Disclaimer: I do not own Chicago PD, Chicago Fire, or any song lyrics/quotes contained within. This fanfiction was written for entertainment purposes only, and as such, I am not making a profit (and have no intentions to go "50 Shades" mainstream on you guys).

A/N: Tried to change it from Justin going back to prison to him going off to the Army. I think the writers for the show definitely did the right thing by setting him on the good path, rather than just shipping him back off to county (although that would've had the potential set-up for a prison based show for the showrunner).


"She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with a disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward." – Markus Zuzak

July 2009

The loudness of the fists rapping against the door was almost as loud as her pulse, thrumming just beneath the surface. Justin had came in in a panic, as white as a ghost and breathing as if he had just ran a marathon. She had gotten the story out of him in pieces – he had shoplifted, it hadn't been much, and it had been for that dumbass Joe Catalano's crew on the south end. They had all grown up together, but where Rachel and Erin had eventually chosen the good path, Joe had chosen the wrong one and was gradually convincing Justin to follow behind him. A frantic phone call to Hank had them secure in the knowledge that he was on his way back to her apartment (and knowing him, it was at 70 mph), but it was a race to see which would get there first – Hank or the beat cops who surely had traced Justin's address by now.

The uniforms won out.

"Don't open the door. Just don't answer it.", his voice shook with each word, betraying how frightened he was at the prospect of jail time.
"Yeah, because that will really work when your dad shows up, yelling about the phone call one of us made to him. What's the worst that's going to happen, Justin? They'll take you down to the district, but you and I both know that the most you'll spend inside is the night."

Rachel rose from where she had been sitting on the sofa, making her way to the door, trying to ignore the worried stare she felt against her back. Two officers, who couldn't really have been that much older than either she or Justin, stood in the doorway.

"We're looking for a Justin Voight,", the taller of the two asked, sounding as if he wanted to be anywhere but right there at that very moment.
"That's me,"

The officers stepped around her, almost shoving her to the side, as they walked towards Justin. One moved to place his hands behind his back, while the other pulled a little laminated card from his shirt pocket.

"Justin Voight, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to have…"

The words of the officer reading the Miranda Rights faded away, becoming little more than an afterthought. They could fool themselves into thinking it'd be a simple overnight jail stay until they met with the judge in the morning – but they were just fooling themselves. Joe Catalano didn't have a reputation for doing little petty crimes; Hell, his personal catch phrase was "Go big or go home". His ambition didn't bode well for Justin's future at the moment. Hank's looming presence vaguely registered on her radar, trying to convince the Uni's to just release Justin into his custody, but they were two by-the-book rookies who weren't about to budge.

"I didn't mean for it to go this way, Rachel. I didn't! You gotta believe me…."


"I didn't mean for it to go this way, Rachel. I didn't! You gotta believe me…."

Rachel hadn't truly believed his words four years ago, and she wasn't finding them any more believable now. She knew that once Voight had gotten an idea in his head, there were no words that would convince him that any other idea was remotely close to as good – but shipping Justin off to the Army? Now? A part of her saw the logic behind Hank's idea: Justin would get the direction he needed, the structure that might help him really keep his head on straight, especially after getting mixed up with Catalano and his crew yet again. She found herself feeling stupid, as if Justin had pulled the wool over her eyes time and time again and she just kept falling for it. Things were supposed to have been different this time; they had Jackson to think about now, a family to try and hold together for their son's sake – and yet rather than working that CTA job, Justin had gone right back to his old ways. 'Fuck it', she mused. 'He screwed up. Let his father handle it this time.' Was she hurt? Sure. Betrayed? Absolutely. Disappointed? More than she'd ever be able to adequately put into words. That was the worst part. She knew that when she went home the four year old carbon copy of Justin was going to look at her, his eyes so hopeful and bright, and ask where his daddy was. There would be no lie to placate him until he moved on to the next thing, just weeks of waiting until he got leave, if Justin managed to make it that far. Rachel couldn't, and wouldn't, lie for him again.

A look at her watch told her that if she left now, she'd just barely make it to the daycare in time to meet Jackson. It would be a hard thing to explain to him, but she likened it to pulling off a band-aid – the faster she did it, the sooner it would be over and done with. Inwardly cursing him for putting them through this, Rachel pressed the 'end' button for the call, nearly running straight into someone.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't see you there,", she mumbled, looking up into the eyes of the person she had nearly knocked over it.

"It's no problem at all, Detective Clarke. Oh, my apologies. Are you going by that or Detective Voight these days?"

It was him, the same guy who had been parked across the street when Justin had left her home a few weeks prior. Sure, it could have been a simple coincidence, but in a city of almost 2.7 million people, it was one hell of a coincidence. She moved to grab him, but since it was nearly five pm and everyone was beginning to get off of work, she quickly lost track of him in the haze of coming and going.

Parking the sedan at the curb, Rachel slid from the driver's seat and leaned against the hood. 'Cue hyperactive four year old in three…..two…..one…..', she found herself thinking. The only problem was that when she got to zero, there was no hyperactive child. There was no one, for that matter. A quick check of her watch, dashboard clock and phone clock all revealed the same thing – sheshould have been on time.

"Mrs. Voight!"

One of the daycare teachers who insisted on calling her Mrs. Voight was waving her over to the doors, the sickeningly sweet smile on her face not matching the rapidly developing sense of panic that Rachel felt. A small watch and a note were thrust at her as soon as she walked up.

"Your husband picked Jackson up today. He's a gentleman, that one…"
"Ms. Vorhees, my husband didn't pick Jackson up today. He's….indisposed."
"Never the less, the man you sent in your absence was quite the gentleman. Jackson was just playing on the swing set – you know how much he loves those, It typically takes a small army to convince him to walk away. This man walked right up and away they went. With how easy he went, I just assumed it was someone you sent in your place. It was quite miraculous…"

Rachel turned from the overeager young teacher, and ripped open the note, holding it against the small watch. She found herself hoping against all hope that she was wrong, that everything was going to be okay. "C'mon, please don't do this to me, not now."

'Tick tock – this is a clock.
And when that clock date moves to eight,
You'll have to pick a funeral date.

Tick tock, Rachel. Jackson's waiting…'

"Shit."