Author's notes: Huge thanks to my beta, scully1138. Believe me when I say my stories would be a mess without her 'beta-power'.

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"I need those filled out and filed by five."

Fusco watched from a safe distance across the room by the coffee pot as their new Captain unceremoniously dropped another pile of files - the third of the day - on the already high and very slowly shrinking stack of folders on his "new" partner's desk. John stopped filling out the report he had been working on for the last 30 minutes, took in the new height of his paper workload and grimaced. Propping his forehead on his right hand, he continued writing with even less enthusiasm than before.

At first Lionel had been amused that Riley got put on desk duty. Hell, with the way John kept insisting on waltzing around New York and shooting people left and right Fusco would say the man deserved it. He was a cop now, which meant he had to follow the rules at least to some extent - whether he liked it or not.

But over the days of John's forced benching - from both his new cop duties and his past time activities - Lionel's amusement had made room for sympathy and ... worry. He would never say it to the man's face, but Reese ... well, saying that he looked exhausted would be a gross understatement.

Fusco didn't know what had caused Reese and his friends to disappear off the radar all those weeks ago, just to re-appear in new and "normal" incarnations of themselves - and he was pretty sure he would also never learn the answer to that mystery. But whatever had been going on, it was becoming clearer each day that it was taking a toll on the former secret vigilante. Not just by his violent behavior - that actually hadn't changed much from before. John looked pale, his eyes were red-rimmed and his normally impeccable suit was starting to look worn. He had never been too diligent about keeping up a clean-shaven face, and his stubble now only helped to exaggerate the burned-out look.

And Fusco wasn't completely sure, but to him it seemed that it all had worsened considerably after Reese had returned from his last mandatory shrink appointment. Before that John had looked tired and pissed off. When he'd returned to his desk he had looked ... different, and it had taken a while for Lionel to figure out the word he was looking for to best describe the change in the man.

Broken.

Tired and broken. Lionel knew from own experience that this was a hell of a combination. He had witnessed John Reese face danger without so much as batting an eyelid, but he had no idea how many demons from his past were haunting the ex-CIA agent. If he had to wager a guess he'd say quite a few. A quiet night with no distractions and just your thoughts to keep you company? Well, it had driven Lionel to the bottle after some of the things he'd done for HR, and he didn't even want to hazard a guess at what Wonderboy might do to keep the demons at bay.

Fusco stopped pretending to still be filling his cup, put sugar and cream in it and filled a second cup with the hot liquid. Armed with both steaming cups he walked across the room. "Here," he said as he placed the black coffee on his partner's desk. "Thought you could use some."

John lifted his head off his hand and regarded the hot beverage for a second before finally looking up at his fellow detective. "Thanks," he rasped. He tried to pull his lips into a grateful smile and only managed a grimace, but Lionel was willing to give him points for the effort. Taking the cup by its handle, John took a few sips and then grimaced for real. Yeah, no fancy and expensive coffee machines on the city's budget, buddy.

With a slight hint of disgust on his face, Reese returned the cup to the desktop and turned his focus back on the papers in front of him. He tried to ignore Fusco's continued hovering beside his desk - he was so not in the mood for another jibe at his current situation. Eventually he gave up and sighed. "Something on your mind, Lionel?"

"No. Well, yes."

John dropped the pen and swiveled his chair around to face his partner. "What?"

For a second Lionel faltered in his resolve. While not completely hostile, John's demeanor was definitely toeing at the line, and doubts that this was really a good idea crossed the detective's mind. But then again, Fusco had been on the receiving end of John Reese's intimidating stares many times and he was not going to let it affect him now. He cleared his throat. "Listen. A few of the guys are going to come over tonight to watch the football game. And I thought ... you know, maybe ... you should come over, too."

Neither man spoke for a few seconds - Fusco waited for a reaction while John just stared at him with an unreadable expression. Reese's eyes narrowed. "I usually have more important things to do than watching sports."

"Yeah, well," Lionel said and braced one arm on John's desk. "I figured with your IA friends following you around your schedule should be clear for the night." At the mention of his tail, Reese's expression darkened. Bending forward Fusco said in a conspiratorial tone, "Think about it. It wouldn't hurt for you to socialize a little with your new colleagues, and you'd be doing something 'normal' for a change." He waved his hand between Reese and the precinct. "And isn't that what this is all about?"

True to his reputation as Mr. Joyful, Reese scowled and Fusco sighed. "Just ... think about it. The game starts at eight. We'd be happy to have ya."

Lionel tapped the wood of the desk, took half the files off of the pile and returned to his own desk to work on the paperwork in silence. He'd extended a hand, it was now up to Reese whether he accepted it or not. Yeah, and pigs know how to fly ...

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- a couple of hours later -

John had forgotten how minutes could stretch into hours when there was nothing to do. He'd cleaned his service weapon three times already and channel-surfed the TV for a while but turned it off eventually since he wasn't watching anyway. In the end he established a rhythm of periodically checking his unofficial phone for new messages - which there never were - and spying through the blinds of his apartment's window to see if the unmarked car with the two cops was still sitting across the street - which it always was.

He knew that Harold was right - that his current situation with the increased scrutiny into his activities did not allow him to attract any more attention - but this inactivity was driving him mad. He'd rather swap places with the IA cops keeping watch on his apartment than spend another minute pacing between his phone and the window. At least they had something to focus on. All he had were his thoughts - and after his latest mandatory shrink session those were in turmoil. That woman had managed to dredge up memories he'd worked so hard to keep at bay.

He needed to get out of this apartment. He needed to do ... something.

John checked his phone for the hundredth time in 10 minutes. No messages. But this time the clock on the display caught his attention. It was 7:47 p.m. He stared at the device for almost a minute, trying to make up his mind. In the end he didn't think, he just moved. He pocketed both his phones and grabbed his jacket.

Outside he stood on the apartment building's front steps, breathing in the still warm autumn air. He crossed the street, knocked on the Crown Vic's window and patiently waited until it was lowered. Bending over to look inside, John flashed the two detectives a toothy smile. "Hi fellas. I was wondering if you could give me a ride. I mean, we are all going to the same place anyway, right?"

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Forty-five minutes and a quick stop at a corner store later, John stood in front of Lionel Fusco's apartment door with his fist raised and hovering in the air. The more he thought about it the less sure he was that coming here was such a good idea after all. He couldn't remember the last time he'd mingled within a group of people just for the enjoyment's sake, and he wasn't sure he even still knew how to relax. But then again the alternative seemed to be far less appealing.

There was a roar of voices on the other side of the door which eventually morphed into cheering. Score for the team ... whichever that was. John waited for the voices to die down, then knocked. He waited for ten seconds, then knocked again.

"I'm coming!" The voice was muffled through the door, but it clearly belonged to the owner of the apartment. "Hey! Settle down. The pizza is here."

The door was pulled open, and it was almost comical to watch as Lionel Fusco's face went from cheerful smiling to utter astonishment within a fraction of a second. He stared at Reese like he was some abnormal creature. John's smile froze on his lips and a few awkward seconds passed. Eventually Reese raised the sixpack he'd gotten on the way over. "Sorry that I'm late. I brought some root beer. Hope you like it."

Breaking into a huge grin, Lionel opened the door wider, inviting John inside. "Sure! Come on in, partner." He closed the door behind his latest guest and yelled over Reese's shoulder, "Guys! Look who made it after all!"

Reese stepped into the living room and found four sets of eyes staring in his direction. He immediately recognized Troy Martin and his partner Tom Hernandez sitting on Lionel's sofa. Neither one seemed too happy to see him, but John wasn't really surprised. Even though they hadn't exchanged more than three sentences with each other so far, they had seemed wary of him from the moment he'd shown up with his box at the bullpen of the 8th. And truth be told, the feeling had been mutual. John hadn't bothered to remember the names of the other two men on either side of the sofa, but he had seen them chatting with Fusco at the coffee pot a few times. The previously animated conversations had died down and if it weren't for the TV blaring at a more-than-room-level Reese was sure the ticking of his wrist watch would be heard.

"Here, let me take this. I'm gonna put them in the fridge," Fusco said, taking a hold of the sixpack and - either oblivious to the sudden stillness of his guests or simply ignoring it - disappearing into the kitchen.

The men were still staring at the newcomer and - before the level of awkwardness hit the ceiling - John raised a hand in greeting and hoped his facial muscles followed his brain's instructions for a friendly expression, "Hi."

The silence continued for another moment during which Reese seriously questioned his sanity and calculated the best options for a tactical retreat.

"Riiiiileeeey!" roared one of the men whose name John didn't remember, and with a raised beer bottle in one hand lurched towards him. He was a big man - about as tall as Reese, but easily 40 lbs heavier, and with a headstart of at least 4-5 beers. Before the faux-detective knew what was happening, a heavy arm fell around his shoulder and he was pulled into the man's side. "Look! Riley is here!"

Although John couldn't say he appreciated the technique he couldn't deny its effectiveness at breaking the ice. One by one the remaining three men raised their bottles in greeting as he was more or less dragged towards the sofa.

By the time Fusco returned from the kitchen, John found himself wedged in between the big guy to his left and detectives Martin and Hernandez to his right, clutching a beer bottle that had magically appeared in his hands. Lionel smirked at him, raised his bottle of root beer in a silent Cheers! and returned his focus back to the game - easily joining in with the others' cheering and sports talk.

It felt to Reese like a lifetime ago since he had watched a sports event with a group of peers. He had still been in the Army then - before he had entered the darkness. And now sitting here on Lionel Fusco's sofa, watching a football game - which ought to be the most normal thing in a guy's life - felt absolutely surreal. Yet he found himself sinking back into the soft cushion, slowly nursing his beer and just taking it all in.

He had forgotten what it felt like; he had to forget in order to survive on the path he had chosen. John knew that this was just going to be a small excursion out of the shadows - no matter how much he craved a normal life. He had come to accept this. Still, he felt grateful to Fusco - who knew who he truly was - for so readily sharing this snippet of normalcy with him.

"Hey, Riley," the big guy beside him said, thankfully snapping John out of his thoughts before they could get too dark. "I know Lionel has this rule of no shop-talk after hours, but I just have to ask. Did you really shoot a guy from the top of one of those double-decker tourist busses because you got tired of running after him?"

This time John felt five pairs of eyes on him. The big guy's expression was filled with curiosity and a touch of admiration, which made Reese feel slightly more uncomfortable than the disapproving scowl he got from Martin's and Hernandez's direction. He looked at Fusco, but his face clearly said, You're on your own, buddy.

"Well," John said, clearing his throat. "It was hot out..." he trailed off, realizing that he couldn't really explain to a room full of cops that kneecapping-before-asking-questions was his preferred modus operandi. They were still staring at him - obviously trying to decide whether he was being serious or not.

Fusco was amazed. He knew Reese only as the intimidating, annoyingly bossy and headache-causing Bane of His Existence. Watching him now - clearly at a loss for words and struggling to fit in - he realized, slightly amused, that the legendary 'Man in a Suit' was not at all a social butterfly. Who would have thought?

He snorted. "See what I have to live with on a daily basis?" he said in mock exasperation. "Paperwork has tripled since this guy's shown up!"

The big guy broke into laughter and clinked his beer bottle with Reese's. "You're awesome, man."

"Thanks," mumbled John and almost sighed in relief when a knock on the apartment door thankfully took the attention away from him.

"Finally! Food's here!" Fusco exclaimed and made to get up, but Reese beat him to it. "I'll get it," John quickly said. "Pizza's on me tonight."

Happy to have managed a smooth escape from the sofa sandwich, Reese left the living room with a roar of approval behind him, and noted with just a little relief that even Martin and Hernandez seemed to be warming up to him at the prospect of free food...

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When Fusco returned from the kitchen with paper plates and paper towels, the three boxes holding the party pizzas had been neatly lined up on his living room table. He got back just as the Jets were lining up for a risky fourth down on the nine yard line, which had four of his five guests intently staring at the TV screen and imploring every single deity that was willing to listen. In his absence Reese had claimed possession of his armchair, and was shooting him a look that clearly advised Fusco against trying to make him move.

The detective grimaced, but knew better than to say anything. The other four broke into exclamations of disappointment as the pass was intercepted in the end zone, and Lionel joined in. The other team's defense was apparently a force to be reckoned with.

John didn't care who was winning and who was losing. He just sat there, quietly enjoying a good beer and a slice of even better pizza. As he watched and listened to the carefree banter between the men inside Lionel Fusco's living room a small smile stole across his face. It seemed that at least for this evening thoughts of his past and the dangers of the present were far away. Irrelevant.

Sinking deeper into the cushion of the armchair John relaxed for the first time in what felt like months, which probably wasn't even that far from the truth. With his belly full and the tension fleeing from his muscles John's eyelids grew heavy. He fought against the sleep that had eluded him for so long. The last place he wanted to pass out from exhaustion was Lionel Fusco's living room. He was only going to close his burning eyes for a few seconds ...

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For Lionel Fusco the evening had been a complete success. The pizza was good, the game was great with his team winning in the final seconds, and John Reese hadn't shot anyone. There had been one tense moment, though - when he just barely managed to stop the guys from waking the sleeping ex-op. They didn't know it but he most likely had saved their lives. Or at least kept them from grievous bodily harm.

The guys were gone now, and Lionel crept around the living room, trying to clean up without waking Reese. The man could be a real pain in the ass ... all the time, but the last couple of days Fusco had really started to worry about him. He really needed the rest of a good night's sleep.

During the evening Lionel had stolen glances at Reese, watching with amusement as he fought and lost the battle against his fatigue. In some weird way John had reminded him of Lee when he was a little boy - stubbornly insisting that he wasn't tired when he was barely able to keep his eyes open. He really is a handful when he's awake, but when he sleeps he just looks oh so ... well, still oh so deadly.

Lionel silently chuckled and carefully placed a woolen blanket around John's shoulders. He tiptoed towards the hallway, and stopped at the light switch. Reese hadn't moved and Fusco shook his head. This scene just felt surreal, but in a way also really gratifying. They truly had come a long way since that day of the drive to Oyster Bay.

"Goodnight, partner."

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The next day Fusco sat at his desk in the bullpen of the 8th precinct, trying to stifle yet another yawn. The night had been short and when he had drowsily stumbled out of his bedroom this morning his living room had been empty, and the blanket neatly folded on the armchair.

He stared at the empty desk across from his. Reese still was a no-show, and in a couple of minutes he would be officially late. Probably working on something for the Professor, Fusco thought grumpily, annoyed that it seemed like he was always the last to know when things went down.

With a sigh and a total lack of enthusiasm, he propped his head on his left hand and started in on the next pile of paperwork that had magically appeared on their desks this morning. This day was going to be long. Very long.

The rich smell of fresh coffee - real coffee, not the brew that they tried to pass for coffee around this place - startled Lionel out of his paperwork-induced stupor. He stared dumbly at the paper cup on his desk for a few seconds before looking up. Reese was almost unrecognizable compared to the haggard appearance of just the day before. His eyes had lost their glassy quality and were back to being sharp and observing. There was also some color back in his face, and had he actually shaved? The sleep had certainly done him good.

Fusco's eyes were alternating between Reese and the cup of coffee. For all the time he'd known Wonderboy, Lionel could count with the fingers on one hand the times he'd gotten a surly 'Thank you' at best for his efforts from Mr. Grateful. And if Reese hadn't been holding an identical cup with steaming coffee in his hand, Fusco's mind might never have made the connection that John was the one offering. Also, he recognized the logo of the coffee-shop on the cup. This was high-grade stuff. His eyes went back and forth a few more times before he eventually asked, "For me?"

John shrugged. "I thought I would return the favor."

"Thanks!" A huge smile spilt the detective's face as he pulled the cup closer, inhaling the delicious aroma. Reese turned to walk over to his own desk, but hesitated. "About last night," he said, and turned back to a blissful Fusco, who looked at him with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

"What about last night?" Lionel asked innocently.

John's eyes roamed over the bull-pen and eventually settled on his day-job partner. He exhaled, saying softly and with the hard edge he usually used when talking to the detective absent from his voice, "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Fusco replied, the bad mood from earlier that morning long forgotten. Reese nodded and started to walk over to his desk. "Hey, Riley?" John once more turned around to face Fusco.

"Anytime, partner."

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The End