Thank you to WaltzMatildah for the beta. The title is taken from In Line by Robert Skoro.

(You're crying.

Shit.

You promised yourself you wouldn't. Not at O'Hare Airport. Not shooting up in a bathroom stall.

You blink hard, swallow, dam up the tears. Your chest still shudders on each exhale and you can't stop it but you're willing to call that breathing.

At least you got through customs.)

A heavy downpour is beating at the windows; wind gusts through the trees that line the street, and agitates the tarp over the boat in the driveway opposite, makes it flap, rowdy, rhythmic against its rope tethers.

Inside it's nice, warm, the contrast of the storm outside emphasizing the comfort and closeness, the relief after a long week. Just him and Gabby sharing a bottle of wine, aromas of the dinner she's preparing breathing their way out of the kitchen, into the living room. Matt leans over to kiss her. There's been a lot to work out and this is still new, still hesitant, and she checks out his eyes first, head tilted to one side, lips slightly parted, before she half-smiles, stretches up and touches her lips to his.

(Killing physical pain is no longer the point of this, so it doesn't matter which arm you choose. But there's a ritual, a familiarity about the right, a poignant reassurance. The track marks, accumulated, lining your bicep, testify to the fact that once, at least, there was a reason for this; serve as a kind of memorial to the lost version of yourself.

You tighten the tourniquet and find a vein. You have no expectation of bliss, not even relief, really; mostly all you get now is cessation, a little less anguish, the ability to function, sort of, for a while.

A part of you thinks it might have been preferable to get caught, to be sitting right now in the void of disapproval behind the customs exit, while you give up, and let the last traces of yourself sputter out.

It's just . . .

You don't even know. An impulse for survival, you guess. Maybe it's only the same old, well-practiced denial. Except you went way beyond that the first time you shot heroin into your arm instead of something intramuscular disguised by a patented name.

Really, when it comes down to it, this is a last-ditch attempt at hope.)

She holds out the spoon, one hand underneath to catch drips, proud of her work.

It's delicious. Like her. The whole experience captivates him, teases all his senses. "Mmmmm."

She smiles. "Can you say it now?" she asks. "This is like the fourth time I've cooked it for you, so maybe it's time to try again!"

Matt holds up one finger, narrows his eyes, pretends to struggle with his memory.

"Pollo . . .?" He begins tentatively.

She nods encouragement.

"Pollo," he says again, then completes the dish's name confidently. "Arroz Picante!" He grins. "Right?"

"Perfect!" She's surprised, pleased. "You've been practicing!"

"As pathetic as it sounds," he says as he rolls his eyes, laughs at his admission, "I have."

(You find a cab.

The guy behind you in the line is dressed in an expensive business suit, large, imposing umbrella held over his head, while you get wet, rain seeping inside the collar of your leather jacket. The cab driver glances at him, then back at you, resigning himself to the fact that you're his passenger.

You get it. Given the choice, you'd take pretty much anyone else rather than yourself too. You climb in, lean back against the seat and briefly close your eyes.

"Nasty weather," he says, then asks, "Where to?"

You agree about the weather, give him Casey's address, noting, with a spasm of sadness that threatens to make the tears erupt again, that this rudimentary conversation with a grouchy cab driver who, as far as he even gives a fuck, obviously kind of hates you, counts as human connection for you.

Until this moment, you haven't quite understood how lonely you are.)

Back in the living room, the food simmering on a low heat in the kitchen, Gabby twines her legs between Matt's, traces his lips with her own, coaxing them open until their tongues meet and they kiss, longer, deeper this time. He pulls her towards him, weaves his fingers into her hair. She sighs into his mouth, inches towards his lap, body touching body, heat building, closing the space between them.

(At the gate, in Madrid, you handed over his passport and boarding pass.

Kelly Severide.

His.

Because you can barely remember being him.

You have his passport, his Illinois driver's license that expired nine days ago, his close to maxed out credit cards: a collection of paper, plastic, syllables and letters that stand between you and total extinction, the humiliation of being John Doe, another junkie casualty of life. When you finally OD and the authorities write his name on labels and forms, they'll never know what it stood for once.

Hell, you're not certain you do either anymore.

The cab stops.

"This is it, right?" the driver says.

You swallow. "Just give me a minute, okay?" you manage to say, suddenly close to panic. You need to try and calm your heart rate. You don't know if you can do this. It's all you can do not to ask him to drive away, drop you anywhere that isn't here.

Your neck is starting to ache from the rain, and it all seems so futile, so exactly the same as when you left, except more fucked up and less optimistic, and that is truly saying something.

The lights are on in his house, a warm, amber glow that looks heart-achingly inviting and, more practically, once you've clamped your feelings down, tells you he's home.

"Can you wait?" you ask, thrusting a handful of crumpled bills forwards, summoning up the small amount of courage you still have. "Just until . . . in case . . . " You trail off, you don't want to say it: he doesn't want me here.

The cabbie sighs a kind of pissed off agreement, and you force yourself out of the taxi.)

"This is nice," Matt murmurs as she pulls back, smiling, voicing the thought recurring in his head, about to tell her she's beautiful, when the doorbell rings, breaking the moment.

Once. Pause. Again, without waiting enough time for an answer.

"Who the hell?" he wonders – he has no idea.

Gabby shrugs, sighs, disturbed but contented, unwinds herself, gets up. "The food's probably done, anyway," she says, as he unwillingly makes his way to the front door.

(You press the doorbell.

You're shaking.

You have to steady yourself against the frame of the door, gulp in air, coach yourself every second not to run away from this.

Again.

Even though, this time, you have nothing to run to, not even illusions, the temptation is still close to overwhelming.)

A cab's waiting, lights on, wipers going. When he opens the door, the man standing there, one arm braced against the doorjamb, head bowed, turns, raises his other hand, and the cab drives away.

He doesn't look up at first. He doesn't have to. The body language, the leather jacket, the perfected avoidance; Matt would know him anywhere.

"Severide." It's not a question, it's not a welcome, just an observation of bare facts. Matt's not even sure he wants him here, wishes the cab had waited a moment longer, that some kind of permission had been sought.

This was over. Kelly saw to that when he moved to Spain. Time passed, there was no contact, and they all moved on.

Then he looks up, and Matt's breath, for one moment, snags in his lungs, hitches to accommodate the twist he can't help feeling in his heart. Because everything that's familiar is equally, disastrously matched by everything that's changed.

The beard, the sharp angles of his face, the red, puffy eyes, the almost lack of life.

"I . . ." Matt begins, not really sure what the hell he intended to follow it, but then there's a noise behind him, Gabby, wine glass in hand, bringing the warmth of the kitchen with her out into the hallway, and he's gratefully relieved of the need to decide.

"Dinner's ready," she says, then stops dead. "Kelly?" Her whisper is so loud, sharp as it cuts through the hallway and out into the street like a shout.

Slowly, strenuously, Kelly moves his eyes from Matt to her, swallows deliberately. "Hey, Dawson," he says.

She nods, puts her wine glass down on the hall table, walks, past Matt, towards Kelly and looks up at him. "Hey," she says, her voice a blend of anger and sadness. She touches his face to make him look at her, their eyes meet and she shakes her head, as Kelly, half a beat later, ducks his. "Oh, Kelly," she breathes. "You're an idiot."

When she turns back, there are tears in her eyes, and she shakes her head at Matt. His throat tightens in anger, protective. Kelly left; why should they get upset over him? "You have the number for the cab company?" he says, challenging Kelly who barely responds.

"No."

Matt ignores him. "'Cause maybe you should call them. Get the guy to come back before –"

Gabby stops him, putting a finger to her own lips as a warning, shaking her head again. "No," she swallows, insists. "You need to ask him in. You need to . . . you just need to ask him in, okay?"

She walks back towards the kitchen. Retreats might be a better way of putting it. Leaving Matt staring at Kelly.

As though he feels it, he raises his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says, gravel lining his too quiet voice. "It's just . . ." He sighs. "Okay, I shouldn't've left like that. Just . . . fuck, I don't know . . ."

Their eyes lock.

"You want me to go? 'Cause I can go," he says, then, with the first spark of anything other than resignation and, if he weren't so defeated, Matt might call it a counter challenge. "You want me to go?"

Matt inhales, shrugs. "Shedoesn't," he says, resisting, behind the excuse of Gabby, the fact he doesn't either. He stands back from the door. "Come in, I guess."

("You need to ask him in," is all you really register, all that sticks.

Anything else is drowned out by desperation, that last-ditch hope again.)

"Are you hungry?" Gabby asks Kelly. "I'm making . . ." She trails off and points vaguely in the direction of the kitchen.

He nods absently, almost immediately contradicts himself by shaking his head. "Smells good," he says. "But I'm, uh . . . "

"Got it," she says, and Kelly nods again, seemingly embarrassed, and apparently the subject's closed between them. She turns to leave the room, but Kelly stops her, abruptly, slightly too loud, too grating and abrupt.

"Dawson."

She flinches slightly, turns back.

"Shay?" he asks, voice returned to a hoarse, soft decibel.

"She got a new roommate," she says, eyes, voice suddenly steely.

It surprises Matt when Kelly holds her gaze. "She okay?" he asks.

It takes her a long time to answer. A long time when her body, face, eyes alternate fierceness and a kind of desperate pity. "Better than you," she says, finally choosing, and Kelly lowers his eyes to the floor.

When she leaves a second time, she asks Matt to come with her.

(They talk, not quite out of earshot, intentional or not, you have no idea, but you try not to listen, you don't want to hear.

Inevitably, the sound carries.

He's using again. Worse than last time, I think.

Long pause.

Last time?

Narcotics. I don't know. If I didn't know him, I'd say heroin.

Well, she doesn't know you. Not now. But she's also right. Kelly Severide would never have touched the stuff. There still were a few precipices he wouldn't step over.

Nar- what the hell?! Excuse me?Casey's bewilderment vibrates through the airwaves.

Pause.

You didn't know?

He didn't. You never told him.

Like a lot of things between you, he never asked.)

Gabby makes coffee, and Matt brings Kelly a mug, hands it to him without a word, then sits down on the other side of the room, the question suspended between them, but Matt doesn't want to say it and, eventually, Kelly supplies:

"She's right."

"You heard that?" Matt asks pointlessly.

Kelly shrugs.

"Your neck?"

Kelly shakes his head. "It aches sometimes, but not . . . it's not for pain." He sighs. "I was in rehab for six months." A beat passes, tense, charged. "They thought, maybe I could make a full recovery, so they pushed it a couple extra months."

(A couple extra months when you proposed to Renee, started making plans. You never intended to come back to Chicago like this.

You were clean. Happy. On the road to recovery. You started dreaming about getting back on squad.

Until you plateaued. Hit a wall you couldn't get past. And, God, you tried.

Then.

You were lucky, the medics all said, you had full function. You could walk, have sex (which would be great if you had any desire left after they broke their news).

When you lost it with your physio, Javier, more than once, and more explosively than you really intended, he liked to point out other horrific symptoms you weren't suffering: that you could still breathe without artificial assistance, that you could pee by yourself, that you had control of your anal sphincter.

"But you know, give it time, bro," he used to threaten, sardonic, in a thick Spanish accent that, on better days, entertained you as it battled with his US TV English vocabulary. "Right now – read my lips! – YOU'RE ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES!"

And you were. You got that.

Just.

The only reason anything was working was the fragile hope at the back of your mind that you'd be yourself again.

The day that reason died, Javier's part-time assistant fixed you up with your first third of heroin. The day after that, you bought a gram.)

"And?"

Kelly is lost in his own thoughts, leaving Matt hanging in a way that provokes the harsh, one-word question. The instant Kelly raises his eyes again, as though he's startled, dislocated, Matt feels a slight regret for his tone of voice, but brushes it aside.

Kelly shrugs. "It didn't work out."

"What about your girlfriend?"

Kelly's eyes press closed, his jaw tightening as a small spasm jerks at his muscles. "That didn't work out either," he says.

"And . . ." After the conversation with Gabby, Matt feels way more than eight months behind; a part of him wishes it had stayed that way, while a part – the same part that experienced fleeting regret - tries to ignore a creeping sense of guilt and, more than that, a kind of loss. The resentment, on the one hand, the awareness, on the other, that everything he says is striking a raw nerve, is pulling him in two directions. He chooses one, forges ahead. "The drugs?"

Kelly swallows, pulls an expression something like a smile, but minus any trace of anything that could be considered positive. "Probably wasn't such a great idea to pump an addict full of opiates after surgery, huh?"

Matt takes his words as a challenge, convincing himself and his sense of justification that they were probably meant that way. "You were using drugs when you left for Spain?"

"No. I quit." A beat, while Kelly's eyes flicker nervously over Matt's face. "Before that."

(Your resources for this are close to zero, but your capacity for lying is flagging too, so you tell the truth.

No. Before that.

You're a little surprised that he doesn't know by now. Impressed by Dawson's discretion. You brace yourself for his nine-months-too-late reaction; wonder if you'll get through it to the end without breaking.)

"On the fucking job?! As well as the broken neck?!"

Kelly inhales, almost recoils, then changes his mind and looks Matt square in the eyes. "Yes."

"You realize –?"

"Yes, I realize!" Kelly rolls his eyes. "I could have killed someone. Except I didn't. I did my job." He sighs heavily. "Until I did the right fucking thing and screwed everything up to hell!" The burst of energy dissipates and he looks down at the ground, shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says. "This isn't the way . . ." He shakes his head again and grinds to a complete halt, half-glances towards the hallway where he left his rucksack. "Can I, uh . . . use your . . . ?"

His furtiveness is so obvious it would be comical, if it weren't so sordid and tragic.

"You're gonna . . . ?" Matt's too astounded to be shocked.

Kelly shrugs apologetically. "I'm not gonna do much," he says, voice soft, appeasing, as though the amount makes a difference. "I just . . ."

Confounded, a million fathoms out of his depth now, Matt points him towards the bathroom. As he does so, he's suddenly conscious of the fact that this is the first time Kelly has been in his new house.

(You broke.

Now you have your disposable lighter burning under a spoon in CFD Lieutenant Matthew Casey's bathroom, an action that's too familiar, too practiced and, yet, in this setting, insanely, obscenely surreal.

Waiting for the numbing comfort to saturate your bloodstream, you start to laugh.

Because what you said was right. You were on the job with a broken neck, in excruciating pain, scared out of your mind and, some of the later shifts, high as fucking kite, and you never killed anyone.

Funny, huh?

Considering the day this all started, the day you in fact did kill someone, you were one hundred per cent fit and drug free.

The laugh transforms, by way of stifled choking, into a series of muffled, stricken moans.

"Kelly?"

You startle back to consciousness, find yourself sitting on the closed lid of a toilet, no idea where you are. Your eyelashes are sticky, eyes sore, and the whole paraphernalia of drug abuse is spread out at your feet.

None of this is new. Except the person, the woman, outside the door seems to know who you are.

"Yeah," you grunt.

Pause.

"Are you okay?"

She sounds pissed off now, where initially she'd only sounded concerned. The pissed-off in her voice identifies her as Dawson and you let out the breath you didn't really know you were holding.

You know where you are. Better than that, Dawson's here. Somehow, that's reassuring, and not just because she got Casey to let you in.

"Yeah . . ." you say shakily. You swallow. "I'll be out in a minute, okay?"

Pause. A longer one.

"Uh huh," she says, stern, and you hear her loud, disapproving footsteps disappear.

You need the time to orient yourself back to this reality.

You were dreaming (or maybe hallucinating, you can't tell the difference anymore) about a house fire.

Not one you remember, one your mind has pieced together, half-remembered, half-created. There are a few scenarios. The house fire, a gas explosion, a multi-car pile-up. They change, develop, like they're going on somewhere in real life and you're catching instalments.

Hisreal life.

The first time you did heroin, you lay back on your bed, battled through a barrier of flames and saved a little boy, with Casey's voice over the radio:

Severide? You got it?Confident, like he knew for a fact you were going to come through.

It was amazing. Like a gift. When you came down, all you wanted out of life was to go back there.

It doesn't always happen, less and less as your tolerance and disillusion have grown. But sometimes, still, you zone out and get to be you. That is, him. It's like having a phantom limb, except this is a whole phantom life.

You've wondered whether, if you OD'd, your subconscious would be kind and let you go out in a blaze of bravery, falling through a burning floor after you saved that last, touch-and-go victim's life.

Sometimes you even taunt yourself that it might be worth a try.

There's another dream you have about a fire, but that's only when you're stone cold sober and it's always the same, always about Andy, and you don't save anyone.

After that one you wake up with your heart in your ears, face wet, throat dry, thinking it would have been so much easier for everyone if it had been you instead of him.

Either way, you're still alive, sort of. You don't know whether that's courage or its total opposite.

You just know you're not going to last much longer without help.)

"Hey . . ."

Kelly is leaning against the kitchen doorframe.

"You're high," Gabby states bluntly.

"Not exactly," Kelly says. "Kinda." He smiles, different from earlier, empty but almost reaching his slightly too glittery eyes.

"You have plans for getting off that?" she asks.

"Not really. Not yet, okay. . .?" Kelly mutters. "That's not why I'm here."

"Uh huh," Gabby says dryly. "So, what? You're gonna trawl around the gangbangers for a dealer? Or maybe go cold turkey again? Because that worked so well the last time."

Matt gapes between the two of them, still catching up with the subject matter, the understanding between them.

"Actually, it did," Kelly pushes back at her, then loses the momentum, swallows. "Yeah, I guess," he concedes.

She nods tightly. "There's a clinic," she says. "We can go tomorrow." She points at the kitchen table. "Sit," she says. "You're gonna eat something."

"I'm not hungry," Kelly objects, and Gabby nods again, an acknowledgment that she heard what he said, but not that it has any bearing on what she intends for him.

"I got that," she says. "You're still gonna eat something."

By now, it probably shouldn't surprise Matt when Kelly pulls out a chair and sits down heavily, eyes fixed on the placemat in front of him. It does, but the surprise lessens when Gabby raises an eyebrow at Matt and he finds himself doing much the same thing. It's only when he's sitting at the head of the table, with Kelly on his right, that he's struck by déjà vu. Okay, it was a bar, and they were next to each other rather than at right angles, but the differences are trivial and the similarities all too marked.

The recognition lasts a few seconds, long enough to penetrate, before there's a long inhale, a longer exhale to Matt's right and Kelly clears his throat awkwardly. When Matt looks up, Kelly is staring directly at him, wrecked blue eyes tearing up.

"I need to talk to you," he says, and for all the gruffness and weariness in his voice, it lands like a plea. He turns to Gabby. "Give me a little while, okay? Then I promise I'll eat something."

(You need to talk to him. Except, now the moment's here, you're fucked if you know how.

You're still thinking when, somehow, from nowhere, from the depths of your breaking heart, you start.)

"I have these dreams . . . about being on squad," he says, bows his head so far down it's like he's trying to crawl inside himself. "Turns out it's a perk of being a junkie." He swallows, looks up again, covering shame with a rueful smile. "You're always in the dreams. Sometimes, you're like right there, with me; sometimes, it's your voice over the radio." He shrugs. "You always trust me, though," he adds quietly, like an afterthought. Except it's clearly not. "Like you know I've got your back."

"Well . . ." Matt begins, still floundering, wanting to be reassuring, fumbling over words that won't even form in his head, let alone on his lips, until Kelly relieves him, or takes away the opportunity, he's not certain which.

"I always thought you had mine."

(And that's it.

Why Dawson's words – You need to ask him in– struck you so deeply; the reason why you gravitated back to this house.

You think, perhaps, he could have saved you. Back in that bar. Not accepting your bullshit, not protecting himself, paying some fucking attention.

You just wanted him to tell you to stay; that you were being an idiot; to ask you why, what the hell you were thinking.

Because if he'd said stay, you'd have stayed. Yeah, you'd have resisted, acted like an ass but, really, only to make sure he meant it.

You were almost there, anyway. That's why you told him first. You just needed a little sense talked into you by a friend.)

Matt realizes his mouth is hanging open, caught between anger and the elusive guiltiness that's been assaulting him since Kelly arrived.

"I . . ." he begins, but leaves the indignant "did" unspoken. Kelly's presence has reduced him to speaking in truncations. For that, for the accusation, to try one more time to shake off the self-reproach, he decides to turn the blame around. "You moved to Spain!" he says, feeling heat flush through his face. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"

Again, Kelly turns his eyes on Matt, making him flinch with the intensity, the need, the furious pain. "Stop me," he says quietly, shakes his head. "Tell me I was being an idiot. Ask me why, how I felt . . . any fucking thing! Not just . . . Jesus! I don't know, Casey. Care, maybe?" He gets up, pushing the chair back with a scrape of wood against tile, leans up against the wall and tilts his head back. "Well, cheers to that, then?! That was seriously the best you had when I was about to fuck up what was left of my life?!"

Apparently, the ball is now in Matt's court. Buried, submersed, there's an instinct, to say something kind, make this right. But he's so used to fighting Kelly, and this all seems so unfair.

"I respected your decision," he says flatly.

"Bullshit! You haven't respected any fucking decision I made since –" Kelly breaks off, inhales sharply.

"Since Andy? Well, does that surprise you?" Matt supplies, instantly and intentionally nasty, regretting the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, as soon as Kelly winces. "Sorry, that was . . . sorry."

Kelly swallows. "Yeah," he says bleakly. "Since Andy." He moves back to the table and sits down again, mutters, "Since the day I lost him, you and myself." He sighs, puts his arms on the table and rests his head on them.

Words run through Matt's head. Things like, You blamed me, remember? You wouldn't fucking talk to me for a month! I tried to ask you what was going on and you blew me off!But he didn't – he confronted Kelly, then withdrew; he didn't take responsibility. When you're saving a dying man, you don't stop to consider how he's going to react, give him space to work it out by himself, nurse your own wounds.

In the end, Kelly's right: Matt didn't have his back. It's time he did.

He reaches out a hand, touches Kelly's shoulder. There's no response until he asks, tentatively, "So, uh . . . how are things?" He doesn't need the brief, ironic burst of life in Kelly's raised eyebrow to know the question was ridiculously lame.

"Sorry," he mumbles, pauses, gets a grip, then, genuinely, "How can I help?"

Kelly heaves himself to an upright position, seemingly trusting the sincerity. "I have a titanium plate in my neck," he begins slowly. "I'm hooked on heroin. The surgeon and my physio in Spain agreed my shoulder strength is never gonna come back – I can't even do a normal workout." His eyes fill with moisture, he starts scrubbing it away, but then gives up, as it increases, spills over his eyelashes. "Casey, I have no fucking idea how to be alive like this." He hangs his head, breathing heavily, eyes closed.

"What about a second opinion?" Matt asks carefully. "Here, in Chicago?"

"There is no second opinion! There's just reality – the one where I'm useless, fucked-up and screwed!" Kelly snarls, then sighs, swallows, opens his eyes. "I'm sorry, man. I just . . . " He trails off, then adds, softly, seriously, "Thanks for asking."

The doorbell ringing insistently jars through the silence that follows; then footsteps and voices in the hallway, the explosion of Shay through the kitchen door.

From the way her mouth is poised, open, intentional, Matt knows she was about to let out some kind of tirade. But she stops dead when she sees Kelly, brings her hand up to her mouth and breathes out a desolate, thankful, "Oh . . ."

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so . . ." Kelly holds it together just long enough to stand up, before his face crumples and his eyes stream with tears, his words disappearing in sobs that crack inside Matt's heart.

"Hey. It's okay. Shhh . . ." Leslie murmurs, softly, caressing with her voice, and moves towards him as though she's handling something infinitely delicate (and, really, Matt realizes, she is), tears running down her face too, until she has her arms around him and they hug like their lives depended on each other's touch.

Matt gets up and leaves, gives them some privacy, and finds Gabby hovering in the hallway.

"I had to call her," she says, raising her hands as a gesture of defense, nervous, quite unlike the unwavering tower of attitude she's been the whole time since Kelly arrived. "You think . . . are they . . .?"

"You did the right thing," Matt says. "You've done the right thing since he got here." He takes her in his arms, leans in for a quick but heartfelt kiss, pulls away and looks into her eyes. "Thank you for setting me a good example." He sighs. "I needed it."

(He asked.

That would've been enough, for now, even without Shay.

Between the two of them, you don't feel quite so alone.)

Later, Matt is in the kitchen, dishing out slightly overdone Pollo Arroz Picante while Gabby talks to Leslie in the living room.

"Hey," Kelly leans around the door, part of his body still out in the hallway.

"You can't hide out there." Matt experiments with a joke. "She's gonna make you eat this if it's the last thing she does."

Kelly shakes his head, acknowledges the attempt at humor with a brief smile, steps fully inside. "I just wanted . . . " He glances down. "I'm gonna get off the drugs," he says. "I can't . . .it's not gonna be right away, but . . ." He trails off, seeks a response with his eyes.

"I believe you," Matt says, as solidly as he can, meaning it, determined to be there this time. "Any help you need –"

"Yeah, about that," Kelly breaks in. "Can I . . . would it be okay if I stay here for a few days?"

Matt can't help registering surprise. "I thought . . ." He indicates the direction of the living room. "Shay?"

Kelly shakes his head. "She has a roommate," he says. "And you're . . ." He trails off, half-smiles. "You're a firefighter. You know how it is."

Matt inhales, another layer peeled back that, obstinate, obtuse, self-protective, he never saw. "I blamed you for Andy," he says, finally admitting what he's not sure he's ever truly admitted even to himself, just acted out.

"I know," Kelly says. "I blamed me too."

"Well, I think it's about time we stopped." Matt offers. "As for reality, it sucks but, screwed up to hell or not, at least we know what we're dealing with."

"We?" Kelly asks, and Matt nods firmly, repeats the small but important word.

"We."

(You study your image in the bathroom mirror.

Looking back at you, it's not him, exactly, but you think there's a trace, a memory, an outside chance of something better than this.

When you try whispering his name – Kelly Severide – you almost recognize it as your own.)