Hey there. I apologize for not updating this story sooner, but things have been stressful lately and I oftentimes lacked the motivation and energy to sit down and write after work. Good news is, starting today (technically Monday) I'm on vacation for three weeks and will have lots of time and hopefully inspiration to write.

That said, I'm happy to see that you guys seem to enjoy this little story. It's supposed to be a shorter one, but the characters and my muse have a mind of their own and the stories tend to evolve into so much more than I originally intend, so who knows where this story is going to take us? I have a vague idea, but we'll see.

Special thanks to Floopdeedoopdee for being my faithful sounding board and for brainhurricaning with me.

Without further ado, here's the next chapter.

Sleep was a long time coming for Jay that night, the conversation with the Corsons preying on his mind unremittingly. It was particularly Danny's revelation that put him in a state of nail-biting emotional turmoil. The older man's unflinching willingness to turn himself in for a murder that he hadn't committed if that would have been the only way to clear the detective's name had stunned Halstead weeks ago, but at least he'd been able to log it as accidental then. A premature, precipitous promise made in the spur of the moment. After all, Mr. Corson hadn't yet realized or been able to think about the serious repercussions a choice like this would have, not just on him but on the entire family, specifically Gail. However, at this point, it was no longer a hasty decision, much rather it was a premeditated, life-altering sacrifice.

It deeply affected Jay that someone considered him worthy of it, yet at the same time it ladened him with a heavy boulder of guilt. The Corsons had already been through so much; Ben's death had nearly broken them seven years ago, and his death had left behind a scar that would never fully heal. Why were they so eager to jump to his defense when it had been him who had failed to prevent the tragic event which had ultimately robbed the family of a beloved member, thereby mugging them of their happiness? "Because we owe you, Jay," Danny's strongly assured words reverberated in his head. The brunette merely huffed and shook his head. "You don't owe me anything," he whispered into the sepulchral darkness of his bedroom what he hadn't brought himself to say out loud earlier, then added an even quieter, raspy "I'm not worth it."

Halstead could almost hear Gail and Danny's forceful protest to both statements and could almost imagine the disapproving yet saddened expression on Gail's face, but it wasn't enough to drown out the torturous and self-loathing thoughts occupying his mind. If anything, it reminded him of the unpleasant reactions of Intelligence ten days ago when he'd been wrongfully accused of murdering Lonnie Rodiger and unjustly stripped of his badge. Their scornful stares, wary sidelong glances directed at him in oppressive and judgmental silence from the second he had stepped into the bullpen that day. Their righteously spat I-told-you-so's. The hostile pushes and punches.

Jay was used to the lack of support, had dealt with it most of his life, nevertheless it hurt that none of them had even so much as given him the slightest benefit of the doubt. They had almost made him feel like he was one the dangerous criminals they pursued on a daily basis, but certainly not like a member of their team. Most certainly not like part of the family that Voight always preached they were. They might as well have charged him for murdering Lonnie or worse, put handcuffs on him, and it wouldn't have made any difference.

Swallowing the lump of unbearable emotions clogging his throat, a cluster of loneliness, isolation, and rejection, Jay heaved a sigh, wincing immediately as the deep inhale pulled at the tight muscles in his back. He twisted his upper body to lay halfway on his left side, hoping the new position would both alleviate the painful strain on his vertebrae and ease the constant pressure off his ailing ribs – a mistake for it only jarred his injuries more. With a defeated grunt he flopped back onto his back and hit the mattress with his fist to vent his frustration. Oh, how he wished for the pain to finally abate and let sleep claim him, praying for his brain to shut off as well. But no such luck. His digital clock contemptuously mocked him with the red bulky glowing numbers, the minutes ticking away at an agonizing pace. 1:58… 2:01… 2:03… 2:09…

He must have fallen into a fitful slumber at some point because when he blinked up at the alarm the next time it switched from 3:19 to 3:20. The detective wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but a persistent ringing registered in his sleep-addled brain, presumably the culprit who had startled him awake in the first place. Fumbling for the buzzing device on his nightstand, he accepted the call without even checking the caller and pressed the phone to his ear. "Halstead," he croaked, suppressing a yelp when the searing pain from his back and ribcage returned with a vengeance.

"About time you picked up," Erin's gravelly voice came from the other end, sounding grumpy and way too alert, and Jay knew there was only one reason why his partner would disturb him at this ungodly hour. Sure enough, a second later she confirmed his suspicions. "We have a case. Shooting in West Humboldt Park, probably related to a gang war," she tossed the information at him like a rocket launcher without any preamble. The former ranger quashed a tired groan as he let his head fall back onto the pillow, almost missing it when she started talking again. "Voight already picked me up, so you'll have to get there on your own. I'll send you the address in a sec."

Before he even had a chance to process her words, much less grapple for a proper reply, she had already hung up and he was met with static. Less than a minute later, the screen of his cell lit up with the advertised message stating the location of the crime scene. Jay squinted at it, then threw the phone onto the sheets beside him and rubbed a tired hand over his face, momentarily forgetting about the sizable swelling covering the left side of it until calloused fingers chafed over the sensitive bruised skin. He immediately retracted his hand, hissing and grunting in discomfort. It wasn't the stinging or the throbbing of his skull that caused him to cry out in agony, however. It was the scorching spasm in his back as he tried to sit up. Unbearable spikes of sizzling neuralgic pain that temporarily paralyzed him and left him gasping for air.

Halstead bit down hard on his lips as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, his breath coming in sporadic shallow puffs; any deeper inhales set his lower back ablaze with new licking flames of pain. In that moment, it was all he knew. Not even the repeated annoying dings of his phone could permeate the billows of misery. He didn't move a muscle, just lay there, waiting for the haze to clear and the pain to abate.

The detective had no recollection of how much time passed, but eventually the cramps subsided, ebbing into a pesky yet somewhat tolerable dull pressure on his spine. Only then did he dare move again. Ever so slowly and carefully, he pushed himself onto his elbows inch by inch until he was in a semi-sitting position, each tiny shift stabbing his back anew. With enormous exertion, he hefted his legs over the edge of the bed and scooted forward. By the time his feet finally touched the floor, he was sweating profusely and on the verge of passing out, his vision greying at the edges. He wanted nothing more than to give in to the urge and succumb to the welcoming oblivion, but his sense of duty forced him to stay awake. With bleary eyes he glanced at the alarm clock and was shocked to realize that nearly half an hour had passed since Lindsay's call. Well, shit. If she wouldn't have his head, Voight undoubtedly would.

On cue, yet another message popped up on his phone, but Jay ignored the device for now. Instead, he rose onto shaky legs and dragged himself to the bathroom. Standing up cost him tremendous effort, so much so that he briefly considered sitting down to use the toilet, but just the thought of having to push himself through the torture of getting back on his feet afterwards was enough for him to discard the idea. The simple act of relieving his bladder was torture all the same, sending new tidal waves of agony through his lower back. Breathing laboriously, he leaned his right shoulder against the wall for support and hung his head, choking back a stifling sob as he rode it out.

Amid tears, the detective eyed the shower stall across the room and wished he had the strength and time for a hot shower, aching for the soothing effect the warm spray would surely have on his sore muscles. Regretfully though, he had neither, and considering he was already late and on Voight's bad side he simply couldn't afford one. The sergeant would probably be hopping mad about his delay as it was. So, he pushed himself away from the wall, flushed the toilet and shuffled over to the sink, settling on splashing his face with colder than lukewarm water. It was a poor excuse for washing a day worth of sweat and grime off himself, but it would have to do for now.

Without even caring to dry off, Jay hobbled back into his bedroom to start the excruciating task of getting dressed. As neat and pedantic as the former ranger usually was about hygiene, for once he didn't care about changing out of yesterday's boxers into clean underwear. He merely stepped into his jeans and pulled an oversized linen hoodie over his head. For a second, he debated whether he should bother putting on socks or just save himself the hassle, realizing bending down was bound to set off a whole new firework of pain. But one glimpse out the window into the white flurry of snow reminded him that it was the middle of winter, one of Chicago's most brutal ones in quite some time. Unless he wanted to risk frostbite, there really was no way around it. Dropping to his knees ungracefully, Halstead was unable to stifle the grunts as he pulled woolen socks over his feet, and, since he was already down, slipped into his boots as well.

Scrambling back up from the floor turned out to be even more of a harrowing struggle than getting up from the bed earlier. His vertebrae and ribs screamed an elegy of protest, his thrumming head providing a steady beat to go along with it. When he finally managed to half push, half pull himself up on the bed frame and crawl onto the edge of the mattress, he was panting heavily, and his stomach was roiling with nausea.

Jay allowed himself to just sit there for a moment as he waited for the room to stop spinning like a merry-go-round. He absentmindedly reached for his phone which he knew to be laying discarded somewhere beneath the blankets to his right. With how crappy he felt, he was tempted to call in sick for the first time in his life, but one glimpse at the screen and he realized there was no way Voight would believe him without thinking he was dropping the ball. Somehow, he just knew the man wouldn't let him off the hook. Multiple missed calls, most from Lindsay, one from Al, and a couple from the sergeant himself, as well as five unread messages, all from his partner, glared at him accusingly from the device. In other words: he was screwed.

Unlocking the screen, he forewent the voicemail notifications and looked straight at the texts instead, dread building as he skimmed through them.

3:22 a.m.
Corner of N Pulaski and W Thomas

The address was roughly a twenty-minute drive from his apartment, more like fifteen at this time of night. Jay quickly checked the time in the upper right corner of the screen and was appalled to notice that it was already 4:28 a.m. Well, fuck. His coworkers must have expected him to make it to the scene half an hour ago at the latest, given the road conditions, which probably weren't the greatest with the steady snowfall. The fact that he hadn't shown up yet would have raised questions, maybe even concern among them. It really was no wonder they had blown up his phone with messages.

Halstead briefly considered sending an assuring text into their group chat just in case they were worried about him. Then again, they hadn't exactly been worried about him last night after Munoz had gotten the drop on him, had they, so why would they be worried now? Voight was especially likely to be in a piss-poor terrible mood at this point because he hadn't replied to his calls; and Erin would be too. Sure enough, scrolling down the messages, they confirmed his suspicions, immediately diminishing his desire to inform them about his whereabouts.

3:51 a.m.
You better be on your way. Voight's not in a good mood today and neither am I.

Noting the acerbity in his partner's words, that subliminal yet stinging allocation of blame, Jay tensed. She made it seem like his absence alone was the reason for the team's sour disposition when really, it was just as much being woken up at an ungodly hour that contributed to it. The detective felt guilt-ridden all the same. After all, he was taking his sweet time getting ready for the day in the cozy warmth of his apartment while his coworkers were already out there in the brisk and harsh weather working a crime scene. And that guilt only intensified when he read the rest of the texts, each one sounding more hostile…

4:06 a.m.
Where the fuck are you?

… more patronizing…

4:19 a.m.
You know what… Just meet us at the district. We're almost finished here anyway. Voight's pissed. And so am I.

… more condescending and spiteful…

4:21 a.m.
Maybe I need to ask Hank for a new partner with how unreliable you've been lately…that is if you even still have a job.

For a moment, Jay felt a twinge of disappointment and sadness in his chest as he noticed the rather conspicuous absence of even an ounce of concern in any of Erin's messages. But as he reread the last two, the hurt over that was rapidly swallowed by a growing panic. A tiny flame igniting in the pit of his stomach, spreading through his entire body like wildfire, and setting ablaze the scorching agony in his spine once more. Halstead tried to ignore it; his eyes were glued to the latest text and its taunting words. …that is if you even still have a job… He could almost see Lindsay's sneering face when she said those out loud, complete with a haughtily raised chin, a triumphantly arched eyebrow, and one of those knowing smirks she always wore when she was aware that he didn't have a sassy comeback on the tip of his tongue. Like now.

Because she was right: he was untrustworthy, couldn't be counted on. He had let the team, had let her down. After the last couple weeks, with him being suspended for the suspected murder of Lonnie Rodiger, and then allowing a gagged-out-of-his-mind junkie to prevail over him, he didn't deserve to be part of an elite unit. Being fired would serve him right, or at the very least being kicked off Intelligence for good. After all, it wasn't like the sergeant hadn't expressed his desire to do so already, not just once but multiple times in the few months since his transfer. Thus, Jay knew the older man didn't think he belonged on his team. And this right here? Him being late, leaving them all hanging? This was his third strike. The last straw that would break the camel's back – quite literally so. Deep down, he knew he was done.

Overwhelming flames of agony licked at his vertebrae, sending tingling sensations up into his arms and down into his legs, breaking his spiraling self-destructive thought process. Unable to ignore the flares any longer, Jay squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his chin to his chest, trying with all his might to breathe through it just like he had learned in the Army the last time he'd been in such unbearable amounts of pain. He bit down hard on his upper lip to muffle a whimper and pinched the bridge of his nose to keep the tears at bay. But the pesky little bastards broke free anyway, betraying and reminding him that he was no longer the tough soldier he used to be eight years ago. Maybe he never had been.

Either way, if he didn't want to lose his job for good, he needed to get to the precinct as soon as he possible could, so he berated himself to just suck it the fuck up and stop being such a freaking crybaby.

However, the monosyllabic question that remained was how? How was he going to get to work when his spine was on fire as if someone pierced it with thousands of heated needles? When the excruciating pain fogged up his brain with billows of smoke and deprived him of the ability to focus? As much as he preferred to drive himself, he knew under the given circumstances it was an accident waiting to happen, and it wasn't like it would help anybody if he ended up wrapping his car around a tree with him trapped inside. Or maybe it would. At the very least he'd have a valid excuse for not showing up at work, one that everyone would accept, even Voight and Lindsay. Maybe it would cause them to worry about him for once…? Huffing reproachfully at his own wishful thinking, the detective furrowed his brows and shook his head. Yeah sure, as if they would suddenly start to care about him.

Sighing in defeat, Jay pondered his alternatives. He wasn't particularly keen on calling an Uber, not with all the crazy stories he'd heard and experienced over the years, stories that not just made his skin crawl but also kicked his cop instincts into overdrive and made him want to arrest the drivers that raced through 20 mph zones at break-neck speed. Ironically enough, if he wanted to make it to the station alive, the odds of doing so were significantly higher when taking an Uber, and for once he wouldn't even mind getting one of those reckless drivers if it got him to the police station faster. Not that he had a choice in the matter.

Blinking teary eyes to clear his blurry vision, he opened the app on his phone, typed in the address of the twenty-first and requested a car. The estimated seven minutes for it to arrive seemed like a long wait considering what time of day it was, but Halstead quickly realized that he hadn't calculated how long it would take him just to shrug into his coat and gather his things. By the time he let the door shut behind him, the time had already shrunk to four minutes.

For the first time since he had moved into the run-down apartment building, the former ranger wished he had chosen a place with an elevator instead because there was no way he was going to manage the three flights of stairs in time to catch his ride. Panicking, Jay forced himself to move faster. With gritted teeth he made his way to the stairs and descended step after step after step on unsteady limbs. He held onto the railing with a death grip and tried to ignore the increasing leaflike shaking of his legs and the spiking agony cutting like a knife through his spinal nerves. It felt like an eternity until he finally made it to the front door and onto the street, and he half expected the driver to have left already. But when he checked his phone in growing desperation, he was relieved to see that the ETA had changed and left him with an added two minutes.

Jay stepped off the curb onto the street, his vision greying and head spinning. Another sharp spear of pain ripped through his back, causing him to stumble and sway on his feet. Unable to hold himself upright any longer, he braced himself against the hood of one of the parked cars and prayed for the Uber to arrive already. His prayers must have been heard because a moment later, a car pulled around the corner and stopped right next to him. With all his remaining strength, the detective schlepped himself the three feet to the vehicle, pulled the back door open, and dropped onto the seat with a groan. "You okay, man?" the driver asked after watching him struggle to get in. Halstead nodded stiffly but didn't look up. Instead, he fumbled for the seat belt, but the twisting movement ratcheted up the agony yet another notch. Yelping in frustration, he gave up. "You sure?"

"'m fine," the former ranger squeezed out an automated reply, his voice hoarse and strained. He felt the driver's eyes on him, and thinking he waited for him to tell him where to go, he rattled off his destination, "21st precinct. 1412 South Blue Island Ave," momentarily forgetting that both the address and the route were already displayed on the phone mounted at the dashboard. Despite that, the man behind the wheel hesitated for another minute, but just as Jay was about to glance up and urge him to start driving, the car lurched ever so slightly as the guy released the handbrake and tapped the gas pedal to pull into traffic.

Once the vehicle was moving, Halstead allowed himself to lean back against the headrest and briefly closed his eyes, wincing at even the smallest bump in the road. Shivering from the pain, he pulled his coat tighter around himself and stuffed his hands in its pockets. As he did, his fingers brushed against hard plastic. He pulled the cylindrical object out of the pouch, revealing a bottle of Advil he'd left in there the previous night, right before he joined the Corsons for dinner. Turning it around in his hand and picking at the dark blue label, he contemplated whether he should risk taking a few and having them fog up his brain even more. However, the decision was made for him when the driver had to brake rather abruptly to avoid hitting another car that recklessly pulled out of a parking space right in front of them.

"Fucking asshole!" the guy burst out, then added a rueful, "sorry, man. You okay back there?" Jay didn't reply, merely uncapped the Advil and shook out three of the white tablets, popping them into his mouth, tilting his head back as he swallowed them dry. "Here, take this," the man's rumbling bass cut through his pained haze. Halstead looked up at the bottle of water, then at the driver holding it out for him. Frowning, he grabbed it and nodded gratefully before taking a few sips to wash down the meds, then nuzzled his throbbing left side of the head against the cool bottle, hoping for fast pain relief. "You sure you don't want me to drive you to the hospital instead?"

The detective raised his eyes to meet the driver's. Taking in the man's thoughtful expression, he nearly choked when he recognized genuine concern etched onto the facial features. Overwhelmed by it, he quickly averted his gaze and nodded towards the guy's phone, thereby indicating he wanted him to drive just where the device navigated him to. So, the driver did just that albeit not without checking on his passenger with frequent glimpses into the rearview mirror to make sure he was still conscious and breathing. And when Halstead didn't move to get out of the car by the time they reached the district, he made him aware of the fact. "We're here."

Jay's lashes fluttered a few times to bring the familiar surroundings of the precinct into focus. Nodding appreciatively, he opened the door and braced himself as he climbed out of the vehicle. Just the small motion of lifting his right leg out of the car and onto the curb brought tears to his eyes, nevertheless he locked his jaw and forced himself to keep moving. The whole ordeal was painstakingly slow and beyond agonizing at last he managed to stand. Muttering his thanks to the driver, both for the ride and the man's patience, the former ranger shut the door and dragged his feet to the back entrance. Although he knew he wouldn't find any care nor comfort inside, he prayed that this wouldn't be the last time he entered the building.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this.

Stay safe and healthy out there as the delta variant ruthlessly patrols the world.