Chapter Text
“Remind me again why you are playing the role of buttmonkey for Jack McCoy?”
“The role of what?”
Stretched out, naked, on the bed he shared with the Executive ADA of Manhattan, Frank Cosgrove twitched the covers over his waist in an -after the horse has bolted- display of modesty, as he sprawled comfortably against the pillows.
“That’s what Lily said you were, for running this errand out to Chicago.”
“Tell Lily that I think she means errand boy.” Nolan paused, and Frank listened to the clatter of packing that came from the bathroom for a moment, before his husband asked. “Unless she’s trying to imply that I am irksome?”
“Given the age she’s at? I’d put my money on the irksome. Anyone over the age of twenty-one is currently irksome to her.”
“This is one of the many reasons I never had children,” Nolan Price remarked as he opened the bathroom door, releasing a plume of warm, damp steam that would settle like a wet blanket in the already oppressive apartment.
Freshly showered, wearing a pair of worn jeans and one of his husband’s dress shirts, the younger man carried a designer toiletry bag over to where his packed garment bag and a carry-on duffle sat, waiting for last minute items.
“Your inability to score with women probably contributed to that reality as well,” Frank remarked with a smirk.
“I scored just fine with women!” Nolan exclaimed as he packed the toiletry kit into the carry-on and zipped it up. Straightening, setting his hands on his lean hips, he turned towards Frank and then gave a shrug of acknowledgement. “It was the morning after, where things usually went off the rails.”
“Your follow-thru does leave something to be desired,” Frank admitted, waiting a beat until he got a hard eyed glare from his husband and then grinning. “Luckily, I’m easy to woo.”
“You could have stopped at ‘easy’,” Nolan snorted as he gave the room one last scan, performing a mental checklist to assure himself he’d packed everything he needed for the week.
Unperturbed by the banter, Frank Cosgrove remained propped up against the headboard, enjoying the view. It was a singular treat, and one that he was very possessive about enjoying; getting to see the second most powerful prosecutor in Manhattan out of a suit. A pleasure that accompanied the primal thrill that came from the picture Nolan presented, wearing one of Frank’s shirts.
“Come here,” Frank purred, holding out his hand, his smirk growing as dark, blue-green hazel eyes swung his way and warily narrowed.
“Uh huh. You already got your victory lap. We go for round three and I’m going to miss my flight.”
Frank put on an exaggerated pout as his husband refused to cooperate, but the twinkle in his pale eyes promised that he, at least, would have no regrets were Nolan to miss his flight. It was the mischief in those eyes that caused Nolan to roll his own and turn away, gathering his luggage and heading out into the hallway.
Thwarted, Frank threw back the covers and reached for a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. Common decency observed, he stepped into the hall, moving Nolan’s luggage closer to the front door while the younger man rattled about in his home office, packing his briefcase.
Luggage staged, Cosgrove came back to the doorway to the office. He leaned against the frame and crossed his arms, watching as Nolan sorted through sensitive papers.
“Who’s McCoy got you flying out to court on his behalf?”
“Peter Stone.”
“Name sounds familiar.”
“His father is a former EADA of Manhattan: Benjamin Stone.”
Frank whistled through his teeth and nodded. “That name’s as legendary as Jack.”
“More so, depending on who you ask. Jack holds Stone in very high regard.”
“Nepotism?”
Pausing, eyes on some papers in his hands, Nolan appeared to give the question genuine consideration before he shrugged.
“I don’t think so. He’s got a solid record so far as I can see, nothing to suggest he’s riding any coattails. If anything, he’s being stepped on to help his current State’s Attorney grow his own political clout in the city.”
“And you’re going out to vet him, not Jack. Better, what is the word you like to use, ‘optics’?”
Glancing upwards, Nolan raised one of the papers and motioned towards Frank in an unspoken “exactly” gesture, to which Frank gave an understanding nod and let the subject drop. It was too close to political maneuvering for the homicide detective, and he was happy to let it go.
“That leaves the other side of this trip. Do you really think it’s a good idea to just ‘surprise’ your sister while you’re out there?” The question earned Frank a huff and another impatient roll of the eyes before Nolan set his hands on his hips and glared towards the older man. Holding up one hand, Frank calmly shrugged. “I have three baby siblings, each of whom would kick my ass if I showed up on their doorsteps unannounced.”
“Look. We discussed this. Sylvie and I haven’t seen each other in person in over five years.”
“Actually, we haven’t discussed why that is, and why I have yet to meet your only surviving close blood relative. Cousins notwithstanding.” Frank interrupted with a pointed expression.
“Says the man who won’t travel further west than New Jersey,” Nolan snarked in return and for a moment, the air held still with an unspoken tension.
This was a subject that cropped up now and again, each time leaving Frank feeling frustrated and bewildered, while Nolan closed himself off. They had begun to put a layer of joking overtop the open wound, but it was a stop gap measure at best and both acknowledged that the wound was getting infected and starting to fester.
Perhaps it was the prospect of getting on a plane and leaving words unspoken between them, or perhaps now was just as good a time as any. Whichever it was, Nolan sighed and finished packing up his briefcase, eyes down as he spoke.
“You know a man named Hank Voight?”
“Hard to be a cop and not know that name. He’s famous and infamous,” Frank said as he settled his shoulder comfortably against the doorframe, knowing there was more to come.
Snapping his briefcase closed, Nolan picked it up and walked to the door. Posting up against the opposite side of the frame, he crossed his arms in a manner that was more defensive, than forbidding.
“It’s a long story, longer than I have to go into right now, but Voight’s got a finger on the pulse of Chicago. When Sylvie was wrapping up her training, getting ready to start her career in Chicago, it was Voight’s professional opinion that as the sister of a well-known New York ADA, she’d be a …”
“Soft target,” Frank filled in quietly.
“Yeah. Voight’s recommendation … order more like … was that we do everything possible to distance Sylvie from me. He felt it was safer for her and spun it as better for her career since no one could accuse her of riding my coattails.”
Frank looked both confused and dubious about that explanation and Nolan shrugged.
“Voight didn’t want to have to deal with the nightmare scenario of my sister getting grabbed, and all of New York landing on Chicago’s doorstep. He spun every angle he could find to make it clear that his opinion was the only one that mattered.”
“And you let him?”
Nolan bristled slightly and straightened up, dropping his hands to his side.
“I didn’t let him,” Frank whistled through his teeth, calling Nolan on his bullshit, and the younger man flapped his arms at his sides. “I had big cases on my desk, people with nasty reputations AND Sylvie deserved the opportunity to fly on her own merits. She busted her ass in school, and she is damn good at the job. I would never want anyone whispering that her rise is due to anything other than her hard work and natural gift for what she does. The embargo on visiting one another, it was only supposed to be a year, maybe eighteen months. But then things just kept getting in the way.”
The passion, laced with protective big brother ferocity, caused Frank to smile even as his eyebrows rose in the patented Cosgrove expression of ’are you kidding me’? Which caused Nolan to bristle, resembling a pygmy hedgehog as he plowed onward.
“I don’t want to get her hopes up and then have something go sideways, and I fly back without spending any time with her. I had to put Jack in a headlock to get him to sign off on a couple of personal days at the end of the week, but he promised that if things go south, or he gets a concerning phone call? He’ll order me back before I can spend any time with her.”
The homicide detective was taking a breath to say something, when a soft chirp issued from Nolan’s phone.
Reaching into his back pocket, Nolan pulled his phone out and winced. “Damn. My Uber’s here,” he announced, shoving the phone back to the pocket, taking a moment and then stepping forward until he could lay a hand on Frank’s chest.
“I should have talked about this, when we had time to talk about this. I’m sorry, Frank.” His apology was genuine, his expression acknowledging that he’d just dumped a hell of a lot in the older man’s lap and was now about to walk out the door for a week.
Frank exhaled a deep breath. He wasn’t at all pleased with the situation but he, in turn, could acknowledge that Nolan hadn’t done any of this from a position of malice or distrust. Cosgrove wasn’t lying when he said he knew of Hank Voight, and what he knew of the man left him little doubt that Nolan had been neatly maneuvered into a very difficult spot.
Voight was very good at the job, but the man was also cunning and incredibly ruthless. Especially when he believed what he was doing was the right thing.
Reaching up, Frank took the hand on his chest and lifted it. Eyes locked with Nolan’s, he turned the younger man’s wrist until he could place a kiss on the soft skin just above the pulse point. An unspoken combination that was at once, acceptance of the apology, understanding that there was more to talk about, and a promise that he would be there when Nolan was ready.
Giving Nolan’s hand one last squeeze, Frank stepped into the hallway, and made his way back to the bedroom. Scooping up the word search puzzle book Nolan had laid out, and promptly forgotten, the older man moved back into the hall as Nolan began to scramble over luggage to get to the door.
“Hey,” he called out as he walked over and held out the book.
“What? Oh!” Nolan exclaimed with a soft chuckle as he grabbed the book and shoved it into his briefcase.
While the younger man got that last item packed, Frank reached to catch his husband by the belt loops of his jeans, tugging him closer. Nolan glanced up, the protest on his lips smothered by the kiss Frank delivered. It wasn’t until the Uber driver pinged Nolan’s phone a second time, that they broke apart.
“I love you,” Frank said simply. “Call me when you get in?”
Nolan smiled. It was his rare, genuine smile that warmed his dark eyes and softened his expression. Reaching up, he brushed his palm along sharp cheekbones and whiskery stubble. “You be careful out there,” he said softly. “I love you.”
Nolan’s phone pinged once more, causing him to drop his hand and rest it against Frank’s chest, just over his heart, as he stroked well-worn cotton. Then he stepped back, gathered his luggage, and careened out the door.
Frank stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of feet retreating down the stairs, and then tried to ignore the oppressive weight of the silence that settled across the apartment.
“So let me make sure I have this right . . . you’re going to be calling one of the investigators onto the stand to confirm the timeline instead of your key witness, who never showed up for the trial?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re giving the defense a reason to object. Hearsay.”
“Not in this case. It’s pecuniary interest.”
“Oh . . . because she thinks it may threaten her job?”
ASA Peter Stone was glad a stop sign loomed ahead of him, because otherwise, it would have been very hard to explain why he abruptly stepped on the brake in his car. His passenger squeaked in surprise, her quick reflexes barely enough to stop her coffee from sloshing over the rim of her cup and splattering over her dark uniform pants. Peter looked at her appraisingly, then narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure you never went to law school?” he asked suspiciously.
PIC Sylvie Brett gave him an innocent smile. “Never, ever.”
Peter sighed, shaking his head and continuing down the road. “Funny how you’re the only one who can keep up with my conversations at Molly’s, in that case.”
“I listen,” Sylvie shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. “And I have a very good memory.” And my brother's the right hand of a District Attorney was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit said tongue to avoid speaking.
“I swear pecuniary interest has never come up before,” Peter muttered as he pulled up to the curb.
“Must’ve been something Antonio mentioned,” Sylvie shrugged, reaching into the backseat of Peter’s car to grab her bag. “Thanks for the ride, Peter.”
“Thanks for meeting me this morning,” Peter nodded, tapping the coffee snug in its holder. “We still on for breakfast after your shift?”
“As long as you don’t pull an all-nighter and sleep through it,” Sylvie teased with a grin.
“If everything goes to plan, this case should hopefully be shut by the end of the day,” Peter promised.
“Then we’re on,” Sylvie agreed, reaching across the car to hug him.
Peter accepted her hug with a chuckle. “Go save some lives, OK?”
“You bet,” Sylvie nodded, opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk. The chirp of an incoming message caught her attention, but a glance at her phone showed it wasn’t for her. She peered inside the car to see Peter look at his phone in surprise. “Did that just put a damper on our plans?” she asked worriedly.
“I don’t think it should,” Peter shook his head, knitting his eyebrows as he read the message. “But apparently, someone from out of state is flying in to visit the State’s Attorney’s office today.”
“Really?” Sylvie asked curiously, leaning on the door. “How often does that happen?”
“Not very,” Peter shook his head, putting his phone down. “That means I should get to the courthouse as soon as I can. See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Sylvie confirmed, shutting the door.
She backed away as Peter pulled out of his spot, and she waved as the prosecutor drove towards the courthouse. She turned on her heel and walked up the apron towards Firehouse 51, the wind threatening to blow her blonde tresses out of their tight French braid. The long driveway was very different from the drive she used to maneuver an ambulance down in New York, and the worn bricks of 51 were different from the modern, metal feel of the New York 225, but this firehouse was now her home.
The thought still hurt and left a hole in her heart, but nowhere near as much as it had all those years ago when Battalion Chief Wallace Boden heard her case and hired her to join the firehouse. He was one of only three people in Chicago who knew she used her mother’s maiden name, the one who had helped bring out the best in her both professionally and personally.
“Got any twos?”
“Go Fish.”
Though Boden certainly hadn’t done that alone. “You’re starting a game already?” she asked as she walked up to Squad 3’s table, seeing the trio of men sitting down.
“They are,” Joe Cruz corrected, waving his newspaper at Tony Ferraris and Harold Capp.
Sylvie checked her watch with a frown. “Briefing is in fifteen.”
“Brett,” Capp gave her a condescending look. “You think we can’t finish a game in that allotted time?”
“Ye of so little faith,” Tony clicked his tongue.
Sylvie looked between the two men, then looked at Cruz. He merely shrugged and returned to his paper, and she shrugged. “Then enjoy your game.” Tony hummed, and as Sylvie walked around the table, she peered at his cards before whispering to Capp, “Go for fours.”
As she headed for the doors into the firehouse, she saw it being held open by a silver-haired man in a navy polo. Then she heard Capp behind her. “Any fours?”
“Go Fish.”
“Wh - Brett!”
She giggled and ran the rest of the way to the door, darting through before Capp could chase her. The man waiting for her closed the door promptly behind her, and Sylvie grinned. “They make it way too easy.”
“Cruz doesn’t help,” Lieutenant Kelly Severide snickered, falling into step with her as she headed for the locker room. “If anything, he enables them.”
“They’re one hell of a team, though,” Sylvie smiled at him as she unlocked her locker and put her duffel inside.
“Damn right, they are,” Kelly agreed with a smug look on his face.
“But you didn’t need me to tell you that,” Sylvie grinned, shutting her locker and following him towards the conference room.
“Nope!”
The firefighters of second shift had already started to gather in the room, milling about and discussing their weekends. She and Kelly walked along the back wall to join the blond man in a white polo leaning against the bricks, his intelligent green eyes tracking them the moment they stepped into the room. “Good morning!” Sylvie chirped.
“Good morning,” Captain Matt Casey eyed her appraisingly. “You look like you had one.”
“She hitched a ride with Stone,” Kelly told him.
“Ah,” Matt nodded as Sylvie gave Kelly a betrayed look. “That explains it. Breakfast date?”
“My car is in the shop,” Sylvie reminded them. “And since the firehouse is on the way to the courthouse, one of my best friends volunteered to give me a ride.”
“Right,” Matt nodded.
“Breakfast is tomorrow after shift,” Sylvie finished, sipping her coffee.
Both officers looked at her. “With Stone?” Kelly clarified.
Sylvie sighed. “With the case he’s prosecuting, he deserves it. And it’s not a date. Clear?”
“Crystal,” Matt nodded.
Conversations in the room abruptly ended as the commanding officer of Firehouse 51 entered the room, clipboard under his arm. “Good morning,” Wallace Boden greeted.
“Morning, Chief,” Matt led the round of replies.
Only those who knew the battalion chief recognized the look on his face. Kelly was one of those people. “Everything all right, Chief?” he asked.
“Hopefully nothing that will concern the firehouse,” Boden answered, checking his paperwork. “If it does, then the officers will be alerted. Sound good?”
“Yes, sir,” Kelly nodded in agreement.
Boden surveyed the room, then frowned. “Where’s the rest of Squad?”
Barely a few seconds later, the door to the conference room burst open, and three firefighters tumbled into the room, one after the other, making Lieutenant Christopher Herrmann scoot his chair closer to Randall McHolland. As Boden folded his arms, Cruz popped up, eyes wide in panic. “Sorry, Chief!”
Boden looked at Tony and Capp, then sighed. “Do I want to know?”
Sylvie only slurped her coffee in response, and as Leslie Shay turned in her seat to give them a helpless look, Matt and Kelly snickered on either side of the PIC. The 225 in New York definitely never had this much fun in the mornings.
O’Hare International Airport was the pits.
This was Nolan Price’s unsolicited opinion as he navigated his way from a far-flung gate, into the main body of the airport, towards baggage claim. His carry-on duffle was slung over his shoulder, briefcase in his other hand and he was mentally sorting out how to add his garment bag to the mix, when an unpleasant sight met his eyes.
Hank Voight, standing just a few feet away from baggage claim. The wiry sergeant had appropriated Nolan’s garment bag and had it already slung over his shoulder. Close to fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of tailored summer wool, held hostage.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nolan said softly as he resigned himself to the fact that Voight’s eagle eyes had already picked him up in the crowd. For that matter, Voight had probably tracked Nolan’s plane as it landed and then watched his progress through the airport via his x-ray vision.
Okay. Fine. Hank Voight did not have x-ray vision. It just felt that way sometimes, with Voight’s almost preternatural ability to pop up where you least expected, let alone wanted, to find him. Made it devilishly difficult to avoid the sergeant of the elite CPD Intelligence Unit.
Not that Nolan had too many options to avoid the man. Even though Nolan was sure it was the option Voight would have chosen for him, he couldn’t simply turn around and jump on a plane back to New York. Finding Voight waiting for him, looking like the Grim Reaper himself, should not have been a surprise and Nolan inwardly cursed himself for not having anticipated this possibility, when he’d agreed to come to Chicago.
Hank Voight made spiders look like slackers when it came to the art of weaving intricate webs, which funneled information back along their gossamer strands at the least little vibration. It also helped - Voight at least - that Jack McCoy had called the sergeant just after he’d dismissed Nolan from his office.
”Voight,” the Sergeant had been in the middle of a collar when he’d seen McCoy’s name pop up on his phone. With one hand, he pinned the hapless low-level dealer to the side of his car, fingers wrapped firmly around the man’s nape, poised as if to rip out his spine if he wriggled the wrong way.
“Hello, Hank. I’ll make this quick,” McCoy didn’t go for a long preamble. It was as if the DA of Manhattan somehow knew Voight was up to something shady and wanted as much arm's length distance as he could maintain. “I’m sending Nolan out to Chicago on a project of mine, and I’ve approved three days of personal time as well.”
“That’s not our deal, McCoy. Price stays out of Chicago.”
“Deals change,” McCoy’s gravely tone might have sounded lighthearted, almost folksy to anyone who didn’t know the man. Voight knew the man and he felt his spine stiffen in response. “This is a courtesy call, Sergeant. Because I am absolutely certain that no harm will come to my ADA while he’s under your expert protection.” The ‘Or you will know a new definition of hell’ went unspoken.
The drug dealer chose that moment to squirm and got summarily smashed into the doorframe of the vehicle for his trouble. Into the phone, Voight’s voice was reasonable and respectful.
“I’m sure he’ll have a nice trip.”
“Glad we’re in agreement about that, Sergeant. I’ll let you get back to work.”
Voight was reminded, for the umpteenth time, that McCoy was an even scarier sonofabitch than Voight himself.
“Hello, Hank.” Nolan offered a polite greeting, as he continued to make his way through the crowd. He deliberately used the Sergeant of the Intelligence Unit’s first name, seeking to set the tone towards personal and unassuming. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Counselor.” Voight responds was direct and to the point, brushing aside Nolan’s attempt to be friendly with a direct ruthlessness that had Nolan raising his hands in unspoken surrender.
“I come in peace, Sergeant.” He returned as he stopped a foot away from the older man.
“You being here is anything but peaceful. We have a deal. You stay out of Chicago.”
McCoy had made it clear that Nolan was coming to Chicago and Voight better make sure Nolan’s back was covered. But that didn’t mean Voight had to welcome Price with open arms. After all, McCoy had only insisted that Nolan come to no harm while he was in Chicago. The DA hadn’t forbidden intimidation tactics designed to get Price to leave of his own accord.
It was a fine line, but Hank Voight had made his reputation by walking much, much finer lines.
“Last I checked, this was the United States and I’m free to cross any borders I like,” Nolan let a bit of edge creep into his tone and into his eyes. Voight just stared back with placid indifference and waited until the Manhattan EADA huffed out a breath and shrugged. “What, you want to see proof of my return ticket?”
“Now that you mention it…”
“Screw you,” Nolan said in a flat voice. “I’m not here to rattle any cages, Voight.”
“Doesn’t matter why you’re here, Price.” As annoyed as he was with McCoy, Voight wasn’t about to share the fact that he and Jack were in somewhat regular communication. “The minute your name landed on a flight roaster, two-thirds of the families here in Chicago and over half the established gangs went on alert.”
“That’s their problem, not mine.” Nolan said with a devil may care shrug.
On any other man it would read as false bravado, but Voight knew better; and that fact alone worried him. Voight indulged in shooting Price an incredulous look, before the older man turned and began to make his way through the crowd. Nolan sighed and followed his garment bag.
“I mean it, Hank. I am not here to kick over any hornets’ nests. I’m here to talk to a colleague about an opportunity in New York.”
“Yeahup, that’s what I was hearing through the grapevine, along with the fact that you’re taking three personal days before you plan to fly back.”
There was a pause as the two men worked their way into the crowd and out of the main terminal, heading towards the short-term parking garage. Nolan’s expression moved from one of confusion, towards understanding and then into incredulous anger as he reached out to catch Voight by the elbow, pulling the man around to face him.
“I haven’t seen Sylvie in over five years,” he said quietly. “You can’t honestly have your nose out of joint because I want to spend a couple of days with my sister?”
Voight’s expression was pointed, though he lowered his voice as he responded. “The deal was you stay clear of Chicago, specifically to stay out of Sylvie’s way. She’s been doing well these past years, and I know for a fact that there isn’t anyone sniffing in her direction. Even when you pulled that bone-headed move with the Russians.”
“Hey…”
“No!” Voight hissed, stepping into the younger man’s personal space. “You put a goddamn target on your back, Price.”
“And I got tagged for it. No one’s looking at …”
“People are always looking, and the Russian’s have long damn memories. If you love your sister, you will do your bit of headhunting, then get an early flight back to New York and leave Sylvie ignorant of your presence.”
Despite the way the stocky, intense detective pushed into his personal space, Nolan held his ground. If anything, his expression became pure ice, in the face of the intimidating body language employed by the older man.
“Let me be perfectly clear, Voight.” Nolan’s voice was courtroom sharp, his eyes lighting a dangerous gray. “I am going to talk to Peter Stone, and after I finish delivering him to Jack McCoy, I am going to spend a few days with my sister. I’m not going to take out a giant billboard proclaiming our close relations, but I am not going back to New York without seeing her.”
Reaching for his garment bag, Nolan ripped it out of Voight’s grasp, stepping back and turning towards the terminal. He made it obvious that despite the unspoken offer for a ride to his hotel, Nolan planned to find himself an Uber or hell a carrier pigeon if he had too; anything so long as it was not Hank Voight.
Voight let him get a few steps, then called out; determined to have the last word.
“McCoy should have sent Maroun, she’s prettier.”