51 enters the twilight zone, Christopher Herrmann is the conscience of Boden and Voight, Nolan is done pulling his punches, and Sylvie is just over the moon to have her brother back.

***

A few steps away from the joyful reunion, Hank Voight was frowning, and it was not his habitual resting bitchface expression. Tension ran through the wiry Sergeant, an alertness that reminded Severide of a predator, as the older man's hand dropped to his hip where Voight kept his weapon. Kelly automatically shared another look with Matt, unsurprised when the captain gave a small up nod of his chin, indicating he saw it as well.

Voight, who wasn't worrying himself with the glances being exchanged by two of the biggest thorns in his paw, moved forward and set his non-gun hand on Nolan's shoulder.

"Sweet as this is, Counselor. Let's take it into the firehouse," he rumbled, expressing genuine disquiet for the first time since all this began. "Line of sight around here makes me itchy."

Nolan felt his hackles raise, but the sound of Sylvie sniffing as she made an effort to compose herself made him look down. Sylvie didn't bother wiping away her tears, but she gave him a brilliant smile, one he had seen make the toughest firefighters at the 225 lower their guards. "He's right," she told him, taking his hands in hers. "Nolan, I have been wanting this for years, but if Hank thinks it's safer inside . . . "

She trailed off, and her visible swallow made Nolan nod. "OK," he squeezed her hands. "Alright, let's go."

Her mood changed in an instant, and Sylvie beamed in delight, bouncing up and down as she threaded her arm through his to pull him towards the firehouse, and as one of his hands covered the one in the crook of his elbow, his other entwined with her other one. "I can't believe you're here!" she cheered.

Her joy was infectious, and as Nolan smiled and allowed his sister to drag him into the firehouse, he saw the rest of the firefighters begin to settle. "I wish I could say this," he hugged her arm against his body, and manfully did not shoot a pointed look over his shoulder towards Voight, "was the reason for my visit." He smiled, pausing for a moment as he cataloged five years of changes in his little sister's face and eyes. A grumble from behind reminded him that Voight could maintain situational awareness and eavesdrop, which saw Nolan sighing softly as he let Sylvie guide him down the hallway. "Regretfully, I am first and foremost here at Jack's behest, and if Jack had decided he needed me back in New York before I finished up his errand and got to you - "

"It's hard to say no to Jack," Sylvie interrupted with a giggle, tugging him to the couch. "As both of us know, given your switching sides."

Nolan snorted as he slowly lowered his weight towards the inviting cushions, getting comfortable on the couch and smiling fondly as Sylvie plastered herself to his side. "You know that was not a difficult decision, Sylvie."

"I know," Sylvie smiled serenely. "It's still very hard to say no to him."

"Don't I know that," Voight grumbled from where he took up a post by the door to the apparatus floor.

Sylvie's eyebrows rose, and she looked at Nolan curiously. "It is a business trip," he explained. "Jack would not have given his stamp of approval otherwise." This last bit was said with his eyes turned towards Voight. The sergeant might be pushing Nolan's buttons, but all the bucks stopped at Jack's desk. Nolan understood the importance of making it clear that Jack would never override Voight's protocols simply on a whim.

Jack McCoy was a mercurial sonofabitch, but he wasn't cavalier.

As her brother continued to explain, Sylvie's confusion cleared, and she groaned dramatically, flopping back on the couch. "Please tell me this has nothing to do with Peter Stone."

Nolan raised an eyebrow. "This has nothing to do with Peter Stone."

Sylvie glowered at him. "Liar."

Nolan grinned innocently. She made it so easy sometimes. "You asked."

"Does anyone else feel like they're in the twilight zone?" the bald man from the table asked aloud, only to wince when he was jabbed in the ribs from two sides.

Sylvie rolled her eyes. "Pardon Capp. He doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut sometimes."

Nolan snickered. "He's pardoned."

"He's not," Kelly shook his head, folding his arms as he circled the couch to lean against the wall, his eyes boring into his firefighter. "Cruz, Tony, Capp's cleaning the rig next shift."

The resulting loud protest and the laughter from the three squad members broke the tension in the room, and as he leaned his shoulder against the frame of the door to the apparatus floor, Voight felt the weighted presence of Chief Wallace Boden arrive at his side. The Sergeant didn't need to take his eyes off the events unfolding in the common room, to know Boden was glowering.

"I thought you had this handled," Boden said quietly.

"I said I had it handled, and I do. Is anyone shooting up your firehouse, Chief? No. What I didn't say was that I could stop him," Voight responded in an equally quiet voice, arms crossed over his chest.

"I appreciate the lack of gunfire, but my firehouse still resembles a beehive that's been kicked over. I don't like it, Hank."

Now Voight turned his head to look at Boden's stern features. "You want to throw him out?"

Boden inhaled a deep breath, puffing up his already intimidating physique, and for a moment Voight wondered if the Chief was about to actually try and order Price out of the firehouse. It would be within Boden's rights; he could insist Price meet Sylvie off firehouse grounds if he truly believed the man's presence in the house would cause significant disruption.

"Aw, will ya look at that?" Christopher Herrmann's distinctive accent echoed from Boden's other side, as the gray-haired firefighter stepped up to join them. "Don't think I've seen Brett twinkle so bright, since last year when she helped set up the Christmas tree. Ain't it sweet."

Somehow the man managed to make his last words both a question and a statement. Voight knew Herrmann well enough to pick up on when he was being played by the man, and he suspected Boden knew it as well. All the same, a bit of the tension leached out of Boden's shoulders, and he exhaled the deep breath without shouting out across the common room.

Instead, he looked directly at Voight.

"You got a leash on him?"

"Do I," Voight began with a gesture of one hand pointing towards himself. "Have a leash on one of the most powerful ADAs in New York, and a federal prosecutor to boot?" Both Boden and Herrmann looked like they expected Voight to boast that of course he had a leash on Nolan Price. Voight gave his eyes a slight roll and turned back to the common room. "I'm just doing my best to keep a containment zone around him until I can jettison him back to New York."

"When'd he get that fancy 'Federal' title?" Herrmann asked. He didn't have all the details, but he knew enough to understand the man's job as an EADA was bad enough, when it came to making powerful enemies who could be a threat to Sylvie. Adding a "Federal" title to the mix was an unnecessary accelerant to what was already a four-alarm blaze. God forbid it ever erupt into a five-alarm.

"A few months ago, when he tried and convicted John Nelson."

"Nelson," Boden said in a pensive tone. "That was the guy who shot up the subway car. Hate crime, right?"

"That's the one," Voight confirmed. "Price went for, and secured the death penalty, so we can add stirred up white nationalists to his list of enemies."

Boden reached up and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Herrmann laid a supportive hand on his friend's shoulder and gave it a couple anemic pats. "Brett's really, really smiling though Chief," he pointed out again.

The Chief didn't shrug off Herrmann's weak, supportive gesture but that was only because Christopher knew the exact moment to extract his hand before he got told off. Stepping away from the other two men, Boden started on the natural path to cut through the common room. "I'm going to take Ambo 61 out of service. I'll be in my office."

Suddenly Sylvie was laughing again, snuggling into her brother's side and looking as if she could produce enough positive energy to light up half of Chicago. Boden stopped and then turned and began to head the long way around the firehouse towards his office, avoiding the happy reunion that was currently giving him heartburn, if only to avoid causing Brett anxiety.

Herrmann merely smiled, dusting his hands off and pushing off the wall. "Good news, Brett!" he announced cheerfully, drawing everyone's attention as he walked in to join the huddle. "The Chief is going to pull 61 from service. You're not going anywhere for a while."

Sylvie whooped happily. "I owe him a drink at Molly's."

Herrmann gave Voight a knowing look, enjoying seeing the sergeant's uncomfortable expression. "Maybe more than one."

"Whatever," Sylvie waved it off, looking far less certain than she had before. "I know I've been . . . well, very vague about my life in New York before I moved here, and I'm sorry about that, but on the advice of others . . . " No one missed her side-eye to Voight, who met her gaze with his head held high. "All parties involved decided it was better for me to not share."

"It's alright, Sylvie," Herrmann patted her shoulder, looking around the room pointedly. "Take your time."

Otis Zvonecek, who had opened his mouth to no doubt ask a question, closed his mouth with little fuss. Jason Pelham, a former lieutenant whose demotion had sent him floating around until Matt clinched him for Truck 81, nodded in agreement with Herrmann. "Well," Sylvie took a deep breath, swallowing hard. "Part of what I didn't share . . . Brett is my mother's maiden name. Before I moved to Chicago, I trained at the New York 225 as Sylvie Price." Nolan squeezed her hand, pleased to hear that name once again. "Nolan is my brother. He works as the Executive Assistant District Attorney in the Manhattan District Attorney's office."

Mouch's eyebrows rose. "As in Manhattan District Attorney Jack McCoy?" At the surprised looks he received around the firehouse, he shrugged defensively. "What? Trudy hears things working at the 21st District."

"Oh, I can only imagine," Nolan rolled his eyes with a glare at Voight.

"The name sounds familiar," Cruz frowned, scratching the back of his head. "Why do I know that name?"

"I've never mentioned him by full name," Sylvie shook her head. "I know the Intelligence Unit has worked cases in New York before with Manhattan SVU . . . maybe that's where?"

"ADA Barba is in the office of Jack McCoy," Voight confirmed. "He was the prosecutor when we went after Gregory Yates."

Nolan shuddered. "When I heard that man had been in Chicago . . . "

Sylvie smiled. "You never did anything to him, Nolan."

Nolan snorted. "No, but I also never personally did anything to all the people pissed off when I convicted Jordan Reed. Didn't stop the death threats pouring in via tweets." He saw Voight straighten, and he held up his hand, warm blue-green eyes turning gunmetal gray. "Do not comment on that," he warned darkly.

"Yeah," Voight's tone made it clear he wasn't interested in Nolan's opinion about what he could and couldn't comment on. "Enough of the softball. Long story short. Mr. Price here gets anywhere from fifty to a hundred and fifty death threats in any given week, and those are the ones we don't worry about."

Nolan closed his eyes and counted to ten: in Latin. He was attempting to keep himself from lighting up Voight, because at the end of the day none of this was really the Sergeant's fault. These protocols were in place for a reason, not only to keep Sylvie safe, but also to keep Voight and his team safe . . . hell, to keep Chicago safe. Nolan had been reminding himself of this fact, over and over as he struggled to hold on to his temper and be fair with Voight. The mental image of any of his more powerful enemies slithering into the city and taking his beloved sister in their jaws was always enough to make him hold his tongue.

But as the head of the Intelligence Unit stepped on into the common room, the carefully cultivated sense of fair play Nolan had been clinging to by his fingernails began to fray. It had been easier before he'd seen Sylvie, before he'd seen so many changes in her cornflower blue eyes, changes from years that they would never get back. The unfairness of the situation, manageable only through physical distance, had sparked against deeply ingrained emotions that were rooted in both fraternal and paternal, in nature.

Five years. They had both given up five years of being in each others' lives, and now that Nolan had Sylvie tucked into his side, suddenly that time and distance felt unbearable, and Voight was making the tactical error and presenting himself as a ready target.

Christopher Herrmann liked to play the fool, but only fools failed to recognize how astute and empathetic the grizzled old lieutenant truly was. Herrmann had known Sylvie Brett for all her years as the paramedic for House 51, and he knew her very well indeed. He knew how her pretty eyes would light up when she was angry, the hint of gray swirling just behind dominant shades of light blue. There was a tuck that would form between her shapely eyebrows, often when she was upset; always when she was plotting and this hint of tightness around her mouth as she waited to jump into the conversation.

All those tells were present on the young lady's countenance, but it was not Brett who Herrmann was watching. Because all those delicate and discreet micro expressions on Brett, were like neon billboards on Nolan Price. The prosecutor's blue-green eyes were flashing all the way to gunmetal gray (and that was really eerie how they did that) his brows pulled into a thunderous expression, and where Brett's mouth became tight, Price's whole body was becoming like a livewire, ready to pounce.

"Voight," Herrmann said softly, habitual reasonableness wanting to deflect the oncoming explosion. But between Price's eyes, and Voight's ... Voightness, his instinct towards self-preservation was winning out. Christopher Herrmann might have no reservations when it came to running into burning buildings but getting caught between two apex predators was not on Herrmann's to do list today. He had seen Casey and Severide when they were ready to lurch to each other's defenses or Brett's . . . yet facing down the thunderous gray eyes of Price felt like ice was injected into his bloodstream. He had a feeling that by the end of this exchange, everyone at 51 would rather take their chances against Casey and Severide combined than face the powerful prosecutor.

"Anyone here remember a dispatch over eight months back warning about increased organized crime activity, particularly around the Russian held neighborhoods, due to the shooting of the New York EADA who was lead on the prosecution of the Senior Liaison to the President of Russia."

Capp scrunched his nose and looked at Otis. "What's that mean?"

It was Nolan, who glanced over his shoulder and replied. "A close friend of Putin's."

Unamused by the interruption, Voight raised his gravelly voice until it echoed off the common room walls. "Mr. Price makes a sport out of pissing off very powerful and influential people and got himself gunned down at a press conference for his troubles."

All the Latin in the world... Nolan gently set aside Sylvie's hand and came up off the couch, right into Voight's face.

"It is not a sport. It is my JOB to hold these people accountable."

"Except you're never satisfied taking down the perps on your plate," Hank's voice lowered, but somehow became all the more aggressive. "You look at all that good police work and it doesn't matter how neat of a bow detectives put on a case, you refuse to stay in your lane and go digging for more." Undaunted by Price stepping into his space, Voight moved close enough that the two men were in danger of physical contact with each breath they took. "Until you're charging up the ground where angels fear to tread."

All of Nolan's good intentions became a distant memory as Voight threw them both headlong into one of the longest standing arguments between police and prosecution. In the blink of an eye the polite, diffident man who had walked tentatively up to the station house was gone, leaving only the Executive ADA of Manhattan in his place.

Nolan didn't shout, he didn't need to. Instead, his tone took on the same dark and dangerous edge as Voights's own. "It may be enough for you to treat the symptoms out on the streets, Sergeant, but I've always found that it is much more effective to administer a cure to the disease." Gunmetal gray eyes stared hard into dark hazel and there was a flash of warning; one last chance for Voight to take the rare offering of an exit ramp.

Except Hank Voight wasn't a man who put much stock in exit ramps, he was "proactive" police and he made damn sure everybody knew it. His reputation didn't allow for exit ramps, unless they came with large sums of cash or the sort of favors that powerful men paid out to keep the blood off their hands. House 51 didn't realize it, but they were about to witness a very rare occasion where Sergeant Hank Voight was about to make an egregious miscalculation regarding the length of Jack McCoy's reach and Nolan Price's penchant for collecting live ammo.

SA Jefferies had his eye on political prizes, and the pursuit of those prizes meant it behooved him to maintain a certain level of plausible deniability when it came to men like Hank Voight. McCoy and Price had no such concerns, McCoy because he was already at the top of his mount, and Nolan played by his own set of rules.

Voight, well-practiced in the art of ignoring flashing amber lights, let his righteous indignation and frustration over the entire situation get the better of him. The always carefully controlled expression on Hank Voight's face flashed with reaction at the implication that he and a department like Intelligence would ever just settle. Hazel eyes blazing, the wiry sergeant puffed up, prepared to deliver a full-throated defense of his unit, something that Nolan could respect; he appreciated leaders who protected their team.

However, Nolan saw Voight's throat, metaphorically speaking, and decided that play time was over. "How are the Silos this time of year, Hank?" Nolan's tone was soft, conversational, and completely at odds with the sharpness in his gray eyes.

The younger members of House 51 exchanged confused looks. They could feel the tension in the air, and they could see with their own eyes the staredown happening between the two smallest males in the House, but they missed the nuances. The nuances were plucked out of the thick air by the likes of Herrmann and Mouch. Mouch in particular, who had the benefit of living with Trudy Platt, but he was also the man who sat in on the hard meetings when political chess could literally make or destroy a firefighter's career.

Randy McHolland knew live ammo when he saw it deployed. His gut told him he did not want the details about this 'Silo' business, but his gut also recognized a mortar shell level explosion. He glanced towards Sylvie, unsurprised to see her expression was one of concern and discomfort, but otherwise ignorant of the depth of the tussle going on in front of her.

Mouch suspected this Price character had gone to great lengths over the years to help protect Sylvie's positive - not innocent, per se, but positive - and warm belief in the best of people. Sylvie had always struck Mouch as a pragmatic young lady, who saw rocks but deliberately avoided looking under them. He shifted slightly on the couch, reaching out to take her hand for a brief squeeze and flexing a slight smile towards her when she glanced at him quickly. He wasn't sure what message he was trying to convey, if any. Perhaps only making sure to remind her that her family at 51 had her back, no matter what happened between the two heavyweights in the room.

Because Nolan wasn't playing, and Voight only ever played for blood. The EADA didn't say anything further, but he allowed certain truths to reach his eyes. Truths that whispered from the dirt spread out across the Silos, truths about stoves, stacks of untraceable cash, and men who tripped and fell behind closed doors. Truths that, while not actionable in and of themselves, could be woven into a noose around Voight's neck should men like McCoy and Price turn the full force of their focus and dedication on the subject.

Years of undercover work held Voight in good stead, and he did not react beyond a slight narrowing of his eyes. Price arched one eyebrow, offering the exit ramp again and this time Voight gave an imperceptible nod, though he continued to hold his ground.

"Think I'll go wait in the car, Counselor, return some phone calls. You let me know when you're ready to go back to the hotel." It was a statement, rather than a question, and while it might not have sounded particularly respectful, Nolan read the intent. Voight couldn't be the first to step away from the confrontation, he had to live in this city, and he needed his reputation intact. But in all the ways that mattered, he was yielding the field.

Nolan, his point made, gave a small nod and stepped back. "Sure." He then took a breath and turned away from Voight, allowing the sergeant a graceful retreat, while simultaneously restoring the air of folksy older brother to his demeanor. Giving the residents of the common room an 'aw shucks' sort of shrug, Nolan tucked both hands in his pockets and tried to look unthreatening.

"I apologize for that little unpleasantness. Sergeant Voight has been an irreplaceable advisor in coordinating the steps taken to maintain a certain degree of separation between my job and Sylvie's career here in Chicago. I am quite grateful for his diligence, but as I am sure you can imagine, it has been difficult."

He couldn't help himself and the right hand snuck out of its pocket and began to gesticulate.

"Our office handles a lot of high-profile cases," he began turning towards Cruz and motioning in his direction as a way of acknowledging that it was perfectly reasonable for Joe to have heard Jack's name, even in Chicago. "District Attorney Jack McCoy consults on cases nationwide, sometimes because the cases overlap into our jurisdiction and sometimes because we've already prosecuted what other State's Attorneys haven't seen. As his Executive ADA, I take lead on a lot of those cases."

Nolan turned to look at Sylvie, giving her an apologetic smile. This was not how he had envisioned any of this going.

"After Sylvie graduated the 225, it was determined that she would be safer out of New York and as disassociated from me as possible. It's why we haven't seen each other in over five years." Sylvie ducked her head to hide the tears forming again, and Nolan squeezed her shoulder. "So she took our mother's maiden name, and between us, Jack, Sergeant Voight, and Chief Boden, we found where she could call home while making sure she was safe from anyone who might try to so much as scratch her because she's my sister."

"Does the rest of Intelligence know?" Matt asked.

"Olinsky did," Sylvie admitted. "He never told a soul. He quite literally took the information to his grave." She coughed to clear her throat. "If Hank has told anyone else in Intelligence, none of them have said anything to me. As far as I know, all he has said is that due to the circumstances that led to me coming to Chicago, they should always be keeping an eye out for me." She sighed, dropping her chin onto her hand, looking up at Nolan. "It's been hell," she whispered. "I've hated to act either like you don't exist or avoid the topic like I avoid clowns."

"Still with the clowns?" Nolan interrupted softly, the sort of teasing shared between older and younger siblings, flashing in the quick turn of his lips and the twinkle in his eyes.

Not entirely aware of doing so, Sylvie gave him the little sister stink eye that the paramedics of Ambo 61 had mastered over years of dealing with House 51, as she finished her thought, "BUT if it means neither of us are dead . . . "

"I hate it, too," Nolan sighed, relenting his brief needling and sitting on the couch next to her again. "And as much as the sergeant makes it sound like this is a game to me, your life is anything but. When Jack told me that the CPD had been placed on alert after the clusterfuck with the Russians, I thought I would come to the office only for Jack to tell me there'd been a hit on you."

"I know that, Nolan," Sylvie nodded. "And as much as I know Hank takes my safety seriously, I do not appreciate the stunt he just pulled."

Nolan sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Then you'd get a kick out of the rest of the interactions we've had since I flew into O'Hare."

Sylvie blinked once, then twice. "He picked you up, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did."

Sylvie dropped her head into her hands. "You are my brother," she seethed, her fingers curling into her hair, threatening to tear it out of its pristine braid. "I get the caution, but I don't care if it even would have been for a few seconds before you had to leave . . . I've wanted to see you every second I've been here, especially after the Russians!"

"So have I," Nolan wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Hell, I had to strongarm Jack into the few days I've got off so I could spend as much time as I could with you. I promise, I will be as careful as I can, but I'm not missing out on any of this time, not after so long."

Sylvie gave him a teary smile. "Thank you."

Nolan tugged her close and kissed the top of her head. "What else is family for?"

"Damn right," Herrmann murmured, patting Sylvie's shoulder.

"Well, anyone who can go toe to toe with Voight and come out unscathed is good in my book," Matt smirked. "And more importantly, this house stands with anyone who looks out for our own." He gave Sylvie a pointed look. "More so when it's family who wants nothing more than the safety of those they love." Sylvie smiled bashfully. "She couldn't say a name, but the past few days especially, she's been thinking about you. So thank you for going against everything Voight wanted to see her."

"This is the happiest I've seen her since God only knows when," Shay nodded in agreement. "And this includes when Molly's finally got that specialty rosé wine she's absolutely crazy for."

Nolan's eyebrows raised. "The prosecco I always let you have a taste of on Christmas Eve?"

Sylvie smiled sheepishly. "Guilty."

"You bring him to Molly's while he's here, your first glasses are on the house," Herrmann promised.

Sylvie reached up and squeezed his hand. "Thanks, Herrmann."

"No problem, Brett."

The ringing of the bells stopped all conversation, and Matt shook his head in annoyance when Truck 81 was called to reinforce one of the other firehouses. "Why couldn't the entire house be taken out of service?" Otis complained, standing from the table.

"I'm not that important," Nolan quipped dryly.

Shay grinned in delight. "I like him," she declared to Sylvie as Matt, Otis, Mouch, and Pelham ran out to the apparatus floor.

"Yeah," Sylvie snuggled into Nolan's side, well aware her brother was grinning smugly at the action. "I'm keeping him."

***

Oh, it is so much fun writing this story. Can you tell we're having fun? You probably can.

And honestly, who really expected Nolan to bend to Voight after he finally got to be with his sister? In front of her entire firehouse, nonetheless? Voight, you idiot. You poked one hell of a bear.

On that note . . . Happy New Year, everyone! Let's see what 2023 has in store.