"Ya all right?" Esposito asked as he took one more lap around the block. Finding a parking spot near Ryan's place was always a challenge; they usually tried to leave work no later than five, when it was rarely possible, despite often getting to a crime scene before five in the morning, knowing that before the end of the family dinnertime timeframe was usually gold, even if it meant walking a block or two. They'd missed their window this night. . .a mere fifteen minutes had done them in and forced them into their fourth time along the four block by four block game of tic-tac-toe they were playing to find a legal spot; Detective Javier Esposito was damned if he'd be ticketed again, even if the parking police were now just doing it to him for kicks.

"Uhng," Ryan replied.

Speaking of done in.

Ryan's head rested in his hand, which was propped up by his elbow as it rested on the passenger-side arm rest. He was sunk low in his seat in an attempt to keep the flashing nighttime lights from blinking a disco ball whirlpool into his concussion-fueled hyper sensitized eyes. He knew his partner was worried about him. The injured detective hadn't said a word the entire ride home, but he was pretty sure he let a moan or two out. He hadn't intended to do that, but driving around and around in his home borough was doing nothing for his killer headache. Or other things.

"That's really not helping me, bro," Javier said as he continued sending surreptitious glances his partner's way while trying not to sideswipe any of the cars parked in the street. When Esposito was a kid, some of those cars would have been worth points, big points if the vehicle belonged to someone who'd messed with him or his family or his troops. God, he'd been such a punk in his youth. He felt damned lucky to have come out of that time unscathed, the military – and maturity – melding at just the right time. He glanced at his partner again. . .more good luck there, though not right at this second, especially if one were to interrogate one Kevin Ryan. Esposito figured getting out of this drive without a mess to clean up would fit right in with his best friend's crap luck of a day.

But it really hadn't been a bad luck day after all, had it? The telltale decider on that matter was that Kevin Ryan was still alive.

"You feelin' sick yet?" Javier asked.

Kevin hadn't been when his partner had asked him that question the first time; it seemed the third time was the charm. Though he had considerable self-control where upchucking was concerned, the merry-go-round they'd been stuck on here in his neighborhood was what truly done him in. He could actually feel the cold sweat develop on his skin, starting from his forehead. It spread across and down his face and then enveloped his neck as he tried valiantly to stave off the nausea.

"Pull over," Kevin said, sounding urgent, and defeated. A small alley a few cars ahead was the best bet his best friend could do, though Javier had clearly floored it in an effort to get to the destination as fast as possible. Ryan opened the door before the car had stopped, using it as a crutch to keep himself from falling to the pavement. He took a few wobbly paces into the alley and headed for the nearest erect structure: a brick wall. Esposito jumped from the driver's seat and joined his partner under the spotlight of the flickering streetlamp.

Kevin held onto the wall with one hand as he rubbed his forehead with the other. He hated this. He knew he had to throw up, but now his body seemed to be playing tricks with him. He moaned, leaned his forehead on the rough terracotta-colored brick, and panted.

"Hey," Javier said. He put his hand on Kevin's back.

"Shit," Ryan said through the puffs of air as he breathed through the nausea. Kevin started to sway forward and backward, his head grinding into the rough stone surface.

"Come on. Stop that. You're gonna hurt yourself," Javier continued. Kevin's panting took on the same beat as the movement of the concussed man's body. Esposito brought his hand up to Ryan's neck; he could feel the dampness of sweat on the soaked collar as he rubbed, trying to provide a modicum of comfort to his friend.

"Back," Kevin warned. Javier took a half a step back just before his partner vomited. The initial contractions forced the exhausted man downward, though his hand remained clutching at the wall. Esposito knew that Ryan's hand would come away bloody if he didn't grab it fast; the man's wrists were already sore, abraded from the unnecessary tight fit of the handcuffs. He took Kevin's left hand in his own and then grasped the ill man around the waist to ease him to his knees. It wasn't a pretty effort, and they both hit the crumbled old tar-bound macadam hard, in the end. Ryan struggled to head to the right, away from the sizable puddle he'd already created. . .away from possibly soiling his partner. That was all he needed to pile onto the indignities that he'd already suffered on this god-awful day.

Just how god-awful the day was, Javier Esposito would counter, was all a matter of perspective.

"I've got ya," Javier said.

"Don't. . ." Kevin started, but some of the residual bile caught in his throat and he coughed. The cough, and another spasm of vomiting, all at once, tore the breath from him. Kevin's right hand landed on the ground as he heaved. He finally caught a decent breath, but also found that his hand had landed in his own mess.

"Uh, g. . .gross," Ryan eked out.

"'s no worse than where your head was layin' on that motel room floor, bro," Esposito noted, trying to lighten the moment.

"Thanks," Kevin wheezed out, his throat burning. He scratched out more: "Like I could'na gone my whole life not knowin' th't." Ryan was fading, faster now that he'd expended so much energy in the alley. He finished wiping his hand with the handkerchief his partner had given him.

"Ready to get up?" Esposito asked.

Ryan nodded, speech no longer appealing, what with the wheezing and the abused throat. They made their way to the car. By the time Esposito pulled away from the alley, Ryan had started to doze. Javier decided to concede him the rest; he was bound to find a place to park before he had to do his first neuro check on his concussed partner.

Another couple of trips around the carousel of Ryan's neighborhood resulted in a spot opening up. Spaces always opened up after seven-thirty, eight o'clock, when people started heading out for a night on the town, a late dinner. It was a major reason why Ryan never seemed to mind working a little later than his partner did.

That rarely meant that one could find Detective Ryan working alone.

Esposito parked and called to his friend, "Come on, Ryan. Gotta get up."

"'s time for work?" Kevin asked, his eyelids slits as he began to grind the bleariness from his eyes with his fists. He stopped that action quickly as it caused increasing pain to his already aching head. He looked at his wrists, red and sore, his fingers seemed similarly abused. He sniffed and smelled a hint of vomit. Ryan frowned and looked damned disoriented to his partner.

"No, time for bed," Javier corrected. Kevin's forehead wrinkled more as the realization dawned of why he was waking up in the car, why his wrists ached, why he smelled so bad, and why his head pounded with a heavy-metal beat.

"Jerry," he said.

"Yeah," Esposito nodded. He watched as Ryan accepted the reality of the day's events, possibly for the first time since he'd woken up on the floor in Jerry Tyson's motel room.

"He got away."

"Yeah."

"Damn it," Kevin said, rubbing his forehead. "I can't believe I. . ."

"Don't. Do. Not. Say It. Not your fault, bro," Javier said

Kevin shook his head. "I was the only cop on the scene, Javi," he said as he looked into his best friend's eyes. "I was the cop that let him go."

"Tell ya what," Javier said, not willing to allow his partner to dwell on this. Ryan would need a clearer head than his concussion was allowing just this moment before he would be willing to accept less than full culpability in letting Tyson get away. "Let's get inside, get ya a little cleaned up and then get ya to bed. I think you'll see things more clearly once you've slept.

"Doubt it," Kevin mumbled as he made his second attempt to grab the door handle.

"You okay?" Javier asked, worried about his partner's inefficient motor skills. Just another check in the yes column on the form he was given by the EMT.

"Handle's movin'," the injured man slurred.

Check on slurred speech. Check vertigo.

"Stay there. I'll catch it," Esposito said with a sad smile.

"Thanks." Javier put his hand on his friend's thigh and patted it affectionately. He exited the car and jogged to the sidewalk. . .and the passenger side of the car. He opened the door and reached across his listless partner to undo the seatbelt.

"Let's go," he said, practically manhandling Ryan up. Kevin, for his part, didn't complain about the rough treatment, and even started out managing to maintain a straight line to the stoop, up the steps and through the door. That's when things got a little dicey. About halfway up the first flight of stairs to Ryan's third floor apartment, Kevin started to fade. He leaned into his partner, who took up the slack, but not without comment.

"You had to have a walk-up," Javier grouched.

"Charm," Kevin puffed out.

"Yeah, there's loads of charm luggin' your sorry butt up these stairs."

"Sorry." Esposito sighed. That wasn't his intent, to make his partner feel worse than he already did. Ryan was in pain, feeling sick, feeling guilty. Good job, Esposito. Just pile on the poor guy. He'd made him apologize, for nothing.

And did Ryan have to be so polite about apologizing?

Of course he did.

Whereas Javier Esposito was an admitted punk in his youth, he was sure Kevin Ryan had been a certified Boy Scout. Actually, he knew that Kevin had been, albeit for the short period of time that he'd been in the youth organization. One night, over a few too many beers and a forgotten game of Madden – and after just wrapping a case on a hate crime murder – Kevin had told the story of how he'd left the troop, of how the sensibilities of a young kid couldn't jive with prejudice of the troop's leaders. No kids of color. . .other than white. . .allowed, and the unpleasant shunning of a child who had been assumed to be gay, had conspired to make Ryan's scouting adventure one of the shortest on record. The troop leaders never kicked the kid out; he'd ended up quitting on his own, not able to stand being ostracized in that way. Kevin still carried his own guilt about that incident, about how he'd stopped advancing their friendship, worried for. . .well, Javier knew Kevin wouldn't be like that now, but he'd only been a kid then. He knew what he'd done, or rather, not done, was wrong, even back then. It was why he quit the Boys Scouts right after those miserable events.

"Don't worry," Esposito said as he kept Ryan on his feet. The slow ascent gave Javier a chance to check out the stairwell with the nice deep moldings, the intricate ironwork on the banister, the marble steps with the mosaic border, the spectacular chandelier. Kevin really had found a gem of a place with this brownstone mansion-turned-condominiums.

"I w's. . ." Kevin stopped to clear his throat, "right, huh?" Ryan asked as he looked up woozily at his partner. Despite being mostly out of it, Kevin Ryan had still caught Javier Esposito checking out the great architectural "charm" of his building. Esposito winced at the scratchy, rough sound of Ryan's voice.

"Yeah, yeah. Big whoop," Esposito huffed in jest as they made it to the third floor. "And last apartment down the hall? What the hell, bro?" he asked mockingly.

Ryan snorted a laugh. "You jus' like t' c'mplain," Kevin noted lazily. "'Sides, back o' the building's quieter 'n' closer to the stairs t' the deck."

"That is a nice deck," Javier said, a hint of jealousy evident. They continued down the hall, Kevin occasionally veering toward a wall, Esposito always right there to right him.

"Got 'r own lil' community garden up there," Ryan rambled, in his current state not even remotely able to hide the pride in that comment. His voice, though, was showing the wear and tear of throwing up earlier, in addition to the general exhaustion that seemed to have consumed the detective.

Esposito knew all about the garden. Ryan mentioning it as though Esposito hadn't ever seen it just proved how tired the injured officer was.

"Yeah, I know. Remember, we picked some herbs, tomatoes and peppers that one time?" Javier asked.

"Oh yeah. I made you th't frittata, with the fresh salsa."

"That was really good. We'll need to do that again," Esposito said as he reached Ryan's door. He positioned Kevin up against the wall, grinning as Ryan held a dopey smile at the culinary memory, and held his friend in place with a hand on the unsteady man's chest while he unlocked the door with his other hand. Javier guided Kevin into the apartment, shut and locked the door, and then turned to get a good look at his partner.

Ryan was standing up, but he looked like he could readily fall asleep on his feet. Fact was, Esposito would be willing to wager that his best friend was already asleep, it's just that the rest of his body hadn't quite caught up with his mind, which clearly had other ideas. He grabbed Ryan's arm, shook it lightly, and then called his name.

"Kevin?"

Ryan's eyes popped open. He immediately swayed forward but was caught swiftly by his partner. Esposito hugged him affectionately, and laughed, a nervous laugh. . .and a desperately grateful one.

"Come on, time for nice Irish constables to head to bed. Do you need to use the head?"

Ryan snorted again. "Constable," he said with a happy grin. "D'you know th't you used head twice in one sent'nce?" His eyes were mere slits and he tried valiantly to stay awake.

Esposito shook his head and smiled. "That was two sentences, bro." He watched as Ryan went through the conversation in his head. Kevin nodded silently in acceptance of his error and then turned down the hallway.

"Gotta pee," he said finally, in reply to Javier's earlier query.

"Okay." He let Ryan walk the rest of the way on his own. "Wash your hands first," he called.

"Huh?" Kevin asked as he stopped and turned around gingerly, taking a steadying grab for the wall.

"Your hand?" Esposito reminded, raising his own right hand as a visual aid to his concussed partner.

Again, Kevin acknowledged the meaning of the conversation, silently agreeing that the advice from his partner was sound. He sniffed his hand and wearily uttered, "Oh, yuck."

Less than five minutes later Kevin Ryan was asleep in his bed. Esposito had been happy to notice that there seemed to be no signs of nausea as his friend came out of the bathroom. And he'd brushed his teeth, which meant a lot in relation to his condition, neurologically-speaking. Of course, the symptoms of concussion never came in a nice, tidy, chronologically-ordered package, so Javier knew that the nausea might only be at bay for now. And he would still have to wake Ryan every couple of hours. He made himself comfortable on Kevin's comfortable red road kill couch, the one he himself had paid to have professionally cleaned. He liked that couch, but could never understand how his smarter-than your-average-bear best friend could put something like that into his place – straight from the street. Javier shivered just thinking about it. Well, actually, the shiver was more likely brought on by the day's events, and pondering how differently the day might have turned out. Esposito pulled the throw from the back of the couch, hunkered down into the couch's comfort, set his alarm on his cell phone. . .and found sleep elusive. As different as today's ending could have been, there remained the fact that Jerry Tyson knew where Kevin Ryan lived. Javier Esposito checked his gun and then laid his head on his pillow that he'd grabbed from Ryan's closet earlier.

And sleep did not come.