A/N: Life happened y'all, BUT I AM BACK! For those that have missed me and my writing, I am reposting "Strike a Match" and rewriting "Burning Bright" with a third Clarke as Chicago Med story to come at a later date...
Chapter 1 Out of the Frying Pan...
"Callahan, you're up. Crispy critter down on Marshfield, think you can handle that?" Lieutenant Belden gave his recent transfer detective a look that said he was pretty sure she couldn't. CPD didn't even normally do lateral transfers, but somebody had called in a favor and now here he was stuck with this co-ed looking blondie. It was bad enough he had already lost Dawson to Voight, without even mentioning that snake of a cop should be behind bars, not carrying a badge.
Detective Cailin Callahan resist the urge to roll her eyes at her new boss, having already clashed with him more than once in the month she had been here. She hadn't realized how good she had it back in New York, but that had been before everything went sideways. "I'll be fine, sir," she replied, clenching her jaw to avoid saying anything she would later regret. She was pretty sure she was already on thin ice and she didn't want to get booted back to patrol after nine years on the force with the NYPD, over half of that with a gold shield and working much larger operations than anything she had been handed so far. At least he wasn't making her take anyone with her this time, part of the reason she had agreed to work in this unit was they were short-staffed enough that she wouldn't get a partner and that was fine by her, considering...
Cailin pulled up to the scene, a truck still there with plenty of guys still milling about, though most had stripped off their bunker jackets. The battalion was already gone and a couple of uniforms were already stringing yellow tape around the burned out car in the middle of the abandoned lot. She went to duck under the tape when one of them put a meaty paw out to stop her. "Jesus Christ, you media people are like vultures, do anything for a scoop, huh? Behind the tape, toots."
Cailin narrowed her eyes, practically hissing as she read his name plate. "Excuse me Officer Martin," she shot back, pulling back her jacket to reveal her shield, "but that's Detective Toots to you." She ducked under the tape and strode to the car, fighting back the urge to empty her lunch in the weeds at the acrid smell of burnt flesh and accelerate. "Damn," she said, peering into the car and seeing what little remained of both the body and the vehicle.
"I know, not a chance in hell of getting any evidence," came a voice from the other side of the car.
She jumped back, startled, before realizing she recognized the voice as one of the few detectives that had actually been welcoming in the precinct, even if he worked upstairs in the super secret intelligence unit with the Lieutenant that practically had 'bad cop' tattooed on his forehead. "Detective Dawson, I didn't know this was Intel's case."
She wondered for a brief moment if Belden had sent someone to check up on her when he replied, "Antonio, you can call me Antonio, really. And it isn't, officially, but Voight wanted me to check things out, plates came back to a known associate of someone we're tracking."
She just nodded, not wanting to square off with one of the few people she thought might actually end up being an ally in the CPD. Instead she pulled on the gloves she had brought from the car and leaned in closer to the body, her focus narrowing in on the corpse. She reached out to shift the body, forcing herself to not visibly shudder when the melted flesh stuck to her glove, there was something about the odd angle of the head that called to her. Yep, right there in the back of the skull. "Looks like a .22, entrance, not seeing an exit," she looked up through the windshield that had shattered in the heat, "I'm betting this was a dump. Know who called it in?"
Antonio watched her, taking note of her methodical approach, relieved that she didn't wince at getting her hands dirty. He had an old boxing buddy in the NYPD, had heard good things about the detective, though her reasons for leaving town were a bit fuzzy. All he had gotten was that an op had gone bad and she had been on leave for a while. "I don't know, Voight just heard Belden getting the case and told me to book it down here. Check with Truck 51, they were first on scene, put the fire out."
Cailin merely raised her eyebrows at him, pulling off the gloves so they turned inside out and sticking them in her pocket at she pulled out her memo book and made her way over to the firemen still hanging around. It was then she caught sight of him; a familiar profile, though the blonde hair was shorter now, his frame more filled out, and he somehow seemed taller, though nearly everyone seemed taller than her 5'5" stature. She hadn't called him since she had been back in town, despite her mother telling her all about his murdered fiancée, about his mother getting out of jail, about how she still saw his sister at the market from time to time. She just couldn't bring herself to do it, not knowing what to say, even if she knew what he was going through. Probably exactly because she knew what he was going through, how words were nothing more than empty sentiments meant to make the speaker feel better, not the recipient.
He was still wearing his gear, his name and rank spelled out clearly on the back. The words looked so foreign on someone she had known since they were still in diapers. She took a deep breath, it was inevitable she would run into him, and she may as well just face the music. Who knew, maybe their friendship wasn't totally dead after all these years. "So what, you think just because you are some fancy CFD Lieutenant now you can just come in and wash away all my evidence, Matty-boy?"
It was only upon hearing the old nickname that he stopped packing up the truck. He paused before turning, feeling like he had just been visited by a ghost from his past. He had heard she was back in town, from his sister who very much still kept in touch with the crazy Callahan clan. He wasn't surprised, their house had been a place of refuge for both Casey siblings growing up, more so for Matt since he and Cailin had been placed next to each other since pre-school because of their last names. He also knew, or at least partly knew why she had come back home to Chicago. Which is why he hadn't reached out to her, the pain of losing Hallie still too fresh, he didn't want to see the same anguish and grief he saw in the mirror every morning in one of his oldest friend's eyes. Not to mention they had gradually lost touch in the nearly thirteen years she had been gone. He turned slowly, forcing a smile to his face even as he barked, "are you trying to tell me how to do my job, Detective?" If his words didn't draw the attention of the rest of his men, his attempt to draw Cailin into a hug, which she practically jumped away from, did.
"Er, nice to see you, Matt," she replied, kicking herself for her reaction and awkwardly extending her hand, pretty sure they had never shaken hands except to seal a bet.
He just looked down at it and raised his eyebrows, his blue eyes boring into hers as he scratched at the back of his neck. "Yeah, Christie said you were back in town, sorry I haven't called."
She gave him a half-smile and a shrug, "it's fine, wasn't expecting a welcome home party and I know you've dealt with..." she trailed off, a lump forming in her throat, "a lot of stuff," she finished, pulling out her memo book. "So what can you tell me about the shake and bake in the Caprice?"
Matt shook his head, "not too much. Squad actually got here first, we were still wrapping up another call." His stopped as his radii squawked to life, "like this one." He gave her a hollow smile, "sorry, Cal, we gotta head out. But come by the station later and we'll fill you in best we can. You know where it is, right, 51?" Cailin nodded, watching as the men buzzed back into action around her. She knew perfectly well where Matt Casey's firehouse was, what she didn't tell him was that her mother had followed his entire career as though he were still one of the Callahan kids. Of course to Mary Margaret Callahan, he still was. The truck paused briefly as Matt leaned out the window to say, "welcome home, Callahan." She raised her hand up in a slight wave, wishing she felt the same way.
She trudged back to the car, the ME's office having shown up to remove the body. Antonio was pacing around the car, waiting on the crime scene techs. Cailin did the same, taking in the scorched body of the ghetto sled. Typical for the neighborhood, except for having been set on fire, big tires, dancing spinning rims, accessories worth more than the car, a speaker system normally found in clubs...and... "What the hell?" she exclaimed, sliding into the passenger seat much to the chagrin of the techs trying to keep the remains intact. The smell in the car was overwhelming, immediately permeating her clothing and hair, but she was singularly focused on what she has observed, the rest of the world falling away as she took in what remained of the melted dash. Antonio observed her, trying to see what she had seen. "Dawson, you still carry a memo book or do you not right things down up in IU?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Still carry one," he replied, knowing the reputation his unit had already garnered, imagining the extremely jealous Belden had painted an even worse picture. He smiled, pulling it out, "just don't use it much."
"Perfect," she replied, not smiling back and reaching for it. He handed it to her, looking curious, watching as she jammed it into the stereo on the dash, her tongue poking out as she jiggled it around until a click was heard and a melted hunk of plastic dropped partly open revealing a secret compartment. "Nice work," he said, thinking maybe he should talk to Voight about her, except he had heard a couple of rumors about excessive force complaints in her NYPD jacket and he wasn't sure he wanted to spend his time worrying about multiple hotheads.
She gave a half-shrug, explaining, "didn't figure the roast had dropped that much cash on 10,000 watt subwoofers to still have an eight track, figured if he was on your radar, he was probably running something and this was probably hiding something." Antonio just kept looking at her, his gaze piercing and unsettling. Cailin felt suddenly self-conscious, wondering what he was thinking about her, wondering if she had mis-stepped. She probably looked like a freaking know-it-all to him, the last thing she wanted one of the rising stars of the most elite unit in the CPD to be thinking about her. "One of my older brothers is a mechanic, gets a lot of cars from LE auctions, he's found all kinds of things," she explained.
"Don't sell yourself short, kid," he said, nodding with approval.
It was a simple enough nickname. One you would think she would be used to hearing by now, given she looked several years younger than her actually age, which was part of how she had moved up the ranks in New York so fast, being pulled into the anti-crime plain clothes unit shortly after getting off probationary status after the academy. Her girl-next door appearance able to overhear plenty without anyone ever suspecting there was a badge around her neck, particularly useful when anti-terrorism was a hot button issue in the city that never slept. But it was what he had called her, from the moment she first stepped foot up in OCCB looking more like head cheerleader than a tough as nails new detective trying to prove herself in the boy's club. Doyle knew it drove her crazy, most of the time he just did it to exasperate her, enjoying the flush it brought to her cheeks and the fire to her eyes.
Which is the exact opposite of what Antonio observed. He watched as the detective transformed before him. Her bashfulness replaced by a stone faced mask, the light going out in her eyes, her complexion going ghastly pale and she clutched what remained of the door handle, clawing in near desperation to get out of the car. He opened the door for her, attempting to grab her elbow to prevent her from tumbling out of the raised car; surprised at the amount of force in which she threw his arm off as she mumbled something about getting something from her car. Antonio was pretty sure whatever he had heard about Detective Callahan was just the tip of the iceberg.
"Get it together, Callahan, work is the one thing you can still do, remember?" she said to her reflection in the rearview mirror of her department issued sedan, waiting for Antonio to drive off, which he thankfully did fairly quickly. She waited for the ME's office to finish up and for the CSU tech's to bag what remained of the drugs in the hidden compartment and get the car up on the tow truck, trying to act like a competent human being as she crumbled inside. She pulled up what she could on the computer about the registered owner of the car, whom she assumed was also the crispy critter and wasn't shocked to find a rap sheet nearly as tall as she was. While she had plenty of issues, she did not have a death wish, so she thought better of going to question any of Carter Jefferson's known associated without backup. Leaving her with going back to the station and get lectured about how women couldn't do the job by her jackass boss or heading down to 51 to see if she could get any information that might be useful. She debated which was the lesser of the two evils, finally deciding that the firehouse would probably have better coffee and after yet another night spent tossing and turning, she desperately needed a booster shot.
Cailin pulled her car up to the curb by the station; far enough way from the bays, knowing the rigs might have to exit at any point. She exited the car, pushing her sunglasses on her head and pulling on her blazer, adjusting her badge so it was easily visible. She try to make it clear this was an official visit on first sight, but that didn't stop the Latino guy checking hoses from nudging the moustached unruly mop of hair as she stepped into the station. "Lieutenant Casey?" she said, setting her jaw and squaring her shoulders.
Both men gaped at her until another firefighter stepped out from beside the squad truck and gave them a look. "He's in his quarters, can I help you?"
He smiled at her, revealing dimples and a slight gap in his teeth that Cailin was sure most women would be drooling over, not to mention he was clearly in top physical condition; but to her he was just another bag of testosterone trying to put another notch in his bedpost. "Maybe, you the squad commander, first on the scene of the car fire down on Marshfield?" she hooked her thumb in her belt loop, seeing as his eyes followed her movement, settling on her gold shield.
"I am, Lieutenant Kelly Severide, rescue squad 3. Car was already fully engulfed when we got there, didn't even know a body was inside until we tamped it down. Called CPD as soon as we did. Don't think I can be more helpful than that, Detective?" His voiced raised on the end, waiting for her to fill in her name.
Cailin stared back at him, knowing he was was practically undressing her with his eyes, but refused to encourage him. "Quarters back there?" she said, stepping around him before he could even react and striding into the depths of the house.
"Hey, you can't go back there," he called after her, three long strides catching up to her and clamping a large palm on her shoulder.
She spun, hands on her hips, "I'm not some badge bunny civilian, Lieutenant. I have been going in and out of the firehouses of this city since the day I came home from the hospital, not to mention Matt told me to come by, but if you still feel I need an escort, please lead the way!"
Kelly Severide was rarely at a loss for words around women, but they usually weren't trying to take his head off, at least not until he failed to call them or discovered they weren't the only ones on his speed dial. "Right this way, detective," he finally replied, glaring at Cruz and Otis who were snickering behind them. He led her to what appeared to be a briefing room, pointing at a chair, "wait here," he commanded, giving her a warning look.
Cailin took a deep breath and complied, knowing better than to push back at the son of Benny Severide, or risk the dress down from her father the next time he was lucid enough to remember who he was. "Fine," she said, dropping down in the chair, "won't move a muscle."
Kelly made his way to Matt's quarters, shaking his head, knocking on the glass door before entering. "Hey, Casey, there's some piece of work here from CPD, says you invited her, was asking about the car fire in between acting like she owned the place."
Matt rose, looking at him with a slight look of shock, "she actually showed up? Huh."
"You want to fill me in? You have some secret cop on the side?"
He snorted in reply, "not in this lifetime, Severide. Come on, let's see if we can help her."
Kelly looked disinterested, knowing he wasn't likely to benefit from any further conversation with the standoffish cop, not that he was in the position to as it was. But he was curious to figure out what the connection to Casey was, so he followed behind.
Matt entered the room where Cailin was still sitting at the table, flipping through her memo book, absently doodling on the back of the page like she had since grad school. "Cally, heard you met what I have to put up with every day. Kelly, this is Cailin Callahan, excuse me, Detective Callahan. We grew up together, her pops is part of the reason I joined FD." Matt gave Kelly a look of warning and he ran through the old line roster of the CFD.
"Your pop's Deputy Comish Connie Callahan?" Cailin just nodded, not giving anymore information, even as Kelly pressed on, "so your brother is up at HQ in arson investigations?"
She nodded again, not pleased with Matt name dropping, but knowing it was inevitable. She rose so the two men weren't completely towering over her. "One of them, plus Colin over on Truck 19 and Coleman who sometimes uses this lug as a subcontractor," she hitched a thumb toward Matt.
"Three older brothers and a FD Deputy Commissioner father, bet your dates always got you home on time," Kelly joked.
Matt and Cailin exchanged a look. She had mostly been a tomboy growing up, her interest more in being one of than dating the boys and she didn't divulge that she was dating Matt's best friend until she was hightailing it out-of-town for college. "Five older brothers, actually. Cullen's a priest for now and Cam's a mechanic. And I actually got a lot of leeway growing up, I was somewhat of a surprise and my parents had no clue what to do with a girl. Hell my name actually means 'girl', that's how over having kids they were." She rolled her eyes, "now if we're done with the Callahan family tree, I would really like to get some sort of lead in this case before my jerk of a boss kicks me back to uniform patrol."
"Belden," Matt said to Kelly, who made a face.
Apparently the head of the 21st VCU was an equal opportunity asshole. Cailin glowered at him, "how do you know who my boss is, Casey?"
"I, uh, you see..." Matt stuttered, "Antonio sort of swung by on his way back to the precinct. His sister is one of our 'medics."
"Of course she is, freaking Chicago," she said with a sigh, wondering if her case had been scooped.
"He's done a lot for us," Matt said, almost with a warning tone, but Cailin could tell from the way his features softened that at least a part of that lot must have to do with Hallie's murder. She really needed to listen better when her mother was chattering on, between the wives grapevine and her father constantly listening to the scanners, they could probably do her job better than she could most days. Cailin cleared her throat, reaching for her memo book and getting back to business, "look, that neighborhood was full of bangers and crappy when I left in 2000, I'm betting it hasn't gotten any better, but if there is anything you guys know from working scenes that could give me a leg up, I would really appreciate it."
Chapter 2: Into the Fire
Casey and Severide gave Cailin a few pieces of information based on their work in the neighborhood to go on. It was enough for her to piece together that the vic in the car had more than a few enemies, most of them self-employed in businesses not recognized by the IRS or the legal system. That, combined with what she was able to get off the street, was also enough for her to realize the case probably did deserve being kicked upstairs to the intelligence unit despite the ass kicking she got when Belden found out she had willingly passed it off.
"I don't know how they did it up in the big city, Callahan, but here in Chicagoland, we like to actually solve our own cases and not pass them off to the glory seeking schmucks in bed with the Brass!" he roared in front of her desk. She just looked up at him, barely blinking, definitely not flinching, acting more like she was looking through him instead of at him; even as he turned purple and his angry spittle hit her face. "I don't care who your uncle or father or second grade teacher was, sweet cheeks! If you want to keep a gold shield clipped over that tight ass of yours, you better start solving some god damned cases or I'll have you out in a patrol car with a boot as your supervisor so fast, you'll forget you ever wore anything other than a uniform in any city!"
"Lieutenant!" the chief of the precinct roared behind Cailin's desk, "my office, now!"
Belden returned looking no less angry, but was a lot less vocal about it. Cailin was slightly concerned the man would chip a tooth given how tightly he was clenching his jaw as he dropped a stack of files on her desk. "Cold Cases, a couple actually might have a hope of a lead. You got two months to make my numbers look good or you're back polishing brass. Assuming you aren't already," he leered at her, making it clear he hadn't enjoyed his trip to the principal's office and blamed her for it.
Cailin growled low in her throat, cutting off only because she didn't want her file dinged anymore than it already was. "Yes, sir," she said, meeting his stare head on, refusing to look away first.
"Have you eaten, dear? I left some dinner in the oven," Mary Margaret said as soon as Cailin shut the side door behind her.
Cailin closed her eyes for a long beat, she had hoped it would be late enough her mother would have already been in bed. She knew she it was wrong getting annoyed at her mother's smothering, it was how she showed she cared. The woman was all about tending to others, had done it her entire life. First in her convent school, then with her husband and children; now with her plethora of grandchildren and on bad days, her husband again. Cailin hadn't wanted to be another burden to her mother, just like she had tried her best to not be one growing up, knowing full well her mother hadn't planned on anymore children. In fact the woman didn't think she could have any more after Cam's nightmarish labor and delivery.
It was part of the reason Cailin went halfway across the country to go to college and fought so hard to keep her full-ride, not wanting to feel like the nuisance she secretly always assumed she was. Her brothers hadn't helped that belief, loudly complaining about her being under foot and tagging along, making it clear how displeased they were that she had gotten her own room and fewer hand me downs. Not that she ever wanted to wear the frilly dresses and pastel colors that hung in her closet. Between wanting to prove that she wasn't a bother and trying to escape the crazy escapades of the chaotic Callahan clan, she had been fine hiding out in relative anonymity of New York until...
She shook her head, sitting down next to her mother at the worn kitchen table after pulling a glass down form the cabinet. She reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table, pouring far more than the thimble-full of a 'sleeping aid' her mother had.
"Cailin Marie," her mother warned, looking up from her mending with the disapproving look all the Callahan children knew well.
"I ate earlier, I promise," she said, reaching for the basket of laundry next to the table, realizing it was mostly hers. "Ma, I can do my own laundry, you taught me how to when I was seven, remember?" she said, forcing herself to sound grateful instead of annoyed.
Mary paused her hemming, patting her only daughter's hand. "I know dear, but you are so busy with your job," she said, before adding, "though I suppose if you had become a lawyer like you were supposed to, you could be sending all of our laundry out to be done."
There it was, Cailin thought, glancing at the clock. A whole five minutes, that might even be a new record, at least since her less than triumphant return a little over a month ago. She had gone off to school under the auspices of eventually getting a law degree. This had made her father's chest puff up in pride as he told every firefighter and cop in the city all about his smart little kitten and how they all better keep their noses clean once she graduated and came back home. Her mother had been less than thrilled, not so secretly hoping that she would settle down with 'poor dear Matthew Casey' and be the 2.0 version of her parents. She had disappointed them both, equally, at least. The competitive pressures of her honor's college combining with a bad breakup the night before her law school interview caused her to post two-hours late for the interview and smelling like the bar she had been in until near dawn. Her LSAT scores hadn't been good enough to override her flame out (probably because she had been a bar the night before she took them as well). After a phone call to her oldest friend who told her to stop giving a crap about what her parents wanted and live her life for herself, a life lesson he learned the hard way when they were fifteen, she ended up marching over to 1PP (after a cold shower, and greasy breakfast), joining the next NYPD academy.
"Ma!" she chastised, her tone angrier than she intended.
Her mother looked startled, still not used to this version her formerly cheery daughter, unsure if who it was that had returned home from New York. It felt like a stranger was sitting next to her at the kitchen table; not so different from her struggles with her occasional stranger husband, but at least she had Alzheimer's to blame with him.
She studied her daughter as she silently folded clothes, inwardly wincing every time Cailin paused for a large swallow of whiskey. Cailin's hair was the same golden wheat hers had been before it had turned mostly grey, her daughter's eyes the same shade of cornflower blue, somehow seeming far wiser than her own despite not being lined with the wrinkles age had deposited. The rest of her features: strong jaw, cupid's bow mouth, high cheekbones were pure Callahan; each of her children had inherited them. Though Cailin was cursed with the Sullivan family's lack of height. Mary Margaret used to say it was a trade-off for their unrelenting optimism, but that trait had clearly left her daughter; the few smiles she managed never met her eyes, her shoulders permanently lowered bearing an unseen weight. She worried for her youngest child, hearing her pace the floors late at night after crying out in her sleep, knowing the bottles on the bar had been replaced more in the weeks she had been back than they had in years. But she also knew better than to ask too many questions or express too much concern; the result of that being fully shut out of her daughter's heart and mind. Both her husband and eldest had similar walls they had put up after coming back from defending their country, refusing to talk about what they had seen or done. She held tight to the fact that they both had eventually returned to their former selves, though Connie Sr. was slipping more and more back into the shell of a Vietnam vet she had met back in 1969. Also, if she was being honest, between taking care of him and her grandchildren and volunteering with the church, she was too tired to put further efforts into her daughter; especially since Cailin had made it clear she was unwilling to speak of anything that happened in what she was now referring to as her 'former life'.
Mary sighed, tying a knot in her thread and placing the needle back in the sewing basket. "I ran into little Christy Casey at the market today," she said, studying her repair job and purposefully avoiding looking at her daughter, "though I suppose she is neither little or a Casey anymore. She had her two little ones with her; precious and full of energy those two, look just like her."
Cailin made a noise and poured another slug of whiskey even though she knew it didn't mix well with the stupid pills the doctor told her to take to sleep. "Thanks to Christ, I saw the wedding photograph you have of her, her husband ain't exactly a looker."
"Yes, but she did make a beautiful bride, didn't she?" Mary said pointedly, wishing she hadn't made the remark as soon as she saw her daughter's eyes flash with rage. "Well, she did. Anyway, she said Matty had been over for dinner, isn't it nice they still get together? She said Matt mentioned he had run into you at a scene. Are you two talking again dear? I hope so, you were always thick as thieves growing up. It might be good for you two to lean on each other, since...you know..." she trailed off, not wanting to say anything more, not knowing if her daughter was going to flee to her room or explode in fury.
Cailin did neither. Frankly, she was tired of being either a zombie or full of white-hot rage and beyond exhausted of everyone walking on eggshells around her. Plus, not that she would ever admit it, her mother did have a point; she and Matt had been inseparable for most of their childhood and had weathered more than their share of ups and downs. He was also in the unique position of knowing at least a little of what she was going though, sort of. She drained her glass, letting out a weary sigh and pushing her hair behind her ears and shoulders until she noticed her mother's eyes getting damp as they took in the scar on her neck. "It's late, Ma, why don't you head up to bed, I'll finish up down here," she said, wanting nothing more than than the solace of the dark silence.
Mary nodded, taking what she could get from her youngest. She rose and kissed her daughter on the top of her head, trying to not take it personally when Cailin stiffened and ducked out-of-the-way.
Cold cases were actually a surprisingly good fit for Cailin. She didn't have to interact with too many other people in the precinct, any family members that could be found were generally pleasantly surprised that anyone still cared about their loved one's death and her stubbornness was a virtue when dealing with cases other detectives had punted on. The only downside was the hours, which most cops would savor, seeing as they actually lent themselves to free time during hours normal human beings were also awake.
Tired of trying to keep up appearances around her many family members who all seemed far too intent upon getting her back into the fold; Cailin found herself stopping by 51 on more than one occasion, taking Matt up on his repeated invitations.
She wasn't sure what he had said to the other guys in the house, or if their Chief had mentioned he had known her father back in the day, but the guys refreshingly all kept up a hands off policy. This was a welcome respite from the pawing treatment she received the few times she tried to go out with former female civilian classmates.
Part of her lack of reluctance in getting to know 'Matt's people' was helped by the fact that three of them had just opened up a bar together, one that reminded her a little (but not too much) of her old neighborhood haunt in New York and was usually practically empty. It was also nice to have Shay and Gabby to talk to since they also understood what it was like to work in the middle of a sausage fest. And since Gabby's brother was Antonio Dawson, she figured it didn't hurt to make the effort of that connection. Even if she still was curious about what was the history between the pretty brunette EMT and her lifelong friend.
But that was all a mere blip in everything Matt was dealing with having taken on care of two children of one of the guys that had died from his truck after his widow ended up in jail on a drunk driving charge. She had tried to get information for Matt but Belden had ensured she was iced out of most information not related to her cold cases. At least she could give Connie a call to have him help Kelly out with the arsonist that was seemingly targeting him.
Growing up with her brothers' many antics, the myriad of situations the crew of 51 seemed to find themselves in on a near daily basis were oddly familiar to her and provided a much-needed distraction. For the most part, she was able to sit back and observe; able stay on the periphery without too much trouble, and help out as she could. Stopping by got her out and got her mother off her back, in addition to allowing her to at least partly reconnect with Matt. At least as much as he would allow, as he still seemed hurt from her disengaging from their friendship over the years and as much as she allowed herself, preferring to keep behind the safety of her armor.
She had carefully constructed her armor over the past year to be practically impenetrable, the docs called it a coping mechanism; as they did the nightmares and walking around like a zombie and feeling pretty much separated from the world. It suited her fine, to hide behind this armor, it helped when she wanted nothing more than to escape from her own skin. Overall, it was working pretty well.
Except for the day after the insomnia had kept her awake for the third night in a row, which she supposed was better than the nightmares. The same day Belden had chewed her out in the middle of the precinct for everyone to overhear despite her doing more in two months on cold cases than his other detectives had in the past two years. As if that wasn't enough, she had interrupted an old witness she had gone to re-interview in the middle of his afternoon crack smoking break and he had pulled a paranoid runner straight into a steaming pile of trash. The putrid scent permeating both them and the sedan issued to her, resulting in her having to pony up to have the damn thing detailed. Something she didn't have the extra cash for if she ever wanted to move out of her own room and into her own place. Which she desperately wanted, a point made even more clear to her when she ran into her youngest brother as she dragged herself home for a hot shower after booking her runner.
"Damn, Cal, you look and smell awful," Cam said, hunting through his father's toolbox for the wrench he needed to finish fixing the washing machine.
Cailin growled at him, "thanks a lot bro. Here's to hoping I actually have some clean clothes to change into since you just now showed up to fix the washer after how long of Ma begging you to?"
"I have a job, Cal and a life, plus there's a laundromat down the block!" He shut up when Cailin picked an errant piece of what she hoped was spaghetti off her leg and threw it at him.
Her mood did not improve in the shower, when she realized she was out of shampoo and was forced to improvise with a bar of soap. After throwing on her last clean shirt, a tank that was far more revealing than she would normally wear with a pair of jeans that weren't standing on their own yet, and blasting her hair dry, she realized the unending summer's humidity did not help her sort of clean hair in the least.
She groaned, catching sight of her alarm clock and knowing she was already running behind schedule on getting the three pans of food her mother had prepared for 51 there in time for dinner. She reached for the baseball cap hanging from her dresser mirror, a lump forming in her throat as her fingers brushed the tattered rim. She pulled it down, dropping to her old twin bed, running her finger over the embroidery, memories flooding over her, exacerbated by the scent that still remained. She held the cap to her face, inhaling before forcing herself to shut it down, to turn off any feelings that threatened to bubble to the surface. It was all her fault that she was alive and he wasn't and she wasn't about to let herself go traipsing down memory lane. She hid the cap under her pillow and ran down the stairs to find another one in the hall closet.
"Kitten, is that you?" she heard her father call from his den.
Cailin froze in front of the closet, slowly drawing one of brother's old caps out and tightening the band before placing it on her own head, pulling her ponytail through the back. It was just a nickname, one her father had called her since birth. Saying she had mewed more like a kitten than she cried, as if even back then she didn't want to be any trouble. How was her father to know that was what Nansenko had called her when he had...
"Cailin," she heard her father call out again, slightly confused and worried this time.
She rushed into the den, taking in his pajama pants and mis-buttoned dress shirt with a shake of her head. She knew her father was slipping further and further into dementia, far more than perhaps a seventy year old man in otherwise relative good health should be. She also knew that her family, her mother especially, had been in such denial about the great Connor Callahan having anything wrong with him that they failed to intervene when it could have helped. She blamed herself, she hadn't come home for but a couple of three-day visits since leaving for New York and most of that time spent eating and catching up with her brothers, their families and the extended clan.
"Are you going somewhere?" he asked, wrinkling his brow as he studied her.
"Yeah, Pops, have to drop off some food Ma made for Matt Casey and his crew," she moved around him, turning on a lamp in the darkened den and turning the channel on the television, as it was blaring Telemundo and she knew her father didn't speak a word of Spanish.
"Good, good, make sure you're back before curfew," he said, squeezing at her hand as she passed by. Cailin almost made a flippant comment at him about being a grown ass woman, but then she realized her father was lost, sundowning, thinking she was still a teenager and confusing Matt's truck crew for a sports team.
"I will, Pops," she said, squeezing his hand back and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, "Cam's fixing something and Ma should be home soon." She left, juggling the three foil pans and a heavy heart.
Chapter 3: Point of Origin
She pulled up to the station, hoping Mills hadn't given up on her; she could only imagine the last thing he wanted to do was cook after watching his family's diner go up in flames. She exited the truck her brother had lent her since returning to the city, though she rarely used it.
Pouch, the station mutt, came running up to greet her first, smelling the corned beef as soon as she stepped closer to the station. She worked to not trip over the dog while trying to not drop anything. Matt came from beside the truck where he was writing something on a clipboard, greeting her with a smile, though he looked slightly haggard and nudged the dog away.
"How many houses did Mother Callahan think she was cooking for?" he said, gesturing to take the trays from her. "Cally?" he said, taking in her near frozen posture, except for the slight tremble in her jaw.
She barely had noticed him at first; sitting at the squad table out front, working on a crossword. But as soon as she did, the world seemed to shift on its axis. It wasn't because he was an unfamiliar face, there were always relief guys coming and going, shifts getting switched all the time. No, it was because there was something eerily familiar about him. At first she thought it may have been his close-cropped haircut, or his impeccably pressed uniform or the way he squared his shoulders. Everything about him screamed military; however so did plenty of guys both in the FD and PD, she came across them every single day. None of them had left her feeling trapped, rooted to the floor and like her legs would give out at any second.
She suddenly realized what had sparked her reaction; he was rolling a challenge coin across his knuckles, back and forth quickly, but with relaxed ease and precision. She watched, entranced with the motion, time and place slipping away and taking her back to one of the first times she had been on a stake out with Doyle. That was his tell. Whenever he was stressed or anxious or bored, he pulled out that challenge coin like a security blanket, working it over his knuckles in the same way. She realized she was staring only after the stranger's eyes settled on hers before looking her up and down. He wasn't leering, as many of the guys around here had done when they thought she wasn't looking, he was more looking at her as if he was trying to solve a puzzle. They rested again, though this time the azure orbs seemed to have zeroed in on the scar running from behind her ear to the hollow of her throat. Over a year later and it hadn't faded, her delicate skin forever marred and her last clean shirt clearly revealing her badge of shame.
"Earth to Callahan," Matt said, wondering where his friend had just gone, but a little afraid to ask given her current trembling.
She shook her head, handing off the trays to his outstretched hands, "sorry about that, just had an idea about a case," she said, hoping to have played things off. "Did you get another candidate?" she said, hoping to sound casual, as they headed in towards the kitchen.
"Oh, Clarke, nah, he's a transfer from a closed house, along with another guy, Spellman. Colin's house isn't up on the block right? I hope he isn't having to deal with that witch McLeod." Cailin shook her head, still feeling shaky, overwhelmed with memories and actually feeling far more than she had in over a year and not sure how to process any of it.
Jeff Clarke watched as the pair walked toward the kitchen, something familiar in the way the woman held herself, moving away from Casey even as he held the door for her. Just as there was something familiar in the thousand yard stare she had gotten on her face as she entered the house, obviously triggered back to something unpleasant or at the very least something she was trying to keep buried. He had seen that look on plenty of his men in Iraq, had seen it on his own face as well. That look of the walking dead, trying to keep your head above the water that always threatened to pull you under. It was then he realized he was still moving the coin over his knuckles, the coin she had first focused on before the light went out in her eyes. She didn't seem military though, but she had obviously been to war, still seemed to be there in some respects. He took a deep intake of breath, rising from the table and placing the coin back in his pocket before deciding to see if he could assist with dinner.
Peter Mills didn't want to relinquish his control of the kitchen, even if he was happy to not cook. He brushed Cailin aside as soon as she gave him the reheating instructions, telling her to sit down and grab an orange juice, considering she was shaking like a leaf. She complied, working to convince Matt she was fine and relieved when he got a phone call. She was leaning against the table drinking the prescribed juice when the man she now knew was Clarke walked into the kitchen. Hermann and Mouch were the only other two in there, brainstorming ideas for Mouch's insane run at FD Union President and it didn't escape her observation that they gave him an extremely chilly reception. However, they had practically ignored her as well, so she wasn't sure what to make of it until she saw Mills' stare following Clarke with intensity as the man pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. She worked to ignore the pounding in her chest as Clarke walked towards her, her lungs seeming to refuse to take in air. She could feel her eyebrow twitching, trying to cover it up by draining her glass.
"Fighting Illini, you go to UIUC?" Clarke said, pointing at her cap.
"What?" she managed to choke out, feeling like an imbecile and reaching for the brim of her hat; remembering pulling one from the closet as her father was calling out to her. "Oh, no, my brother did, civil engineering. He's at HQ now, arson investigator. I went away to school." She felt like she was babbling and forced herself to sit down at the table, even though it meant she felt completely dwarfed by Clarke's over six-foot-frame. She figured it was better than falling flat on her ass out of nowhere.
Matt had walked back in and caught the tail end of what she said. "Stop being bashful, Cal, she went to New York, John Jay, full-ride, pre-law."
"You an attorney then?" Clarke asked, sliding a seat a couple of spots down the table out and sitting in it. Cailin only managed a strangled noise in reply. "Law school then?" Clarke asked, trying to gauge her age.
"Stop trying to fish for intel, Clarke," Hermann barked from the couch, "don't go running and telling McLeod we got a civilian back here. You better show your creds, Callahan, before we all get in trouble."
The air grew thick with tension, matched in Clarke's clenched jaw and tightening of his shoulder muscles. She knew from her own practice that he was breathing deeply, trying to not lash out like a striking snake. He was more practiced than her, because he was able to calmly stand up and push back from the table, striding out without a backwards glance.
"What the hell, Hermann?" Matt chastised, shaking his head before realizing Cailin was sitting with her fingertips pressed against her temples. "You alright, Cal?"
She shook her head, "yeah, just a crap day, got a killer headache. Think I'm going to head out, catch you later though?" Matt nodded, "yeah, next chance I get, we'll hang."
"At Molly's," Hermann suggested, though it sounded more like a desperate order.
"Don't worry, Christopher, I've already promised Gabby I will not dare darken the doorstep of another pub."
"Good, though try to not show off the girls in other pub's shirts either," he said, pointing at her tank. Both Matt and Cailin glared at him until he mumbled an apology and made an excuse to head to the locker room.
Cailin walked out, trying to focus on getting back to her ride before she found herself in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. They had happened less and less, however she was sure that was mainly because there had been fewer reminders since she had left New York and all its memories behind. Or because she had pretty much stopped feeling anything, including anxiety, since she stopped taking most of the cocktail of pills the shrink had given her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Clarke watching her as she walked toward the exit. She wasn't sure what possessed her to stop and turn, walking back to the table he was sitting at before. It was like the scene in the kitchen hadn't occurred. He was back to working on the crossword puzzle, the challenge coin once again making its way over his knuckles. She stood in front of the table, feeling awkward, especially since he didn't even look up. "I'm not a civilian or a law student. I'm a cop. A detective with the CPD, transferred in a couple of months ago." Clarke barely slid his eyes up to meet hers, simply nodding. "From New York, but you probably guessed that because Matt told you I went to school there, which I did, for my CJ Master's too." She was close enough now to see the emblem on the coin. "Marines, huh?" she said, forcing herself to shut up, which was odd because she was pretty sure this was the most she had spoken voluntarily since before...
Clarke could sense the change again, the clouds passing in front of her eyes, her whole face settling into a mask. "1st battalion, eighth Marines." He could tell by her expression that she actually understood what he meant. He decided to ask, though he couldn't believe he was actually eliciting additional information from another person, "you serve?"
Cailin scratched her neck, her scar suddenly feeling like it was on fire. "No, I didn't. My father and two of my brothers were Navy men, and my," she paused, "partner back in New York was in the Rangers, was at Takur Ghar." She stared at the fake wood grain on the folding table, unable to not see Jimmy's face in its surface. Her eyes suddenly caught a glint of light off his other hand, a gold wedding band encircling the ring finger of his left hand. Of course he was married; she just wondered why that fact made her stomach lurch, why she was disappointed by this fact, why she was feeling anything at all. "Nice to meet you, Marine," she burst out before stepping backwards as she forced herself to not turn tail and run to the truck.
He gave her a small smirk, giving her the first sight of his hint of dimples, though the smirk was mostly to cover his slight dismay at catching her staring at the gold band on his finger. "Wasn't aware we had actually met. Jeff Clarke," he said, reaching his hand out across the table.
She placed her hand in his, trying to not be fully aware of its heat or strength or how it reminded her of... "Cailin Callahan, though most of the mugs around here call me Cal."
"Nice to meet you, Cailin," he said, the smirk still there, though it was inching closer to a smile, "and thanks for dinner."
"See you around, Jeff Clarke," she replied, this time giving in and rushing back to the safety of the truck.
Jeff Clarke lay on his cot, happy for the quiet in the dead of night, but knowing that there could be a call-out at any second. Everyone else seemed asleep around him, which meant they weren't staring at him accusingly. It wasn't the staring he minded, it was the thinking he was a snitch. Obviously they knew little about the Marines, not realizing that Semper Fi wasn't just something he had tattooed on his flesh, it was in his blood. He wasn't about to spy on his brothers for some corporate witch, no matter what she threatened him with.
Things had been rough since he had been gotten back last August, with Lisa, with his house closing, with bouncing around doing substitute work, with trying to not replay death and destruction every damn time he closed his eyes. But he had worked hard, doing everything all the docs recommended down at the VA. He had hoped 51 would be a fresh start. A place to feel like he belonged again.
He realized the weight of the challenge coin was in his hand again, a calming habit he had picked up from some old-timer during those first dark days in Iraq. He originally had spun his wedding ring, but they warned him off of that; being not so politely informed that Marine wives don't take too kindly to their husbands losing their wedding bands in the desert sand. Of course he knew they were talking about Marine wives that didn't take up with another guy the second you shipped out and then tried to play like that hadn't been the case when you got back. He couldn't move the ring now, it was more permanently stuck than his wife had been. At first she said she was moving in with her sister, but then she got her own place, and he was pretty sure he had seen her out on the town with that guy on more than one occasion. It had been nearly a year after all, it was time to move on, he wasn't sure why he hadn't just cut the damn thing off, except back to that Semper Fi thing again.
His thoughts drifted to the woman who had been here this evening, the one that obviously had a past with Casey. Their connection seemed almost sibling-like, not romantic. Jeff couldn't put his finger on why that mattered to him or why he kept seeing her face, those empty blue eyes staring out, practically hearing her heart pound out of her chest, knowing she was feeling like she wanted to pull off her own skin. She had been through something close enough to combat, and for the first time since getting back to US soil, he found himself actually curious about something, someone. Sure, plenty of women hit on him at bars, on calls, at the market; but like most things he was completely numb or oblivious to the attention. There was something about Cailin Callahan that managed to cut through that better than any of the beta-blockers the docs had prescribed for him...
The nightmare happened again that night, though given Cailin's evening of reminders, she wasn't shocked in the least. It still didn't stop her from waking up in a cold sweat, tangled in the sheets, her face wet with tears her body only allowed herself to cry in her sleep. It stayed with her, the same nightmare it always was, probably because it had been reality...
She was trapped, her hands bound above her head, the chain link biting into her flesh, dried blood showing the consequences of her earlier struggling. Her body stretched to its limit, her bare feet barely able to touch the cold concrete floor, the sounds of her struggling, of the chain against the lock echoing off the puke green tile lining the wall and ceiling of the room. She knew their color only from memory, her eyes covered by the dark, scratchy fabric.
She smelt him, before she saw him; the overpowering combination of body odor, cologne and something she could only describe as pure evil. His body pressed up against hers as he undid the lock on the chain, his arm trapping her as she almost collapsed on the floor, pinning her own arms against her as they fell, a dead and useless weight at her side. The blindfold stripped off, his breath hot and acrid in her ear, nausea rolling over her in waves as she fought to keep down what little food and water he had given her. She wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't killed her the moment he discovered who she really was, she could only assume this sadistic bastard was using her as a bargaining chip. She was rapidly losing hope that her team would ever find her, comms had stopped working before he brought her here, wherever the hell here was. The last place she had been with him was on a well-appointed yacht somewhere off the coast. She struggled against him, with what little strength remained in her bruised and battered body. She was nearly positive he had drugged her, the blackouts, the loss of time, the blurry vision seemed greater than what she would think, not that she had ever been held captive before.
His response was the same as always: tightening of his arm against her broken ribs, the cold steel of the knife-blade against her carotid artery with surgeon-like precision, his voice low and raspy, "come now kitten, you know better, I don't want to have to hose out this room again," he warned jerking her so she faced the rust-stained drain cover in the floor. "What do you think, is today the day New York's finest finds their finest?"
"Fuck you," she hissed, even though her throat was beyond raw and any noise hurt after screaming herself to the point of blacking out when first placed in the room.
"Tsk tsk tsk, what happened to the lovely girl I met?" he clucked, moving the blade to the other side of her neck so he could cut off her oxygen with his beefy forearm.
It happened in an instant, the steel door flying open, nearly flying off its hinges from the battering ram, the ESU team flooding in, but immediately stopping, seeing one of their own with a knife held at her throat by their suspect in the middle of the room.
Doyle filed in hot on the heels of the strike team, also stopping short, though not because of training, but out of paralyzing and blinding rage at seeing his partner and the pure look of terror in her eyes."Ca-" he started but another voice drowned him out, "detective, nice of you to join the party. Took you longer than I expected, that's fine though, gave us a little time to get to know one another better, right kitten?" he said, laughing in a way that made everyone's heart stop. She tried to kick back at him, but she was already starting to black out from the weight of his arm crushing her windpipe.
"Let her go," Doyle commanded, trying to eye to see if anyone had a clear line of sight without hitting her, ready to take this animal down by any means necessary.
"You aren't really in a position to make demands detective, put your weapon down and lose the vest. I seem to have the best bargaining chip around not to mention the cargo has already been dumped or sold."
She shuddered, knowing that the cargo had been terrified, mostly underage, girls being trafficked to the highest bidder. Her movement made the knife blade pierce into her soft flesh, she could feel the blood immediately well up. Doyle and the team saw it as well, she could tell by the way the looked at each other, adjusting their weight and desperately seeking the one shot they needed.
Yet Doyle complied, setting his glock carefully down, knowing a misfire would easily ricochet off the tiles, and stripped off his vest. "Fine, what do you want then?" Doyle said, putting his hands palms up.
"Tell your team to leave, I will not bargain while someone is trying to put a bullet in my brain," her captor sneered, his breath hot in Cailin's ear.
Doyle looked at her, she tried to communicate with him with her eyes, gasping for air as the grip around her neck loosened just the slightest bit. Doyle gave the command, the team quickly filing out. As soon as the last one left, Doyle took one step forward, causing the arm to close tightly back against her throat more forcefully now, the blade biting in a bit more.
"Easy, detective, wouldn't want my hand to slip," he warned. Doyle was about to say something when she heard the hollow laughter, felt the knife slice a long diagonal path along her neck, from behind her ear to the hollow of her throat, the blood quickly bubbling to the surface.
She couldn't comprehend what was happening, time slowing down and speeding up all at once as he tossed her to the side, the knife dropped to the ground, the echo of the steel suddenly deafening but not as much as the gun that appeared in his hand out of nowhere as Doyle lunged towards her, the entire clip being emptied at his form as he desperately made his way towards her.
The team was back in a nanosecond, their own bullets quickly meeting and felling their target.
She fought the darkness weighing her down, crawling towards Doyle, who lay twitching on the ground next to her. She had one of her hands clamped against her own neck, the other reaching out to the bloodied hand Doyle was trying to raise toward her. "Cailin," he called out as her fingers entwined in his, the darkness overtaking the last reserves of her strength. "Don't leave me, Jimmy," she said, before giving in to the peaceful embrace of the dark...