Chapter Text
The city was dressed up like it was trying to convince itself everything was fine. Lights strung across avenues. Wreaths zip-tied to lamp posts. Salvation Army bells that sounded cheerful until you listened long enough to realize the rhythm never changed, never paused, never got tired—just kept going because it had to. Joe Hill stood half a block back from it all, hands shoved into the pockets of a jacket that wasn’t his, face set into an expression that also wasn’t his. Undercover meant living in borrowed skin. Different name. Different history. Different “family.” The problem was, he’d started wanting his real one like it was air.
His phone was dead on purpose. No accidental calls, no careless texts, no digital footprints leading anyone back to him. That was the job. The job was always right, until it wasn’t. He’d memorized his mother’s last words anyway, like you do with things you can’t fix.
If you choose them, you’re choosing to leave me behind.
It wasn’t even the sentence that hurt most—it was the fact she hadn’t checked in since. Not once. Like silence could be its own kind of punishment. And he couldn’t even run to the Reagans, because “running” wasn’t an option. Undercover meant distance. Undercover meant pretending you didn’t have a Commissioner for a Grandfather and a retired cop great grandfather who could smell a lie before it formed. And basically your whole paternal family was in law enforcement one way or another.
Undercover meant Christmas alone.
He drifted toward the river without deciding to. Wind slid under his collar and found every exposed inch of skin like it had a personal vendetta. He crossed the street on autopilot, boots hitting the pavement too hard, like he was trying to leave dents.
The bridge was up ahead. Joe slowed. From a distance, it looked almost peaceful—dark water, faint glow of the skyline, the occasional car rushing past like it had somewhere better to be. Joe’s hands tightened in his pockets. His breath came out in short, pale bursts.
He told himself he was just walking.
He told himself he was just tired.
He told himself a lot of things.
The railing came closer, and with it, a thought that didn’t sound dramatic so much as… quiet.
You could stop being tired.
Joe’s throat tightened. He blinked hard, like that would clear it. His chest felt like it had a fist around it.
He took one more step toward the railing.
Then his phone—his burner—buzzed once, sharp as a slap.
He froze. Looked down.
A single message from his handler: MOVE. TARGET MOBILE. CHANCE NOW.
The job didn’t care that it was Christmas. The job didn’t care that he felt like his bones were filled with wet cement. The job yanked him back from the edge without even knowing it. Joe swallowed, turned, and started running. It happened fast, the way the worst moments always did. Target spotted. Foot pursuit turned vehicle pursuit when the guy jumped into a car and tore off like he’d never heard of traffic laws. Joe’s cover had him on a bike—fast, nimble, able to cut through places a patrol car couldn’t.
He caught up. Stayed close enough to keep eyes on him, far enough not to get clipped. Sirens rose behind him like the city waking up angry.
The target swerved, trying to shake him. Joe leaned into the turn, tires biting— A patch of slick road. Black ice, thin as a lie. The bike skated. For half a heartbeat, Joe thought he could correct it. Then gravity remembered him.
The world slammed sideways. His shoulder hit first—white-hot pain, a snap that rang through his whole body. His helmet bounced, his face smacked the pavement anyway, and suddenly he was sliding, skin against asphalt, sparks and grit and the kind of sting that made you want to crawl out of your own body.
He stopped with a jolt, breath knocked out of him. Sound came back in pieces: shouting, footsteps, the distant squeal of brakes, radios crackling.
Joe tried to push up. His left wrist screamed; his right shoulder might as well have been on fire. He tasted blood and copper. He blinked and saw the street at a weird angle.
Somebody swore nearby.
“Don’t move,” a voice said, closer now. “Hey—hey, you with me?”
Joe tried to answer. His split lip made it come out wrong.
He stared up at the winter sky and thought, absurdly, I was just trying to get home
Chapter Text
The ER smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. Overhead lights turned everyone a little too pale. Joe sat on the edge of a bed with a sling that didn’t feel like it was doing enough, a brace on his left wrist, and road rash wrapped in layers that still burned like it remembered the pavement. His face felt swollen. One eye was already purpling. The cut on his lip throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
A nurse finished taping gauze in place with brisk competence. “This is going to hurt the next few days,” she warned, not unkindly. “Keep it clean. Follow-up ortho for the clavicle. Wrist is sprained badly—treat it like it’s broken for now. And no lifting.”
Joe gave a humorless huff. “Wasn’t planning to… lift anything.”
She glanced at him like she’d heard that tone before. “Do you have someone taking you home?”
Joe’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Because “someone” was complicated right now. Because his mother wasn’t speaking to him. Because his father’s family was a whole world he wasn’t allowed to touch while he was undercover. Because he’d been living like a ghost and ghosts didn’t get rides home. The curtain at the entry rustled.
A voice he knew, steady as a metronome: “He does.”
Joe’s head snapped up. Frank Reagan stood there in his coat like he’d walked in from a different universe. Behind him was Henry—hat in hand, eyes sharp and worried in the way Henry got when he was trying not to show it.
Joe’s throat closed. “What—”
Frank’s expression softened just a fraction. “We got a call.”
Henry stepped in, gaze sweeping Joe’s injuries with quiet, contained fury. “Kid, what the hell were you thinking?”
Joe tried for a shrug and immediately regretted it. Pain flashed bright enough to make him see spots. “I… wasn’t.”
Frank took a slow breath like he was choosing his words carefully. “We’re taking you home.”
Joe’s laugh came out cracked. “I can’t. I’m—”
“Undercover,” Frank finished, low enough that it didn’t carry. “Yeah. I know.”
Joe stared at him. “You know?”
Henry leaned in slightly, voice gentler. “You think your father’s family doesn’t have ways of hearing things? You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
Joe blinked hard, and it wasn’t the fluorescents that made his eyes sting.
“I don’t want to compromise anything,” Joe said, but it sounded like a weak protest even to him.
Frank’s gaze stayed steady. “You won’t. We’ll be careful. And you’re coming with us.”
It wasn’t a question. For some reason, that made Joe’s chest hurt worse than the broken bone.
⸻
The Reagan house felt the way it always did. Warm, lived-in, like the walls remembered laughter even when nobody was laughing in that moment. Joe stood in the hallway the next morning, suddenly unsure where to put himself. He felt huge and clumsy in his sling and brace, dressings bulky under his shirt. Every movement tugged at road rash or made his collarbone protest.
Henry hung Frank’s coat and turned toward Joe. “Upstairs. Bathroom. Sit down.”
Joe managed, “Sir—”
Henry’s eyebrow lifted. “Don’t ‘sir’ me. Not in my house. Not looking like you lost a fight with a truck.”
Frank’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “He’s right. Upstairs.”
Joe went, one careful step at a time. In the bathroom, Henry laid out supplies like he’d done it a thousand times. Frank hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, watching like a guard dog pretending he wasn’t worried. Joe sat on the closed lid of the toilet, shoulders tense.
Henry pointed. “Shirt off. Slowly.”
Joe grimaced. “Can’t. Not—” He gestured with his hand of his sprained wrist at the sling and collarbone with a grimace at the fact he did not have a good hand.
Frank moved immediately, stepping in close. “Okay. We’ll do it.”
Joe’s breath caught. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, we do,” Frank said, simple as that.
Between them, they got him out of the shirt without wrenching his shoulder. The cold air hit the raw patches along his side and forearm and Joe hissed through his teeth.
Henry’s voice softened. “Yeah. I know. Road rash is no joke.”
Joe tried to joke back. “I’ve had worse.”
Henry gave him a look that said don’t lie in front of a Reagan.
Frank handed Joe a folded washcloth. “Bite down if you need to.”
Joe stared at it like it was both ridiculous and exactly right. He took it anyway, jaw tight. Henry worked carefully, wetting gauze, loosening tape, lifting dressings with the patience of someone who’d patched up too many men who thought they were indestructible. Each exposed patch of abrasion stung like fire meeting air. Joe flinched once and hated himself for it. Frank’s hand landed on Joe’s uninjured shoulder—heavy, grounding. Not squeezing. Just… there.
“You’re okay,” Frank said quietly.
Joe swallowed hard. “I’m really not.”
Nobody argued with him. Henry cleaned the wounds with slow, deliberate movements, murmuring instructions the way a good cop did—steady tone, no panic. Frank handed things over, kept the pace calm, like he was building a wall between Joe and the worst of the pain.
When it was done, Henry applied ointment and non-stick dressings, wrapping Joe up again like he was worth the effort. Joe stared at the sink, unable to look at either of them. His voice came out rough. “My mom… she’s not talking to me.”
Frank’s hand stayed on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
Joe laughed once, sharp and broken. “She thinks… I’m choosing you guys over her.”
Henry’s response was blunt. “You’re choosing the truth. That’s not the same thing.”
Joe’s eyes burned. “It feels like I don’t get to have both.”
Frank’s voice went gentler. “Sometimes you don’t. Not right away.”
Joe pressed the washcloth to his mouth because it wasn’t pain doing that trembling thing in his face.
They helped him into a loose sweatshirt—soft fabric, wide neck, no buttons. Frank eased it over Joe’s head like it was ceremonial. Henry adjusted the sling with practiced hands. When Joe finally looked up, Frank met his eyes.
“You’re home,” Frank said. Joe nodded, but it didn’t stop the ache that spread through him like cold.
Chapter Text
The next days were small in the way that made them devastating. Joe couldn’t button shirts. Couldn’t tie shoes. Couldn’t cut food without making his wrist flare or his shoulder throb. Couldn’t sleep without waking up sweating from pain and a dream where he was still sliding across the road, still skidding toward that bridge railing, still—still—falling into the abyss. He wished his mood was better. Henry and Frank were trying to keep his spirits up but it was still hard. Henry made breakfast like it was a normal thing to do for a grown man who’d been trained to take care of himself. Frank went to work, came back with that tired Commissioner weight in his posture, and still stopped to help Joe with the simplest things.
After that, it was the little things that kept hitting Joe like body blows: Frank helping him pull on loose sweatpants because buttons and zippers were basically impossible. Henry setting up food he could eat without cutting, then realizing even that wasn’t enough because Joe couldn’t grip the fork steady.Frank quietly taking the fork, scooping a bite, holding it out like it was no big deal. Joe stared at it, throat tight. “No.” Frank didn’t argue. He just waited—patient, immovable. Joe finally leaned forward and took the bite because his body needed it. Because he was tired. Because fighting kindness was taking more energy than he had. He turned his face away fast, like that would hide the way his eyes burned.
Frank’s voice stayed low. “I know this is hard.”
Joe’s voice came out rough. “I’m not… supposed to be like this.”
Frank’s gaze didn’t flinch. “You’re supposed to be alive. That’s it.”
That one landed. Deep.
“How’s the pain?” Frank would ask, like it mattered.
Joe would shrug carefully. “Fine.”
Henry would snort from the kitchen. “That’s Reagan code for ‘terrible.’”
Frank would set a plate down in front of Joe and cut it up without comment, sliding the fork closer like it wasn’t the most humiliating kindness in the world. Joe hated needing it. Joe needed it anyway.
One evening that first week after his accident. Joe stood in the living room staring at a button-up shirt like it was a puzzle designed to mock him. His left hand couldn’t manage. His right arm was trapped.
Frank appeared beside him. “You need help?”
Joe’s throat tightened. “I shouldn’t.”
Frank didn’t flinch. “But you do.”
He stepped closer, fingers working the buttons with gentle efficiency. Joe stood perfectly still, feeling ridiculous and grateful and furious all at once. When Frank finished, he smoothed the fabric once over Joe’s chest—like he was straightening armor.
Joe’s voice came out quiet. “I’m not used to… this.”
Frank’s gaze held his. “Being taken care of?”
Joe nodded once, sharp.
Frank’s expression softened again. “Get used to it for a little while.”
Joe had to look away.
Later he thought the worst part wasn’t the pain. The worst part was how useless his body suddenly felt.
Joe sat on the edge of the bed in the Reagan house, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else. His right collarbone was broken, which meant his whole right side was basically off-limits—arm pinned in a sling, shoulder screaming if he even breathed wrong. His left wrist was a bad sprain, swollen and angry, the kind that stole your grip and made your fingers clumsy and numb. No “good hand.” Just less bad for a second and then worse.
He tried to pick up his phone with his left hand and fumbled it immediately. It hit the mattress with a soft thump that still made him flinch, because his nerves were raw and his pride was even rawer.
A knock at the doorframe. Frank didn’t hover. He just appeared like a steady thing. “How’re you doing in here?”
Joe’s laugh came out thin. “Killing it.”
Frank’s eyes flicked to the abandoned phone, the brace, the sling. The bruises. The split lip that made Joe look like he’d lost a bar fight with a wall. “Yeah,” Frank said quietly, “I can see that.”
Joe swallowed. “I can’t… do anything.”
Frank stepped in, calm like he’d done hard things his whole life. “Then you don’t. Not alone.”
And that should’ve been comforting. It was comforting. It also made something inside Joe crack, because the last time he’d needed anyone like this… he couldn’t even remember. He’d been built to endure. Built to cope. Built to keep moving. But being undercover had already been turning him hollow, day by day—Christmas lights outside, loneliness inside—and now his body was forcing him to stop pretending he was fine.
⸻
Sunday dinner happened whether Joe felt ready or not, because Sunday dinner was an unmovable law of physics in the Reagan universe. The table filled up, voices overlapping—Danny’s energy, Erin’s sharp warmth, Jamie’s steadiness, Eddie’s easy grace. Even the clatter of plates felt like a language Joe hadn’t spoken in too long.
Nicky was there too, home for Christmas break. She walked in, took one look at Joe’s bruised face and sling, and her eyebrows shot up.
“OMG” she said, and then, trying—failing—not to laugh: “You look like you tried to fight a staircase and loss. Actually you look like Uncle Jamie after he had to swallow the secret code on that undercover operation.”
Joe huffed a laugh that pulled at his split lip and made him wince. “Yeah. Staircase won. Wait I feel there is a story behind that story with Uncle Jamie.”
Nicky’s expression softened immediately. She slid into the seat next to him, leaning in like a co-conspirator. “Okay, serious face now. That looks… awful. I’ll fill you in on the Undercover story with Uncle Jamie later.”
“My face looks more dramatic than it feels.,” Joe muttered.
Danny leaned over the table. “Kid, I doubt that your face looks like a crime scene.”
Erin shot Danny a look. “Danny.”
“What? I’m not wrong.”
Henry banged his fork lightly. “Eat.”
They tried. Joe tried. The fork in his good hand felt wrong and his wrist throbbed in sympathy even though it was immobilised in a splint. Cutting food was out of the question. He stared at the plate, heat rising in his neck.
Nicky clocked it instantly. Without making a big deal, she picked up her own knife and fork and started cutting Joe’s food into manageable pieces like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Joe’s voice went tight. “Nicky—”
“Shut up,” she said lightly. “I’m helping. You can repay me by letting me have the last roll later.”
He tried to smile. It probably looked terrible with the bruising.
When he tried to lift the fork, his shoulder pulled and pain spiked. His eyes watered involuntarily.
Nicky’s lips pressed together. “Okay,” she said quietly, and then—still casual, still not announcing it—she held her fork out toward him.
Joe stared. “No. I can feed myself I just can’t cut it.”
“Yes you can but it’s easier if I do it,” she said, soft but firm. “Eat.”
Joe’s face went hot. The table noise blurred for a second. He hated this. He hated being seen like this. And the thing that hit him hardest wasn’t the humiliation. It was how gentle everyone was being about it. He took a bite from Nicky’s fork, and his throat tightened like he might choke on more than food.
Nicky didn’t tease him. She just kept feeding him in small bites until the plate looked less like an accusation.
Joe swallowed, staring down. “Thanks.”
Nicky bumped her shoulder lightly against his good shoulder. “Anytime, Cousin Roadkill.”
That got a real laugh out of him, which made his lip hurt, which made him laugh again anyway.
⸻
Later, when the dishes were done and the house had settled into that softer evening hush, Nicky found Joe on the back steps wrapped in a blanket like he’d been exiled there. Cold air pinked his cheeks. Christmas lights reflected in the window behind him. He looked small in a way he probably didn’t realize.
Nicky sat beside him without asking. “You’re doing the thing.”
Joe didn’t look at her. “What thing.”
“The ‘I’m fine’ thing,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You Reagans are all terrible at it, and you’re not even technically raised as one, which means you have no excuse.”
That earned a faint exhale from him. “I’m not a Reagan.”
Nicky glanced at him. “Sure. And I’m not addicted to peppermint mochas.”
Joe finally looked over. “Are you?”
Nicky grinned. “Irrelevant. Talk to me.” They didn’t need to discuss her obsession to Christmas beverages.
Joe’s jaw worked. He stared out at the dark yard like it might offer answers.
“I’m tired,” he said finally.
Nicky nodded like that was allowed. “Okay.”
Joe’s voice got rougher. “I’m tired of being… two people. Tired of not being able to call anyone. Tired of my mom acting like—like I betrayed her for wanting to know who my dad was.”
Nicky’s expression softened. “That’s brutal.”
Joe’s breath came out shaky. “And I know I should be grateful. I am. Frank and Henry… they’ve been—” He swallowed hard. “Good. Too good.”
“That’s not a problem,” Nicky said gently.
“It is when you’re not used to anyone caring whether you eat or not,” Joe snapped, then immediately flinched like he’d hit her.
Nicky didn’t flinch back. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s the point.”
Joe pressed his tongue against the inside of his split lip, tasting the sting. “I almost—” He stopped.
Nicky’s body went still, not dramatic—just attentive. “Almost what, Joe?”
He stared at his hands, one braced, one useless in a sling. His voice dropped. “I walked to the bridge before the chase. Before the crash. And I had this thought that scared me.”
Nicky didn’t interrupt. She just waited, breathing steady, making space.
Joe’s eyes burned. “It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t… I don’t know. It was just this quiet idea that maybe everybody would be better off if I wasn’t making everything complicated.”
Nicky’s throat bobbed. “No.”
Joe blinked rapidly, embarrassed by the tears. “I’m not saying it’s rational.”
“It doesn’t have to be rational to be real,” Nicky said, firm. “But the ‘better off’ part? That’s not true.”
Joe let out a bitter little laugh. “My mom sure seems to think I’m ruining her life.”
Nicky shook her head. “Your mom is hurting. And she’s handling it badly. That’s about her, not your worth.”
Joe’s breathing hitched. “I just want to go home.”
Nicky looked at him for a long second. “You are home.”
Joe’s face twisted. “Not all the way. Not with her. Not with—” He gestured weakly toward the inside of the house. “Not without feeling like I’m borrowing this too.”
Nicky leaned in, voice soft but certain. “Joe. You didn’t borrow them. They’re yours. They are your uncles, aunts, cousins, grandpa and pops. You don’t have to earn that by being okay all the time.”
Joe stared at her, eyes shining. “It feels like I should.”
“Yeah,” Nicky said. “Welcome to the family.”
He laughed once, then the laugh broke, and suddenly he was crying—quiet, contained, like he didn’t trust the sound of it.
Nicky shifted closer and put her arm around his back carefully so she didn’t bump the collarbone. She held him like she’d done it a hundred times with friends in dorm rooms at 2 a.m.—no judgment, no panic, just steady.
“You scared me,” she said softly into the cold.
“I scared me,” Joe whispered.
Nicky pulled back just enough to look at him. “Promise me something.”
Joe wiped at his face with his good hand, embarrassed. “What.”
“If you get that quiet thought again,” she said, voice firm now, “you tell someone. Me. Grandpa. Pops. Any of us. You don’t go stand alone with it.”
Joe swallowed. His throat hurt. “Okay.”
Nicky held his gaze until she believed him. Then she nodded once like a contract had been signed.
“Good,” she said. “Because you’re stuck with us.”
Joe looked down, breath trembling, and nodded again. For the first time in weeks, the weight in his chest eased—just a fraction, just enough to make room for air.
From inside, Henry’s voice carried through the door: “Nicky! Joe! You two freeze out there, I’m not carrying anyone back in.”
Nicky snorted. “Too late, Grandpa, I already fed him like a baby.”
“NIC—” Joe started, mortified.
Nicky stood, grinning. “Come on, Cousin Roadkill. Let’s get you inside.”
Joe hesitated, then let her help him up—careful, slow, human.
And when they stepped back into the light, Joe didn’t feel fixed.
But he felt less alone.