Frank is Nolan's voice of reason (for once), Herrmann works on cracking Boden, Sylvie has a rough night, and Frank gets another point of view on Voight from a trusted source.

***

"And then, get this, then the sonofabitch tells me to just head home without seeing her!"

Nolan's agitated tones were a tinny echo emitting from the speakers of Cosgrove's phone. The older man had set it on the short kitchen counter while he rummaged in the fridge looking for leftovers. Even without the way Nolan's voice kept coming in and out, Frank could easily picture his husband pacing the length of his hotel room. The younger man's hands would be vacillating between wild gesticulations and set on lean hips.

"I hope this isn't some sort of trick conversation, where I'm damned if I say I want you home sooner, and equally damned if I don't say I want you home sooner?"

As much as he'd loved his ex-wife, could have taught master classes in that particular skill of emotional manipulation.

"What?" Nolan's confused noise told Frank the younger man hadn't actually heard his question, so he decided to deflect.

"What?" He responded, getting a grunt and envisioning Nolan's frustrated flapping of a hand towards the phone.

"All I'm saying is Hank Voight is an arrogant bastard and I've let him get his own way about this for too long!"

Surfacing from the fridge with a pack of half-eaten hotdogs, Frank gave the package a cautious sniff, then shrugged and set them on the counter. Time to raid the back of the pantry for boxed macaroni and cheese. "Voight's an arrogant bastard, because he's usually right about things. At least these sorts of things."

"Frank. I could really use your support here."

Blue box retrieved, Cosgrove set it down beside the hotdogs and walked over to pick up his phone.

"Nolan. My support comes in the form of telling you when to get your head out of your ass. Voight's doing his job, which -as I understand it- is to look out for your sister. You asked me if I'd ever heard of him, and yeah, I've heard a lot. Good and bad, but always consistent on one fact; if he's concerned, it's because there's a reason for concern."

The phone line was silent for an extended period of time, during which Frank retrieved a pan and began to make inroads on putting his bachelor dinner dejour on the table: hot dogs in mac and cheese.

"You think I ought to come home."

It was a question, despite sounding like a statement. Nolan's voice was level, the way it got when he was at a crossroads in an argument and was genuinely soliciting opinions. Even if he wasn't happy with what came his way.

"I think," Frank began with a sigh as he picked at the top of the box. "That you're not calling me because you're pissed off at Voight. I think you're calling me, because you're concerned about the risk your presence could pose to your sister, and you're feeling guilty that you've let five years go by without even making an effort to go out and see her before now. You're frustrated with Voight, but you're really mad with yourself."

"Sometimes, I really hate being married to a detective," Nolan said in a quiet voice, and Frank heard the bedsprings creak as the younger man sat down.

"Nolan."

"Yeah?"

"Get your head out of your ass. Is it a risk? Yeah. She puts it all on the line every time she goes on a call, and that's her choice. You're being a coward about this because you don't want to have to live with being the reason she gets hurt."

"Ouch."

"Suck it up, buttercup. This all started from a good place, but you're tipping over the line where the cure is worse than the affliction. I think it's long past time for all of you to reassess this situation. This goes on much longer and you're both going to be living with regrets over lost time."

Silence came down the line for almost five minutes, but even separated by three hundred plus miles, Cosgrove understood the quiet as a product of Nolan processes, rather than being angry. Rather than force the issue or fill the silence with inane chatter, Frank puttered about in the kitchen, getting his dinner started and patiently waited for his husband to crowbar himself out of his own head.

"Are you planning to eat the leftover hotdogs, cut up in boxed mac and cheese for dinner?"

"Of course I am."

"Those hotdogs are suspect..."

"Nolan. Poach Peter Stone, tell Voight to do his job, and spend time with your sister. Do not make me fly out there and knock heads around."

"You'd get your opportunity to ..."

"I'm hanging up on you, Counselor. I love you. Be smart."

"I love you too, be safe."

They both clicked off and Frank leaned back against the counter and stared at his phone as he waited for the water to come to a boil. After a couple of minutes, he opened up his contacts and scrolled through the names till he came to the one he was looking for, hitting it to connect the call just as it was time to add the noodles.

"Stabler. I'm making hotdogs in boxed mac and cheese. Get your ass over here."

***

Kelly Severide was not the only Boden whisperer in House 51. Lieutenant Christopher Herrmann had perfected the art, and he had done so back when Severide was still in diapers.

To Boden's credit, his pre-shift meeting was focused and on point. There was nothing in his tone, demeanor or response to the routine hijinks of Cruz and a few of the others to suggest that anything was off. The Chief was in full, proper Chief form, and yet there was just that little shadow in his dark eyes that told Herrmann; something was off.

Two back-to-back call outs kept Herrmann from following up on his concerns until much later. As both calls had been physically punishing, it was tempting to just take a shower and crash for a few hours. Herrmann was sitting on the edge of a bunk, toying with the idea of stretching out when he happened to turn his head towards the officer quarters and saw that Chief still had his lights on.

In and of itself, that was not too strange. Boden was responsible for more than just House 51 and his desk was a never-ending river of bureaucratic paperwork. But a discreet lean to the side, slight crane of his head and Herrmann had just enough of a sightline through the glass to see that Chief was sitting and staring into space.

"Well, that's not good." Christopher muttered one of his signature phrases, going still for a moment as Cruz - asleep one rack over - grunted and shifted on his bed. When Herrmann was as certain as possible that Cruz hadn't woken up, he pushed off the edge of the bed and made his way to Boden's door.

"Hey, Chief. Got a minute?" Herrmann had long since perfected the art simultaneously knocking on the doorframe, asking his question and having his body tipped towards invading Boden's space, before Boden could chase him away.

Not that it stopped the Chief from shooing his old friend off, if he absolutely had to. It just sometimes made it easier for Herrmann to land in Boden's personal space, before "The Chief'' walls came slamming down.

Boden, who had in fact been staring at the same span of wall for almost thirty minutes, flicked a glance towards Herrmann and felt a dual rush of annoyance, and relief at the man's presence.

"Close the door, Christopher." Boden instructed, pushing up to his feet and walking around his desk, towards one of the two chairs that sat on the far side of his desk. He motioned Herrmann to take the other.

A little surprised, and feeling more than a small stab of worry, Herrmann shut the door quietly and walked towards the offered seat.

"You dying, Chief?" The question was at once, gallows humor but also a test balloon, to gauge the seriousness of what the hell was happening here.

"I got a text from Hank Voight this morning," Boden began. He was soft spoken, in deference to the hour, and a desire to keep from drawing the attention of anyone who was up roaming the halls. "Nolan Price is in Chicago."

For a long moment, Boden stared at Herrmann expectantly, and Herrmann stared back with open confusion in his sky blue eyes. It took a couple ticks of the second hand on the clock in Boden's office before Christopher's expression screwed up and he raised his hand.

"Price? Oh! Yeah, that's, uh, Brett's ..."

"Brother."

"Wow," Christopher smiled warmly. "Won't she be tickled. She hasn't seen him since . . . how long has it been?"

Rather than joining Herrmann in his glad tidings, Boden scowled fiercely and sat forward, shaking his head, like a bull at a matador.

"He isn't supposed to be here, Christopher."

"What? Why not? Is he bad news or something?" Herrmann's voice went from warm and welcoming, to something that made him sound like a honey badger ready to defend its nest.

"No. I mean, yes, but ... damn it Christopher we talked about this."

"Recently, Chief? 'Cause I mean I got a lot on my mind and..."

"Christopher! Brett's brother. The one from New York."

Herrmann blinked a couple more times, before a conversation from ages - in his opinion - again popped back up to the forefront of his consciousness and he sat back in the chair.

"Oh. That brother. The one we pretend Brett doesn't have?"

"That's the one."

The fog that had settled around a conversation held years in the past continued to lift, and Herrmann twisted his lips slightly as he studied Boden's worried expression. Brett's brother, this Nolan Price, was some hot shot defense attorney, wasn't he? No, wait. He wasn't a defense attorney anymore. That was right! The guy was the Executive ADA in Manhattan, some big wig type, flying in the rarified air that men like Christopher Herrmann did his best to avoid.

There had been concerns raised by Hank Voight (a paragon of paranoia so far as Christopher was concerned) about Sylvie's safety. Something, something, blah, blah about Sylvie being a target for people who might want to leverage her well-being as a way to force Price's hand in key cases.

Herrmann had wanted to live in his world, where such concerns were the purview of overactive, jaded imaginations. Not that his imagination lacked a certain world weariness, but unlike Hank Voight, Christopher Herrmann chose to focus on the mantra that people were basically good until proven otherwise. Yet Boden, who had Voight buzzing in his ear, had been reluctantly forced to acknowledge the risk.

As memories came back with more clarity, Herrmann remembered conversations and decisions. Decisions such as Sylvie using her mother's maiden name of Brett and contact between the siblings being judiciously reduced.

"He moving here or something?" Herrmann asked into the silence that had settled over the office.

"Not that I'm aware of. Voight says he's here for a bit of headhunting in our State's Attorney's office, but he's staying for a few days afterwards . . . specifically to spend time with Sylvie."

Though occasionally selective about what bits of information remained in his short-term memory, Christopher Herrmann did not believe himself a fool. He could see the genuine alarm in Boden's face, in the man's deep eyes . . . and while he wanted to be reassuring, that wasn't always the tone of their relationship. Sometimes Boden needed Herrmann to take the opposite point of view and hold that line, lest "The Chief" steam roll over a delicate matter.

"He ain't here to hurt her, is he?"

"No! I mean, I don't really know the man, but what I do know never gave me the impression he wants anything but the best for her. That's why he originally agreed with Voight about keeping his distance."

Herrmann nodded and slowly sat forward. Linking his fingers together, he rested his hands between spread knees and peered up at Boden.

"You know, as well as I, family's important."

"We're her family," Boden snapped, a flash of "Chief" showing in his dark eyes.

"Eh, 'course we are and that ain't gonna change. But this guy's been pretty respectful, hasn't he? Keeping his distance, giving her space? He is still her brother. What's a few days gonna hurt?"

Boden exhaled, like a building breathing out the last of its oxygen before collapsing in on itself. Likewise, Boden's bull-like shoulders slumped and he raised his hand to his mouth, rubbing his fingers across his lips in a fretful gesture.

"From your lips to God's ears, Christopher. This guy got himself shot by the Russian Mafia, doing his job."

"And Brett's job is all about running into burning buildings, many just seconds away from collapsing, so she can get victims free." Herrmann pointed out, before leaning a little closer to Boden. "Wallace, listen to me. I've no doubt you and Voight have Brett's best interests at heart, and hey, I dunno what the whole landscape looked like back when you came up with this cockamamie idea. What I do know is, he's her family too."

Boden aimed his most repressive glare at Herrmann, but it was mostly because he couldn't argue the man's logic. Partly because Herrmann had just called him Wallace, but mostly because he couldn't fault the man's logic. Hank Voight just had a way about him, as if he had Death's ear, and could see things unfolding, further down the road, than most mortal men. It made it hard to ignore the man's warnings, and Boden had always been powerfully protective of the men and women under his command.

Especially House 51.

When Boden didn't say anything, but shifted awkwardly in his chair instead, Herrmann knew he'd at least made some cracks in the man's hardlines. Smiling, he stood up and walked over to set his hand on his friend's broad shoulder.

"No turning the water cannons on this guy if he shows up, okay?"

"No promises," Wallace grumbled, mostly for show as he glanced up and gave Herrmann a small nod.

"Hey," Herrmann gripped Boden's shoulder and gave it a small shake. "Guy's a lawyer, right? I ain't saying we don't prime the ¾ inch, but not the water cannons."

That remark made Boden give a huff of laughter and shake his head slightly as he moved to stand up.

"Get out of my office, Herrmann."

"Sir, yes sir!"

***

Ever since he graduated the academy and started as a candidate, Matt had been used to being woken up in the dead of night to respond to a call. Still, when he found himself awake while it was dark outside and no bells summoning the house, he frowned in confusion, wondering what had woken him.

Soft clinking from the kitchen caught his attention, and Matt stood from his bunk, carefully opening the doors to his quarters to survey the bunkroom. A quick glance to the room next door let him know Kelly was still asleep, the only light coming through the blinds from the city. With that, he surveyed the bunkroom, counting the firefighters catching sleep. One bed was empty, and after Matt counted only one blonde instead of two, he knew who was missing.

Sylvie was puttering around the kitchen, using a spoon to stir a mixture in a mug. Her hair, previously tightly bound in a French braid, now tumbled down her back in messy, golden waves. Her pale skin emphasized her red eyes. She looked like she had been crying.

She looked awful. "Sylvie?" he asked quietly.

She looked up from her stirring, and she swallowed. "Matt," she croaked, then cleared her throat when tears clogged it. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

"Not at all," Matt shook his head, stepping further into the kitchen. "But when I heard someone in the kitchen and didn't see you in the bunks . . . " He trailed off with a shrug, dropping into one of the armchairs. "What woke you?"

Sylvie slowly sat on the couch, close enough that Matt could see how her hands, so steady when they worked on patients, trembled as they cradled her mug. Hot cocoa, if Matt's nose was correct. "Have you ever heard people talk about a call?" she asked quietly. "One so terrible that, while you didn't respond to it, you have nightmares about it after you learn all the details?"

"Not often," Matt shook his head. "But after Boden took me and Kelly to visit New York on the anniversary of 9/11, I had a few nightmares like that. Pretty awful images. It was one of the few times I vividly remembered a dream." He looked at Sylvie in concern. "Is that what happened?"

Sylvie nodded numbly. "It wasn't a firefighting call, though," she said. "And it didn't happen here in Chicago."

"Is there anything I can do?" Matt asked gently. The distress on Sylvie's face did not belong there, and if Matt could get rid of it, he would.

"Thank you, Matt," Sylvie cracked a smile. "But no. This is something you can't solve." She held up her mug. "This should, though."

"Smells good," Matt admitted with a sniff. "Is that caramel?"

"Family recipe," Sylvie explained. "Specifically in the case of night terrors."

Matt's eyebrows raised. "Your family has a specific cocoa recipe for nightmares?"

"Don't judge," Sylvie giggled. "It always got me back to sleep when I was younger, and it has helped since I joined this house. I'll be fine, Matt. I promise."

"Alright," Matt yielded with his hands in the air, and he stood, checking his watch. "Just making sure you're OK, Sylvie."

"Thank you, Matt," she smiled. "I appreciate it."

She watched the captain depart back to the bunkroom, and she let herself slump as she took a careful sip of her steaming cocoa. The combined taste of caramel and chocolate lingered as she fished her phone out of her pocket and stared at the headline of the article that had been bookmarked for these nights.

Manhattan EADA expected to make full recovery after assassination attempt.

She dropped her phone onto the couch cushion and covered her mouth to stifle the sob bubbling in her throat, tears she thought she had already cried coming back to sting her eyes. Her sleep had been plagued by nightmares running wild, each with varying details of how her brother had been shot. Sometimes he survived to the hospital, sometimes he died at the scene, and sometimes he died on the operation table.

And it had hurt like hell to not directly reach out when the news had broken in Chicago that one of the most powerful prosecutors had been shot in the middle of a press conference. Her nausea had never settled until Jack McCoy himself contacted her with the news she had so desperately prayed to hear: not only would Nolan survive, but he would make a full recovery.

When Sylvie had abruptly requested a few days of personal leave, leaving most of 51 baffled at the move, Boden had merely signed the papers and instructed her to call him if she needed an ear. Herrmann, God bless him, had driven her home and given her one of the tightest hugs in her life when they reached her apartment. And the next morning, after she had cried until she fell asleep, Voight had appeared at her door with her favorite breakfast from her favorite diner, the grizzled sergeant updating her with everything he knew.

Sylvie knew Voight would be keeping an even closer eye on her ever since that day. She knew he dreaded the day, if it ever came, when someone targeted her with the intention of using her against Nolan. It had been a fear since he started rising through the ranks in New York, one that had also been in the back of Sylvie's head since she started her training at the 225, a firehouse conveniently only a few blocks from the courthouse. No attempt had been made against her yet, but Sylvie knew Voight's protective instincts were in overdrive.

But the hole in her heart gaped open every time the image of her brother, bleeding out with multicolored eyes staring glassy and lifeless at the sky, seared into her brain through nightmares. It made her curse the decision to agree with Voight's request to cut as much contact with Nolan as possible. Any connection to him could put her in jeopardy. The paramedic sister of one of the most powerful prosecutors, a woman out on the streets in open view, would be an easy target, after all.

"Damn you, Hank," she whispered brokenly, wishing she could spike her drink. Alas, that was not possible while on shift. "I want my brother."

***

"Two buck Chuck?" Frank said with dismay as he read the label on the bottle of wine in Elliot Stabler's hand. "Good thing I'm a married man, or this date would be getting off to a lousy start."

"Seemed an appropriate vintage to go with hot dogs in boxed mac and cheese," Stabler said without a hint of chagrin as he handed over the bottle and pushed his way past the other detective into Frank's apartment. "Besides, Price might fork out a sixty-dollar bottle on the way to getting into your pants, but you're not my type, Cosgrove."

The next couple of hours passed with much the same sort of back and forth. After teaming up to take down Sirenko and then Rublev, Frank and Elliot had reconnected to the roots of a friendship that had begun in the Academy. They both had heavy caseloads and complicated private lives, which kept them busy much of the time, but they had been making more of an effort for their friendship.

If for no other reason than a lot of the men and women who had been friends, twenty years ago, were now long gone.

After the dinner had been eaten and at least half the bottle of bad wine drunk, a lull in the shit talking gave Elliot the opening, Frank had been dancing around since he'd called.

"So. Price is out in Chicago with Voight?"

Frank winced but in the next breath his shoulders relaxed as Stabler had neatly taken command of the conversation and forced the issue. "Not with Voight precisely. He's out there on a mission from McCoy: ASA Stone."

"Peter Stone? Ben Stone's son?"

Elliot's quick interruption had Frank's brows furrowing. "You know him personally? I know the name, but never crossed paths with the man."

"Saw him in court a couple of times. McCoy is legendary, but Stone ... Stone was like an avenging angel, and sometimes you didn't know which way he was going to swing his sword."

"I've heard stories."

"Price reminds me of Stone," Elliot remarked before he took a big sip of his wine, wincing. He really should have gone for at least a twenty-dollar bottle. "Old Testament, both of 'em."

At Frank's bemused look, Stabler took a deep breath and sprawled back in the armchair he'd claimed as his own.

"I'm too sober for theological based philosophy, Frank. Let's just say that Price and Stone, Ben Stone, they're good, moral men but there is a righteous fury in them both. Neither ever takes the law into their own hands, because they don't have to; they weigh the scales of justice, rewrite the law to their satisfaction, and move on."

"Oh, yeah. I know what you mean," Cosgrove said, and he lifted his glass slightly in silent salute. One that Stabler answered, though the two men were too far apart to actually clink glasses. Sips were taken and then Cosgrove asked. "So, Voight?"

"Hank Voight's a colorful character, Frank. Guy's an asshole, but he's a brilliant asshole and from afar? I respect the hell out of what I read on paper about his exploits. I sure as hell wouldn't want to be his superior, but he's Sergeant of the Intelligence Unit for a reason and if you'll accept a nickel's worth of free advice? He's someone you want on your side, and you want to pay attention when he's speaking."

"You think there's a genuine threat then? The way Voight sees it?"

Tapping the rim of his glass, Stabler was silent for almost three minutes before he eventually responded.

"At this moment? No. McCoy went scorched earth after Price was shot. Most of the bad actors are keeping their heads down and their noses clean ... ish. For the time being everyone is in recovery and regroup mode, licking their wounds. But overall? Voight's got the right idea." Sprawling more comfortably in the chair he'd appropriated, Elliot fixed his intense gaze on the other detective's face. "You're married to the man, Frank. You've seen how he works a case. Price doesn't just poke bears; he jabs them with high voltage cattle prods. Your man could teach a masterclass in how to enrage the wrong sort of people."

Frank wore an expression that suggested he wanted to argue that last point, if only from the position of spousal loyalty. "This, from the man who's turned enraging the wrong sort of people into a goddamn artform?"

"Eh," Stabler looked pleased with himself, rather than put out by the accusation. "Just means I know what I'm talking about when I call Price out on it."

Though Cosgrove gave a roll of his shoulder in acknowledgement - that Nolan was an expert at pissing people off - there was a fond little smile on his thin lips that told Stabler, that character trait was part of why Frank loved the Executive ADA. Elliot rolled his eyes, though he allowed himself a brief thought towards Olivia Benson, a woman who thrived on getting in faces when she believed she was right. Elliot recognized he wasn't in a good position to be casting stones.

"Still," Frank took a sip of wine and sat forward, finally dumping the pot he'd been eating out of - Elliot had been served in a bowl - onto the low coffee table. "We're not talking about some wilting flower here, Stabler. I talked to Liam, my younger brother in the FDNY," Frank clarified, since a person needed a flowchart to keep track of the wide range of Cosgrove relations in various first responder roles up and down the east coast.

"He was a few classes ahead of her, but said she executed top marks in training, and her record out in Chicago is exemplary. She's one of the youngest PICs in the CFD and she holds that role at one of the toughest Houses in the city. She isn't some glass doll sitting on a shelf."

"She's with House 51, right?"

"Mmm," Frank made an affirmative noise around a mouthful of cheap wine.

"Do you know the name Severide?"

"Severide? I've heard Nolan mention the name once or twice. Lieutenant on Squad?"

"That's the guy. While back, he gets into it with a mid-level punk in one of the local families. Nothing major, just roughs up the guy and throws him on his ass. Guy hits back by grabbing Severide's half-sister. It was really, really bad."

Frank winced and lifted his hand, gesturing that he did not need Stabler to spell out what bad entailed. After finishing off the wine in his glass, Stabler continued.

"New York Organized Crime is pretty professional, they don't go in for psychological warfare. They want you out of the way, like they did with Price? They get you out of the way and move on. No fuss, and as minimal collateral damage as possible, because why risk loose ends. Chicago? That's a much different story."

Now it was Elliot's turn to sit forward, his expression turning grim. "They look for reasons to fuck with you, they enjoy their psychological games and as far as they're concerned? The messier, the better, and that's Organized Crime. You get the freelance gangs into the mix, all of them scrabbling to make a reputation for themselves? They live by an entirely different set of rules, man."

After a moment, Cosgrove exhaled a deep breath and shook his head. "Voight's not just being paranoid, is he?"

"It ain't being paranoid if the bastards are out to get you."

***

I mean . . . considering all of the hellfire that's rained on Chicago while Voight has run the Intelligence Unit? I think he has a few excuses to be a little paranoid. Good for Christopher Herrmann to be the voice of reason in Boden's ear. And poor Sylvie . . . writing her sad is like kicking a puppy. Good thing someone in the city can give the puppy a hug shortly.

And we know . . . two chapters and we haven't had them meet yet. We promise that we aren't dropping all these longing and angsty scenes just for them not to see each other. Nolan took personal days to see his sister, and he's not leaving until he's seen his sister, damnit!