Matt Casey didn't need to check blades, polish knobs, arrange tools, scrub bug guts off truck 81, he was a Lieutenant and could designate the chores to be done, but he didn't, he did it all, and more, by himself. One chore after another, he found something to keep him at the truck, in the bay and busy. A Sirius device sat nearby, playing old-time radio shows – currently, he thought maybe he was listening to Johnny Dollar. He didn't talk or whistle. He didn't look around or allow his eyes to stray from the job at hand.

No, because that would be stupid.

Kelly Severide was slouched in his favorite chair, feet on the table, ankles crossed, head back, eyes staring vacantly.

He didn't want company, didn't want attention, didn't want anyone around. Back from a call that hadn't gone as expected, he was taking it hard and not even Boden had attempted to talk him around.

It hadn't been Kelly's fault, not the loss, not the death and he certainly didn't deserve blame, but family members tended to lash out and whoever they saw first, ended up being their target.

And truck hadn't been on the call.

They could all usually shake things off after a bit, yeah, some cases where harder than others to let go, but words hurt and sometimes, only time; not kind words, not advice, not encouragement, not gestures of support…..could help.

So Casey hadn't been there.

Oh, counseling and therapy would come, maybe a session with the Chaplain or a barstool conversation with Dr. Charles at Molly's. Boden would suggest it, Severide would refuse, and everyone would ask what Casey thought but it was too early to know.

People would mean well, tell Casey what he should do, what they thought would help, what Severide needed. But that is where he and the rest of the station differed. He'd never tell anyone how to handle Kelly Severide. He doubted anyone would listen to his words of wisdom anyway...and if he did, they certainly wouldn't agree with the way he did it, would argue with him, cause a scene.

He vigorously rubbed a nonexistent smudge off the headlight….recalled an argument with Gabby in front of everyone over how he'd chosen to handle Severide after losing Shay.

"What were you thinking, when you let him go to Vegas by himself?"

"Nothing happened." He scoffed.

"Nuth…..Nothing happened!? Did you really just say that? My God Matt! He got married!"

Casey bobbed his head. Right, yeah, that. See, he hadn't expected that to happen. He knew Severide had needed time by himself and if traveling to another state is what it had taken for him to get it, then Casey had sent him on his way with a cheery wave.

Convincing Severide's men to find excuses not to accompany him had taken some wheeling and dealing, but he'd managed to do it. He'd expected Severide to take up with a dancer or show girl, come home with a hickey, at most an STD, not a wife!

"Okay, yeah, sure, I didn't see that happening, but not like he married some criminal who snorted lines off our coffee table."

"We didn't know that. How would we know that? You made a mistake letting him go, but oh, you won't admit it, will you?"

"You really think that of him?"

"You let him go to Las Vegas." She smacked her hand against her palm with each word for emphasis. "He was alone and grieving. Anything could have happened!"

Let him? Hell, he'd encouraged him! He'd all but sent him!

"What the hell else was I supposed to do? He was drowning Gabby!"

"He met her on the floor of a casino. What if she had been a drug addict? Or worse?!"

"Whatever he needed to get through losing Shay, and if that meant…"

"Who are you, to make that decision? And why is it always about Kelly? I lost her too!"

"Are you saying I wasn't here for you? Jesus! I let him go and stayed with you!"

"Stayed with me? What? You didn't want to? You wanted to go with him? He needed you more, is that it?"

"Don't put words in my mouth. I never said that!"

"Well, you let him move in with us!"

"We. We let him." Matt corrected.

"I don't recall being asked, so much as told."

And Casey snapped and oh, did he yell.

"Is he taking stupid chances at work? Pulling kamikaze rescues? Not waiting for back-up? Risking all on a wing and a prayer? Is he? Is he Gabby!? Or is he alive and well and leading his men?"

"Don't you yell at me!"

"Then let me handle him and stay the hell out of the way I do it!"

When Severide was like this, you left him the hell alone. You were there for him, but you didn't talk and you didn't offer your help or ask him if he needed anything….you just left him alone and putt-putted around the truck doing useless chores to look busy while you kept him company.

He wouldn't talk or eat or drink, he'd just sit and stare and ignore the food and drinks everyone brought him.

So, he sat and Casey fiddled.

Whenever Casey happened to steal a glance, his brooding friend's stare was vacant, but when he was shoulders deep into some compartment or another of the truck, he felt that all too familiar tingle down his back that told him he was being watched.

So yeah, Severide knew he was there and if he didn't want the company, he'd get up and leave. Chief had pulled both Casey and Severide from any calls but a quiet day other than ambo calls was expected.

Severide often tended to stick to himself. Oh, he'd join his co-workers and friends at events and parties and celebrations, but it wouldn't be unusual for him to be at a table working a crossword or word game, separate from the others – if he even bothered to show up in the first place. But there were times, rare though they may be, that he sought company, even comfort, and since the loss of Shay, more often than not, the person he wanted to provide both, was Matt.

His phone, balanced on the bumper of the truck, buzzed; Boden asking for an update, should he intrude? Did Casey need anything?

Casey risked a glance at Severide, texted his Chief back suggesting more time.

Severide would mourn the loss of the life he couldn't save, come to accept the decision he made to pull his men and bounce back, just…..it was a hard one to swallow.

And Casey hadn't been there.

It would be hours, they'd likely be there all day…the guys would wander in and out as the hours passed, would make no headway getting through to one of their own and while Casey could share what he knew about the best way to handle Severide, he'd keep it to himself. It worked for him, there was no guarantee it would work for anyone else.

A couple of hours passed. People came and went. The ambulance went out, returned, went out, stayed out. And still, Severide sat in his chair and stared. He didn't sleep, didn't move, just sat and stared.

Finally, tired, hungry and thirsty, Casey headed off to wash up and scrounge up some food in the kitchen. For once, they guys on shift didn't complain or nag about whose food was whose, offered whatever Casey wanted, asked how Severide was doing, suggested he eat.

Yeah, see, no….that was part of the problem. You didn't suggest or tell Severide anything when he was like this….you. just. didn't.

"Thanks," Casey said sincerely, "Appreciate it." He sat down to eat chili and corn bread, hot from the stove, opted for milk over water. His offer to help clean up was waved off, everyone knew he wanted to get back to Severide, would pick up the slack at a later time.

Armed with two oranges, bag of mini pretzels and a bottle of water, Casey returned to the bay, sat down at the squad table, proceeded to peel an orange. He broke it apart, put the separate pieces on a paper plate, emptied the bag of bite-sized pretzels.

He didn't say; 'you need to eat or 'you should eat something' or 'anything sound good'. He simply put once slice of the juicy, fragrant orange on a napkin with 3 pretzels, slid it within reach of Kelly, screwed the lid off the bottle of water, set it near the napkin….and still, he said nothing.

Severide had sat still for so long without blinking, he had to be stiff, his eyes dry, so Casey leaned over, snagged a bag, drew it closer, dug through it while munching on a pretzel, unearthed a bottle of aspirin, shook out three, added them to the napkin.

And still, he said nothing, ignored Severide like he wasn't seated with him at the table.

If he could tempt Severide to eat, then maybe he'd be able to talk him into a hot shower and they could head home.

Casey peeled the second orange, pulled it apart. He ignored his phone buzzing in his pocket, pulled a paperback spy novel out of his back pocket, got comfortable.

Silent company is what Severide needed and Casey was willing to give it as long as his friend needed it.

It took a bit longer than he anticipated, he'd eaten over half his orange – and he'd never eaten an orange so slow before in his life! – but finally, Kelly blinked, leaned slightly left, reached for the napkin, pulled it closer with a fingertip, snagged the aspirin but the water was out of reach.

Something Casey had done deliberately. Severide had gone 'catatonic' long enough.

Kelly uncrossed his ankles with a wince and a hiss. Muscles stiff, he swung his feet to the floor, sat forward. After swallowing the aspirin, he ate the orange slice, then a pretzel.

Casey waited a moment, casually replaced the slice of orange. This action was repeated until Kelly didn't eat the last slice set before him and leaned back in the chair with the pretzels. Casey ate the last piece of both oranges.

Again, he replaced the pretzels on the napkin, one or two at a time until Kelly had had enough and the water was finished.

He didn't remember when or how he'd learned the trick to get Severide to eat, but he knew had he set the entire orange and full bag of pretzels in front of Severide, he wouldn't have touched either. The evidence of prior untouched offerings proved him right.

Casey considered which vehicle to drive home, decided to leave his truck and drive Severide's car.

"Wanna shower?" He asked quietly, tucked the book back in his pocket. Severide shook his head. "No? Okay." He was going to need it at home. He doubted Severide would retreat to his room, would likely crash on the sofa and the TV would only irritate him, so Casey didn't want to be bored. "Keys in your locker?"

A slight nod was all he got, but he understood it was confirmation where the keys were, which meant, he was ready to go home.

He'd taken longer to come around than Casey had thought he would, but not as long as Casey had been prepared to wait.

Leaving Severide to stand and stretch, work the kinks out of tight muscles, he headed to the locker room to collect their things and Kelly's car keys and was besieged by both squad and truck guys.

"Hey Lieutenant, all okay? How's he doing?"

"Rough call."

"Anything we can do?"

"He need anything?"

"Do you?"

"Catch up with him at Molly's in a couple days," Casey advised. He understood everyone meant well, would never blow off or discount their concern, but now was not the time to approach Severide. He sent a text to update Boden they were leaving, another to Gabby they'd be home when she got there. Severide appeared in the doorway. "Hey, ready? Then let's go."

Severide, bag slung over his shoulder, nodded, silently followed Casey out to his car, wordlessly opened the passenger door, tossed his bag over the seat into the backseat, got in.

Casey shut the door, started the engine, grinned at the rumble as he gave it gas.

"Purrrrrttty." He cooed, gave it more gas, wrangled the transmission into first gear. "Can I smoke 'em?"

And finally, Kelly spoke; apparently abuse to his baby was a no-no. "No." He laid his head against the window, let his eyes close…Christ they burned. "Go down Baker."

"Opposite direction from home, it's outta our way." He pulled out, driving like grama….damn clutch….there, third gear was a good cruising speed.

"Dipsey has custard milkshakes."

If Severide was willing to drown his sorrows in ice cream, rather than beer and hard liquor, Casey would walk to the Dipsey…he flipped the blinker on, took the third left onto Baker Street.