee McFarlane. Perhaps there's something to be said for a shorter name after all."

Jones could hear the humour in her voice and it was so much like Dan's that he couldn't help looking up. Dan was rolling his eyes and Cathy was smiling into her tea cup and it was all so delightfully domestic and comfortable Jones wished he could record it somehow, to play back later, or bottle it for when he needed a quick pick-me-up.

"Ashcroft's a nice name," he whispered and Dan snorted.

"You can have it. I'm sick of people recognising it."

Catherine chuckled at that.

"Well, what with this new law... if you really want to share a name-"

"It won't go through," Dan snapped. "Don't go getting ideas, mum. It's not happening."

"Ah, silly boy. What do I always say?" Catherine said with a smirk and a wink, while Jones struggled to figure out what they were even talking about. "Leave it with me, Daniel. I'll see what I can do."

"Mum..." Dan had grumbled, shifting in his seat and frowning, but Jones couldn't understand why.

"Jones, dear," Catherine turned to him, smiling brightly and ignoring her son's threatening look. "Would you like another biscuit?"

Jones looked down at his empty plate. He hadn't eaten food this delicious in, well... actually he couldn't remember ever eating food like this. Cathy used a home catering company because she couldn't cook and was too busy to learn and there had been three courses and it had all been delicious. Even the vegetables. And now he felt so tired, even the throbbing of his leg, and shoulder... and chest, couldn't keep his eyes from closing. It felt strange to be so full of food. It was almost uncomfortable, like when he'd woken up and realised that he was covered in stitches and everything had felt tight and awkward.

He tried to catch Dan's eye, to let him know that it was sleepy time, and codeine time, because he didn't want to interrupt the conversations going on around the table, but Dan was busy trying to convince his parents that going out for his birthday was definitely out of the question. Pingu gave him a sympathetic smile but Jones knew there was no way he was going to interrupt all four Ashcrofts.

"It's your birthday, listen to your mother," Roger said in a low, quiet voice.

"But it's not practical," Dan said, his voice close to a whine.

"Dan," Claire interjected. "You can't just refuse."

"It's alright," Cathy said again, but they'd shared a bottle of wine with the meal and Jones and Pingu were both learning that wine with dinner made Ashcrofts argumentative. Jones could feel himself beginning to sweat, his skin prickling painfully around his barely healed scars and his heart starting to press hard against his ribs.

"No, it's not," Claire maintained. "You've got us all here, it's your fucking birthday-"

"Language!"

"But why else are we here if not for his birthday?" Claire exclaimed, turning to her father for support.

"I know that. I told him to listen to his mother," Roger told her, beginning to raise his voice.

"But now she's agreeing with him!"

"I can order in something special, it will be fine. Stop pushing it, Claire." Catherine said, the sharp edge making Jones jump.

He looked down at his lap and tried to focus on the cream threads of the table cloth but he couldn't block out the way each word was like droplets of blood hitting concrete and felt like rough fingers squeezing his wrists until the bones began to grind. Why did his brain have to magnify everything, whether it was good or bad or scary or ugly? Why couldn't he just be normal?

"It's not a big deal," Dan said through gritted teeth, and Jones could hear how hard he was trying to stay calm. "My birthday was last week, anyway. It's been and gone and I've changed my mind about the dinner."

"But why? We just want to do something nice for you. Why do you have to be difficult?" Claire demanded, and Jones jumped again, wincing as the shock pulsed up his spine to his shoulder.

"Because," Dan snapped. "I have a broken, fucking, leg. Jones has a broken, fucking, leg. It hurts. Now shut up."

"Language," their father hissed. "And I think it's decided. We'll eat in. I'm going to my study. I want to show Harry my old Sinclair ZX80. I know it's in there somewhere. I assembled it myself you know. Claire, you can clear the table."

Jones heard chairs scrape as Roger and Pingu stood and left and wished he could go with them. Claire got up with a huff as well, stacking dishes noisily before she too left the room. And suddenly it was quiet, just the cream of the table cloth and the rustle of clothing.

"I'm going to talk to Claire," Catherine said slowly. "I'll try to explain. You two should probably head off to bed."

Jones kept his head down until he knew she was gone, until it was only him and Dan left in the room. He looked up carefully because a large part of him worried that Dan would be cross at him but Dan just looked sad and tired.

"I'm sorry, Jones," he croaked, grabbing his cane but not attempting to stand. "I'm not... great at being a brother, am I?"

"Dunno," Jones replied, shaking his head and giving Dan a weak smile. "Never really thought of you as my brother."

Dan's shoulders began to shake and for a second Jones worried that he was crying but then he heard the puffs of laughter and Dan grinned at him and he felt his chest finally begin to loosen.

"That's probably for the best," Dan rumbled and Jones felt his grin widen as Dan wiggled his eye brows in what he termed a 'saucy' manner.

He stood up with a groan and helped Jones carefully to his feet then sighed and pressed a gentle, if prickly, kiss to Jones' forehead. Jones wrapped his free arm around Dan's side, not far because it pulled at his shoulder, but enough, and Dan rested his chin carefully on Jones' head in return.

Hugging was awkward but it had been so long since they'd been able to that they did it anyway.

Four weeks. Four weeks since Dan had arrived home to an ambulance and a police wagon parked in front of his house and Jones on the ground, struggling to breathe. Dan's blurry face had been the last thing he'd seen before he'd passed out and Dan's voice, shocked and scared and desperate, had been the only sound his ears had been able to pick up, like an echo in an empty theatre.

He desperately wanted to be able to touch Dan and hold him tight and just feel his lover's skin against his own, and tonight was their first night sharing a bed after so long, but he didn't know if they'd be able to. On the train it had been easy to flirt and joke and play their usual game of 'winner gets a blowie' but the reality of it all was a bit frightening. Like being a complete virgin all over again. And Dan had barely touched him all day and Jones wasn't sure if it was because he was nervous or because they were at his parents' house, or if Jones had done something wrong.

He decided not to push it, Dan would start sending him the appropriate signals when he was good and ready, and Jones was so tired he'd be pretty useless anyway. So he pulled out of the hug and gave Dan a reassuring smile.

"I'm absolutely shattered," he said with a yawn, feeling the tender muscles in his neck spasm. "I reckon sleep's addictive. People keep telling you to rest, that it's good for you, but then you're hooked on it. Suddenly you need sleep, like, every night. It's mental."

Dan let out another quiet chuckle that morphed into a yawn as they hobbled down the hallway to the stairs. Maybe sex could wait until tomorrow. Or next week. Or, like, a year from now. Jones wasn't sure, but right now he just wanted to sleep.