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"Come on, come on, come on..." she muttered under her breath. "Dammit!"
The shout was infinitely louder as someone cut her off just as she merged. On any other day, the Chicago skyline coming into view as the sun sets is beautiful.
Dusk brings warm pinks and deep purples, and the sky sparkles like diamonds with the city's lights. At least, she always felt that way. But then, she's a Chicagoan through and through, loves her city to the core, and has always felt immense pride.
Now, she feels the curl of anxiety and helplessness in the pit of her stomach as she slams her hands against the steering wheel and swears again.
She never handled feeling helpless well, and she couldn't stay stagnant. She always ran into the fray first when a problem arose or there was an issue. Most people thought it was because she was fearless or just reckless, but the truth is that she's almost always afraid, and sitting idly by in any capacity isn't in her blood.
Her body practically itches over the concept of inaction. It's painful for her in a way she can't begin to explain or describe. She's felt the licks of that eating away at her since she learned the news—a frenzy of text messages and emails from Kim, Adam, and Kevin.
Intelligence disbanded. Reid was out for vengeance, but the last bit knocked the wind out of her: Dante was in jail.
She had been a few hours away, but it felt like she was in another country altogether. Kiana followed up on another Reid lead that turned up cold. She hated updating Voight on that, and she could sense that he was eager to have something substantial to assist in taking down this vermin.
But it was a bust.
Reid ended up on the right side of the law for all the wrong reasons, and the more information they acquired on him, the more apparent that became.
Kiana also knew he hadn't finished toying with them yet; it was a sport for him, pure entertainment on his part. He was eerily fixated on Voight and wanted to see the man suffer. But the most terrifying thing was that he knew how to execute his plans to hurt them. Reid knew how to get to Voight and all of them, and it was unsurprising how he struck.
She hadn't been with Voight long, but she's been able to figure out so much about him, piece together a bit of his story, and how he operates.
Voight lives for the job; it consumes him, being his entire life, and just being a member of his team and witnessing his rapport with others, she can understand he's the type to cling to his unit as family.
They're all he has -- Intelligence is all he has.
It wasn't until she was two hours away that she learned the news, and she's been a ball of anxiety and nervous energy since.
She hated being away from everyone—from everything, missing out on the action, and standing side-by-side, shoulder-by-shoulder, with her team.
Adrenaline coursed through her body, and she practically vibrated. She hated that feeling; there was nowhere to put it. By the time she crossed back into town, she didn't know what to do with herself or where to go next. She couldn't go back home, not knowing that Dante was sitting in jail somewhere, exposed and at risk.
He wasn't fragile by any means. Truthfully, she knew he was one of the toughest people she'd ever encountered, but there was this underbelly of vulnerability and softness that she suspects she's one of only a few he allows to bear witness to it.
Dante is strong and formidable in his own right, but also tired. She's seen this for months, quietly observing as he struggles to cope with nearly losing her, Gloria, and pieces of himself in the process.
His insomnia has alarmed her on many occasions, the dark circles under his eyes like war scars, alluding to battles she can't begin to fathom he's enduring internally. Her concern only ratcheted up a notch when he injured his shoulder. She's seen him spar, even done it with him a few times, and she knew how serious he took it -- how cautious he's always been.
It was a testament to how truly out of it he's been that he could sustain such an injury, and sadly, he only used that to beat up on himself further, doubting his usefulness and constantly fearing that he was a burden.
She can already envision how dark his headspace is now, or maybe he's resigned. If there's one thing she's learned about Dante over the past few months, it's that he takes atonement seriously—he's a true Catholic, always open and willing to suffer for his sins, haunted by guilt, never able to simply forgive himself and move on.
There was no way she could leave him there, and she said as much, texting Voight to tell him she could maybe get another loan from her mother for bail. She could leverage her for that and spend more time with the woman. Something.
Before she could even put her phone down, Voight told her he was on it, had the money, and was short and to the point. She could practically feel the tension and anger rolling off him through every punctuation.
When she pulls up to Voight's house, her phone rings, she is antsy, on edge, and too keyed up to sit there and not do anything. When she hears the collect call message, she eagerly accepts the charges without a second thought.
"Ki," Dante's voice is barely above a whisper over the crackling line. "Kiana," he says more formally, his accent thicker than usual, from the stress or his general weariness, she'll never know.
"Dante," she breathed into the phone, unable to hide her relief. "I just found out. You good?"
She knew the question was pointless given the situation. How could he be? But she couldn't help but ask anyway. Unsurprisingly, she didn't bat an eye when he skated around answering.
"I can't really talk long," he breathes out, buzzers sounding off and crosstalk heavy in the background.
"Can you..." he pauses in that way he does when he wants to ask for something but can't bring himself to do it without feeling like a burden. But he eventually pushes through it as she waits.
"Can you check on my mom?" His voice sounds dry and detached, and she knows he's trying to keep his emotions in check deep down. She'll be getting in late because it's her Bingo Night. She usually has her phone cut off, but can you, uh, just let her know I'm not coming home tonight? I can call her and explain the rest tomorrow."
"Dante--" she starts, her eyes locking on Voight in his doorway. He doesn't let it show if he's surprised to see her there.
"Please, Ki," he cuts her off. She hears voices rise in the background, and a lump forms in her throat. He clears his throat, that despondent lilt to this voice coming in harsher again, and she knows he's putting on for prying ears, his voice is steel. "Baby, listen, I have to go."
"Dante, I'm coming to get you right now," she rushes out before the line goes dead.
Voight opens the passenger door just as the line goes dead. He assesses her, tilts his head, emits that signature grunt, but doesn't say much else.
"If you don't have the money, boss, I can get it from my mother," she starts. "It's just, we can't leave him in there. It's too --" She can't bring herself to say "dangerous," but the flash of something behind his eyes would've stopped her anyway.
Then she remembers. She studied up on Voight when she got to the unit, to know who she was working with and what to expect. Goodness knows she didn't have the greatest track record after her last partner.
She remembers the story about Alvin Olinksy, how Voight couldn't get him out of prison in time -- the tragedy of his long-time partner and best friend shanked to death in prison, and whatever guilt Voight may still carry over it.
There is very little she knows and understands about Voight. He remains an enigma. But what's true is that he cares about his unit. She knows he views his squad as some extension of his family, that they're likely the only thing resembling family that he has left at all, and chances are, he wouldn't want a repeat of what happened before.
Voight would never let Dante sit in a jail cell any longer than he needed to, and he'd ensure he didn't, by any means necessary. It's an unspoken thing they could both agree on, and she could read it in his assessing eyes.
His jaw was tense. She could see the ticking and pulsating in it, as he bit back whatever rage seemed to thrum through him. Like her, he was all barely restrained emotion. Unlike her, it resulted in this eerie stillness and silence like that of a carefully calculated predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"He good?" Voight asks, voice clipped, harsh, straight to the point.
She merely shrugs one shoulder. Unable to answer what she can't begin to guess or know. Her leg bounces. She rolls her neck before meeting his eyes, opens her mouth, but there's nothing really to say. Fortunately, Voight welcomes the silence.
He tosses a duffel bag on the passenger seat. She doesn't ask about the dust particles and marks, drywall? Nor does she ask him where it came from. Frankly, she doesn't really want to know.
Something in him must sense how she's feeling—helplessness and guilt. Maybe he knows that Torres very much feels the same—shame, blame, and guilt for leading them into this position when, in actuality, Reid was diabolical enough to dig up anything on anyone to get what he wanted.
"Text me when it's done," he says coolly. He makes eye contact with her and nods, briefly squeezes her shoulder, before slamming the door and watching her pull away.
By the time she reaches the holding center, she's in a fog. Reid evidently pulled some strings and wanted to make the process as difficult as possible. It was a good two-and-a-half hours of the runaround, meant to weigh her down, demoralize her, and kill her spirit. She takes it in stride because she wasn't there for Reid's stripdown.
When the buzz of the door sounds, she bolts up like a pin is stuck in her. She can practically feel his presence before she sees him. Dark hoodie, signature white t-shirt beneath, jeans, and a cold, expressionless face that she shockingly can't read.
Although she's only known him for a few months, they've had an instant bond. She cannot properly describe it, but she reads him well, probably better than most. It's like a part of him let down his defenses, but only for her, and she's still trying to figure out what exactly she did to earn this honor and privilege.
But this version of Torres feels inaccessible to her in a way that she often sees him dole out to others. He stops in front of her with unseeing eyes. They're bloodshot red, and the faint darkness beneath his eyes gives way to a different type of restlessness. She can't be sure, but she can see he's regulating his breathing, imperceptibly to others, but not to her. He's anxious, and her mind reaches back into its confines to recall just how deeply he was affected by Marion.
He hasn't quite been the same since that undercover assignment, and she's prodded as gently as she could to get him to open up about it, but she hasn't made much progress.
He hasn't said it, but she knows some of that triggered his insomnia. She knows he suffers from PTSD that he hasn't quite faced head-on, and there have been moments when he's physically there but mentally somewhere else -- trapped, clawing at himself internally, trying to breathe, panicked.
Torres clings to sparring and working out like a lifeline because he can't quite handle all the stillness, either. If he's not moving, he's dead, like a shark, and she gets it, relates, they're cut from a similar cloth in that way. But he's all taut stillness and coldness, and she can tell he's just trying to keep it together.
"Torres," she says firmly, trying to get his attention. He's distant, still not seeing. "Torres!" She tries again, louder and firmer. But he's away, far away, and her heart breaks a bit, knowing that this is yet another thing he'll internalize and struggle to shake off.
"Dante," she tries again, softer. It does the trick, his eyes meet hers, and she can see the long distance it takes before he's present and with her. He blinks, nods at her, and grabs the rest of his belongings.
He's walking slowly, not near her, but trailing behind. It's almost as if he's shielding her from this place, from what lurks behind that steel door and the walls, serving as a barrier between her and this other world. It's fitting, really. He stands between these two worlds all the time, occupying a space reserved for the few, confusing, terrifying, and troubling.
He slides into the passenger seat without a word, so she doesn't extend any words either. His face gradually slides to the window pane amid the drive, and she notices her leg finally stops bobbing. All that nervous energy dissipates because even though the future of Intelligence is unknown, and Reid poses a threat, at least she has him back, safe.
She shoots Voight a quick text, follows it up with some to Adam, Kim, and Kev, and then silently makes a decision.
If he notices that she didn't take him right home, he doesn't say. She pulls up in front of her apartment. She reaches to grab her duffle bag, but he's already on it, slinging it over his good shoulder and trailing behind her until she gets to the door. It's like he's on autopilot, and it's getting to her.
When she opens the door to her apartment, her sanctuary, and walks in, it takes her a moment to see that he doesn't follow.
He hasn't been there before. No one from her new team has. She doesn't just let people into her home because it's the only place she finds peace. She also doesn't like to feel so exposed. Her apartment is the perfect peek inside of her world and who she is.
Artwork adorns the walls, and her vinyl collection is only trumped by her bookshelf, which is filled with books and her extensive movie collection. Her place wasn't much, but it was hers—warm, comfortable, inviting, and safe. She hoped it would feel that way for him, if only he'd cross the threshold. But he looks unsure, hesitant, and something she can't quite describe.
She tosses the keys in a little ceramic bowl and shucks off her jacket, placing it on a hook. She wanders into the kitchen, double-checking that there are still more than enough leftovers to accommodate both of them.
"I called your mom earlier," she says casually, softly, feeling his eyes track her as she flits about. "I just told her that we were swamped on a case, maybe pulling an all-nighter or two, and that you'd call her when you get a chance."
She pulls out the leftover Chinese food, plates, and utensils and debates whether to reheat it on the stove like a civilized person or just nuke it in the microwave. She settles on the skillet to give herself something more to do and make it taste better.
"She said she won big time. She's thrilled about that, said she'd be staying a bit longer to see if her luck would continue," she chuckles over how enthusiastic his mother sounded. It made her smile.
While she hadn't spent much time around the woman, her warmth was infectious. Torres often brought her leftovers at his mother's insistence. She always asked about her and said she prayed for her, too. It's the type of mom stuff she never experienced firsthand, and it always makes her heart clench at the thought.
"So," she continues, finally looking up to see that he was still frozen somewhere near the doorway. "Um, I figure we can just eat something. I have some blankets, and you can maybe crash on the couch just to ..." Her voice trails off.
She wants to say 'catch his bearings' come down from whatever dark cycle he fell into at the reminders of being in jail -- the fear of what he could have faced from those who recognize him as a cop or as the guy whose dark past clings to him like a second skin no matter what good he does.
She wants to tell him that she just wants to give him the space to feel safe for a bit before he heads back home to put on that act for his mother—that their worlds have been upended, and maybe she needs this, too. A beat to regroup before they sharpen their blades and go to war. A moment to decompress without having to be alone -- because they're both just always alone, unlike the others.
"Um, it's no pressure, though," she finally starts up again when she sees he still hasn't said anything, moved, or anything. "You don't have to -"
Before she could continue, he was across the room in a few strides. He steals her air with a melding hug that feels so desperate it almost makes her want to cry. His fingers dig into her body as if she's his lifeline and he's terrified of what happens to him, how untethered he'd feel if he let go.
She hugs him back, holds him in a firm embrace, and lets him know she won't let go until he does. His stubble is scratchy against her neck and cheek. She can feel the hot tears that must have been quietly sliding down his face, but she doesn't say a word. She doesn't so much as shift.
It's like he finally cracked -- the facade of strength he had to maintain slipping until all that was left was a bittersweet release. He smells like sweat and the faint scent of fabric softener. His heart pounds against her chest until it finds a slow, steady rhythm to match hers.
She's not even sure how long they've been like that, completely intertwined with each other, until his voice cracks as he says, "Thank you, Ki."
He clears his throat and pulls away slowly, awkwardly. His tear-streaked face makes him look more exhausted than before, and his red-rimmed, glossy eyes only add to the effect. He sniffs and clears his throat again awkwardly, and she can tell he's headed down another shame spiral, embarrassed and guilty. She wants to ask him why he always carries so much guilt. Why is he so afraid of burdening people with his presence, who told him he wasn't worthy?
But it's not the day for that conversation. One day, maybe.
"Hey," she says, sniffling back her own emotion. She firmly cradles his face in both hands, making her voice just as firm to match as she meets his eyes, willing him not to avert them. "I got you," she says firmly.
"You know that, right? I always got you just like you got me. Yeah?"
He sniffs back more emotions, but there's a clarity in his eyes she hasn't seen all day. He nods, sniffles, runs his hand down her arm, and briefly squeezes her fingers.
"Yeah," he says, and she could hear that he was coming back to himself.
"Let's eat," she says with a smile, returning to the stove. "I call dibs on the Kung Pao."
-o-o-o-o-