"So you're his grandsons?" says the receptionist at Hartley Care Home, peering at Arthur, Eames and Dom over her glasses like a sterner and less attractive version of the Tenth Doctor.

They're all standing in the (rather grim) reception – well, Dom and Arthur are, Eames is in a wheelchair. He spotted a few of them at the front and looked at them hopefully until Arthur relented and let him use one. His feet really are in a sorry state, and Arthur did come in his pants earlier by humping Eames' leg. He kind of owed it to him.

"Er, yes?" says Dom vaguely, "I did just say that, didn't I. Well, it's too late to change that now. So, yes, yeah, we are."

"You don't look very alike," says the receptionist, looking between the three boys.

She frowns, pointing at Arthur.

"Well, you look a little bit like him, with the dark eyes. But you two don't at all."

"I take after our mother," says Eames.

"And him?" says the receptionist, pointing at Dom.

"Adopted," says Arthur.

The receptionist nods, though she doesn't look entirely convinced. (You can't really blame her.)

"To be honest, I'm just surprised that Mr Fischer has any relatives at all. He mentioned a son, but nothing more. No-one's come to visit him, and he's been here six months."

"We've only just moved into the area," says Dom.

"Oh really? Where are you from?"

"Y – er – Yorkshire?"

Arthur and Eames both give Dom a Dominick-Cobb-what-the-bloody-hell-are-you-doing look. He gives them a I-have-no-fucking-idea look. They give him back a you-fucking-numpty look. Basically, there's a lot of looks going on.

"You don't seem to have a Yorkshire accent?" says the receptionist.

"Ooh, aye," says Dom, in a rather confused Northern accent, "I think yoo'll find I doo."

Eames facepalms. Arthur decides that this situation has gone far enough, leans forward and whispers, "He has problems," pointing to his head, "You know, up there."

"I see," says the receptionist, "That does make sense. He does look like a simpleton."

Dom's mouth falls open, but Eames pinches the back of his knee before he can say anything.

"Ah, fuck!" he cries, "I mean, ooh, fook."

"Where did you say Mr Fischer's room is?" says Arthur, before this situation can get much more out of hand.

"Room two. On the second floor."

"Thanks," says Arthur, dragging Dom along by the arm.

"Oh, Dom," says Eames, wheeling himself along, "You are so good at working under pressure. What are you, a spy?"

"There was no need for you to maim me!"

"You think you're maimed? Which one of us is in a wheelchair?"

Arthur's phone starts ringing, and he pulls it out of his pocket.

"Hello?" he says, fumbling as he holds it to his ear.

"And just what do you think you're doing, young man?"

Arthur scrunches his eyes shut.

"Hi, mum."

"Where are you?" Mrs Marlowe-Farrell screeches down the phone, "Are you with Eames?"

"Hi!" says Eames.

Arthur hits him.

"I specifically told you I wanted to have a talk with you before anything else happens with that boy," Arthur's mum says darkly.

"Yeah, well, we can talk this afternoon, mum."

"And why can't you come home now?"

"I'm kind of busy at the moment."

"Doing what exactly?"

The lift doors open, and Eames wheels himself in, accidentally running over Arthur's foot.

"Ah, fuck, Eames!" Arthur cries.

"What are you doing?!"

"I'm in a lift?" Arthur offers by means of explanation.

"Sorry," says Eames, as Arthur steps into the lift with Dom and hits the button marked 2.

"Beverley Arthur Marlowe-Farrell, get home this instant!" Arthur's mum cries.

"Er, sorry mum, I've got to go," Arthur says hurriedly into his phone.

"No you don't –" she begins, but Arthur ends the call.

"So," says Arthur, hastily switching his phone off, "My mum thinks we're having sex in a lift right now. I don't know if that's weirder than the truth."

"It's hotter than the truth," says Eames, grinning.

"Eames, you can't flirt with me, we're brothers."

"Didn't stop Dean and Sam Winchester," says Dom.

"Dean belongs with Cas!" Arthur cries.

(The Wincest vs. Destiel debate has been a long-running one between Arthur and Dom.) Mercifully, that's when the lift doors open.

"Okay," says Arthur, leading the others along the corridor until they reach room two, "Dom, don't be weird. Eames, stay within the realms of brotherly love. We're just three regular guys trying to get our urn back off an old guy in a retirement home."

"Dom," Eames says, from behind Arthur, "Put the plunger away."

"Right," says Arthur, and knocks on the door.

The man who answers the door is old and balding, with a big nose and grey hair. He looks frail and weak, leaning heavily on a walking stick, his breathing slow, but not Darth Vaderish – more like Yoda.

"If you're Jehovah's Witnesses, I'm going to hell anyway," he says shortly.

"That's alright," says Eames, "I'm pretty sure we are too."

"Actually, there's no Jewish hell, so it looks like I'm not," says Arthur, shrugging.

Eames blinks.

"How are you Jewish? You invited me to your house for Christmas."

"Althoo tha's not soomthin' strainge, as we are broothurs an' thurfore doo live t'gethur," Dom interposes.

Arthur and Eames, very slowly, turn their heads to look at him. Then turn back to Mr Fischer.

"Please ignore him," says Eames, "He's mentally deformed."

"Oh, I see that," says the old man, nodding, "He does look like a simpleton."

If Eames' wheelchair happens to roll back over Dom's foot, it is entirely a coincidence.

"We just want to talk," says Arthur, as Dom screams northernly in pain like an injured and less attractive version of the ninth Doctor, "Can we come in?"

Mr Fischer thinks about it, then lets them in, muttering, "At least you're better than the cat lady down the hall."

"Thank you," says Arthur, stepping in.

Mr Fischer's room is fairly bare. There's a bed, a few chairs, and a dresser. And there, on the table, is the ugly black urn, filled with flowers. But that's not what catches Arthur's eye. What does catch his eye is the few photos on the dresser – one of Mr Fischer when he was younger, with a young boy holding a paper windmill, and another of a striking young man with high cheekbones and startlingly blue eyes.

"That's my son," says Mr Fischer, when he sees Arthur staring, "You remind me a little of him, when he was younger."

"He's much more handsome than me," says Arthur politely.

"I wouldn't say that," says Eames, giving Arthur an appraising up-and-down look.

Arthur clears his throat, and mouths 'brotherly love' at Eames.

"What does your son do?" he asks Mr Fischer politely.

Mr Fischer smiles grimly.

"I… I really don't know. I haven't spoken to Robert in a while."

A silence falls, and the three boys look awkwardly down at the floor.

"Why are you here?" says Mr Fischer.

"Well, it's about your vase," says Arthur.

"My vase?"

"Your vase."

"Well," says Eames, "It's actually an urn."

"What?"

"You see," says Arthur, "Eames had a garage sale yesterday. He sold you that vase, remember?"

Mr Fischer frowns at Eames.

"Oh yes. I remember you now. Scruffy lad who can't spell 'garage sale'. You weren't in a wheelchair then."

"Yeah," says Eames, wincing, "A few things have happened since then. Involving cupboards."

Arthur nods, patting Eames' knee reassuringly.

"Don't tell me more," says Mr Fischer, grimacing slightly.

"Anyway," says Arthur, "It turns out this vase is an urn. There's someone's remains in there. So, Eames kind of needs it back."

"Oh," says Mr Fischer, "Right. Well, I suppose you boys should take this urn and run off home before teatime."

"Thank you," says Arthur, taking the urn, "Sorry about the mix-up."

"Thanks. We'll be off now," says Eames, as he and Arthur move towards the door.

"No," Dom says suddenly.

Everyone turns to look at him.

"What?" says Eames.

"He's coming with us."

"Why?"

Dom looks at them, eyes wide, and points at the picture of Fischer's son.

"Don't you see? Look at the photo."

Arthur looks back to the photo. And then he sees it.

"Oh God," he breathes, "Jesus bollocking shit."

"Language, young man," scolds Mr Fischer.

"What?" cries Eames, "Guys! What the fuck's going on?"

"Language," Mr Fischer repeats.

"Guys!" Eames repeats.

"Can you see it?" asks Arthur.

"See what?"

Arthur tears his eyes away from the photo, looks at Eames.

"It looks like we've found your ghost."

Eames looks back at the photo. His jaw drops.

"Oh – oh God. Is that – oh fuck, it is."

Arthur turns back to Mr Fischer.

"Mr Fischer," he says quietly, "When did you last see Robert?"

The old man shakes his head.

"Not for a long time. We – well, we had a falling-out some years back."

"And you've been trying to find him?"

"Yes. That's really the reason I came here. I heard he was living in the area. I thought I might find him. But I haven't. I suppose he doesn't want to be found. But – well, let's just say I don't have much time left to find him now. He's probably still angry at me. He thought I was disappointed in him. I'm not, not at all. But I never told him that. If only I could, maybe he'd forgive me."

Arthur nods.

"Mr Fischer," he says, "You have to come with us."

"This," says Eames, leaning heavily on Arthur as he kicks open the door to his flat, "Has got to be the weirdest Christmas holiday I've ever had."

"It's not been too bad, though, has it?" says Arthur.

Eames looks at him, smiles.

"No. Not too bad at all," he says, giving him a quick kiss.

"Jeez, tone down the PDA, guys," Dom moans, "There is an old dude here. Plus it's just really gross."

Eames shrugs and gives Arthur a particularly sloppy kiss, full of tongue. Arthur blushes profusely, but doesn't pull away.

"What are we doing?" says Mr Fischer, struggling up the stairs with the urn, "Why are we here?"

"Eames lives here," says Arthur.

"I thought you said you lived together?" says Mr Fischer, casting a quizzical look at Dom.

"Ooh, aye, well –"

"Robert used to live here," Arthur interrupts.

Mr Fischer's eyes light up with hope.

"He did? When?"

"Until about six months ago."

"Where did he go? What happened?"

"I think," says Eames, holding the door open for the others, "Perhaps you should all sit down on the sofa."

They do as Eames says, squishing up on the small, lumpy sofa. Eames flops down on it next to Arthur before Dom can sit down.

"Make us a cuppa, mate?" he says.

Dom gives him the finger.

"I have to operate the camera," he says, pulling the video camera on its tripod next to the sofa.

"I'll operate your camera if you don't shut up," Eames murmurs under his breath.

Arthur laughs and hits him. Mr Fischer leans in towards Arthur.

"Why is he not Northern anymore?" he asks, nodding towards Dom.

"It comes and goes," says Eames, "Unlike his ability to be a twat. That's pretty constant."

"At least I have GCSEs," Dom mutters, fiddling with the camera, "Unlike some people."

"At least I have a dick, unlike some people," Eames retorts.

"Your mum has a dick."

"Don't you fucking –"

"Guys!" shouts Arthur, "Please. Let's just focus on the task at hand, shall we?"

"And what is that exactly?" asks Mr Fischer.

Arthur looks down, unsure of how to tell him.

"You know," he begins, "You know that urn?"

Mr Fischer looks down at the ugly black urn on his lap.

"Yes?"

"It's – well, it's Robert's."

The old man's face falls.

"What? How? What happened?"

Arthur shakes his head.

"I don't know. All I know is that Robert died, and he didn't leave, like most people do. He's still here. So there has to be something unresolved about his death. Something he couldn't get over."

The lights flicker.

"He's here?" says Mr Fischer, "Can he hear me?"

The lights die.

"Yes," says a voice, and it's cold and very near.

Dom nearly drops the camera. Arthur grips onto Eames' thigh tightly. Something – someone – very dark and wispy, the shape of a man, comes out from the kitchen, very, very slowly. It's hard to see – easier if Arthur doesn't look at it directly.

"Robert?" says Mr Fischer, his voice breaking with emotion.

"Father," comes the reply, cool and distant.

"Robert – what happened to you?"

"I died."

"Why? How?"

"Not important."

Mr Fischer takes a breath, staring at the thing that used to be his son.

"Robert – son, I've been looking for you. I've been looking for so long. I wanted to say – I'm sorry about what happened between us. I wanted to say I'm proud of you. And it took me some time to realise quite how much, but – I do love you, son."

The ghost says nothing. But it seems, for a moment, as if he's clearer, somehow. He takes a step forward, and they can see his face clearly. It's the same face as the one in the photographs – the one of Eames with the figure behind him, the one of Robert in Mr Fischer's room. But this time, the face is smiling. And then it's like he's turned to smoke, pouring into the urn in Mr Fischer's hands, and disappearing.

"Is he gone?" asks Mr Fischer, tears on his cheeks.

"I think so," Arthur says softly.

The lights flicker back on.

"I can't believe," says Dom, through a mouthful of crisps, "He was staying on just because he was pissed with his dad."

The three of them – Dom, Arthur and Eames – are sat on Eames' couch, cups of tea in hand, sharing a bag of crisps. Well, not exactly sharing. Dom's displaying textbook douchebaggery and is eating the whole thing himself. Arthur doesn't really mind, though – not when he's curled up next to Eames with an arm around him.

"Parents are important," says Arthur, "You need to know that they love you. Even if they're not there anymore."

Eames looks across at him and squeezes his hand.

"Do you think your dad's still here?" Dom asks.

"No. Robert was here because he had unfinished business. Dad had a lot of time to put his affairs in order, sort everything out. He was ready to go, in the end. No, he'd have moved on, to wherever Robert's off to now."

Eames sighs and lets his head rest on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur thinks about his mum, leaving him. About Eames saying he couldn't believe that she loved him now. Then his phone rings. Arthur groans.

"Speaking of death," he says, "My mum is going to murder me."

"Sorry," says Eames, "That is kind of my fault."

"What did happen to you two last night?" asks Dom, "Apart from Robert the friendly ghost scaring you?"

"Nothing," Arthur and Eames say in perfect unison.

Dom gives them an are-you-two-fucking-oh-my-good-lord-Jesus-you-actually-are-oh-God-mental-images-my-mind-my-poor-poor-mind squint.

"Did you do stuff on my bed?"

"Er… maybe?" says Eames.

Dom's face contorts into an expression of anger equal only to the blind rage of the Incredible Hulk.

"What base?!"

"Third," Eames grins.

Dom throws his tea over him.

"I am never sleeping in that bed again!"