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This really wasn't his finest moment.

Observing his new grandson, shoulders trembling and palms freshly scraped, trying to fix what was broken between them, while he stood there with his own hands jammed deep in his pockets.

He should have reached out. Touched the kid. Hugged him tight against the blue wool coat. Let the tears he was trying so valiantly to restrain, fall, and disappear into his boy's wild curls. He SHOULD have. Would have, had it been Sean, or Jack, or Nicky.

Frank sighed. Joe was gone, already walking away, angry fingers swiping roughly at his cheek and back stiff with hurt. Another moment lost to regret.

He would ride back to his office, get a team on this. He would walk forward, to a place where the world wasn't cracking under the weight of his pain. He would make things right. He would get on with life. There was nothing more he could do.

This was bad. Absolutely horrid.

He is throwing up all over Grandpa's pristine front lawn. Again. And even WORSE, it's his dad's favorite dessert and of course he didn't have the guts for it.

He scrabbles, seeking both air and balance, takes a few shaky steps across the grassy waves, and knows despair. The vanilla protein smoothie he'd managed to choke down that morning after his workout makes an unwelcome reappearance, along with a familiar hand. The second touches his shoulder with such softness, and Joe has never felt more ashamed.

"Joe?"

He really should make an attempt at regaining some dignity, whatever shreds of it remain.
"M'okay."

The tall man currently playing the role of supporting pillar simply frowned. Patted his back gently.
"Hmm."

Joe sighs. Apparently high school theater class continues to fail him.

"Can I get your grandpa…"

"NO!"

He flinched. He knows he did.

The man doesn't, only narrows his eyes and looks at him as if deciding what to do with crazy, illegitimate grandsons who take the liberty of disgracing their grandfather's doorstep.

"You are not driving home."

Oh? He isn't?

"No. You're not. I'm sending you home with an officer from the detail."

There's an arm slipped under his shoulder, and another spanning his back. A tug upward, and he is again standing on solid, if somewhat blurred, ground. It occurs to him that his hands are fluttering, so he tucks them against his ribs, prays to St. Jude that the man radioing an unmarked car is too occupied with his task to notice the weakness.

He climbs into the shiny black SUV. Straps his seat belt on because he's a cop who sometimes follows regulations, presses damp red curls against the cold glass, and closes his eyes against the world.

"Joe?"

Oh, no. Not Jamie. Please not him, not now.

"Nephew?"

His heart twists. He sniffles, blows his nose, then rearranges his face into something resembling neutrality, and opens his apartment door.

"Joe, we brought…"

Uh-oh. Danny Reagan is staring at him, aghast.

He swallows. Shifts his gaze to his other uncle.

"What do you want?"

The concern is there, he can read that, but not quite so raw, and Joe squares his shoulders, feeling suddenly stabilized.

"We brought your truck back." Jamie answers, voice soft and matter-of-fact like always. He holds out a coat and keys. Joe takes them.

"Thanks."

Jamie nods, and steps back.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble."

He opens his gaze, then wholeheartedly wants to divest himself of breakfast again, because the water building in Danny's hazel eyes sparkles precariously.

"You stupid kid. It wasn't any trouble." He proceeds to reach out and squeeze Joe's neck. "You ever need anything, you call me. Right away, you KNOW that!"

Jamie looks slightly affronted.

Joe would feel comforted, even loved, except for the fact that it's making a scene.

He bobs his head earnestly.

"Ok, Uncle Danny." Okay.

Then they leave, and Joe scrubs his kitchen floor with bleach and vengeance.

The next day after work, he finds a different basketball court.

He shouldn't be here. Not anymore. Not like this. He buttons the coat with cold fingers, and trudges up the slight hill.

"Beloved Son, Brother, AND Father."

They're here, breathing the same blue air, together. The etched granite memorial stands repaired, strong into the wind and gleaming in the sun.

"It's perfect."

It's whispered, and it's there.

I love you, Grandpa.

Frank smiles through falling tears, extends a tentative arm across his Joe's shoulders. He presses the wild red curls against his chest, and treasures the moment when his beloved grandson's heart beats steady and safe against his own.