Chapter Text
Hank Voight has no shortage of enemies - so what's one more? The problem is -- this time Antonio is part of the fall out. Hank doesn't like that one bit.
Hank Voight could count on one hand the amount of times anyone had caught him off guard; now was one of those times. And Antonio was paying for it.
Detective Antonio Dawson, pain in his ass and an excellent detective; while he lacked Voight’s knuckle duster tactics, he got the job done and he did it well. Said detective was currently bleeding from his scalp and various other orifices as he lay curled on the ground, the punk who’d gotten the drop on them circling him like some kind of hyena.
Because that’s all these gangs were in the end, Voight mused, hyenas. They ate their own.
Grabbed as they were meeting with a CI (Now ex-CI, Hank thought sourly) their phones had been taken and smashed before they were knocked out and moved to a secondary location. Voight hoped that it was one on their lists because they were going to need an extraction. At first they’d focused on Voight, mostly working him over for payback rather than information. But that might change if he caught the whispers right.
Whispers of the big boss coming.
Which could be good and bad, Voight supposed. Good in the sense that maybe his team would get here in time and capture one of the big leagues; bad in that if the team didn’t get here in time, him and Antonio would be dead. (Hey, Voight was nothing if not a realist.)
He did his best to keep their attention on him and away from his detective who lay quiet on the floor. Antonio was quiet - too quiet, a worried corner of his mind told him. And his head wound was still sluggishly bleeding, keeping the detective down.
As usual, the bad came before the good, the big boss coming into the room and looking at his prey.
“I’ve heard about you,” the big black man sneered, looking down at Hank, who was cuffed to the chair.
“Funny,” Voight said dryly, spitting out a bit of blood absently, “I can’t say the same about you.”
That earned him a punch from one of the goons as the boss went to talk to the guy who’d been running the show before he got there. Voight could only watch helplessly as Antonio was lifted from the floor, a low groan escaping him, head hanging on his chest, face scrunched up in discomfort.
The head wound had to be worse than Hank thought, because Antonio’s struggles were sluggish and weak as he was divested of his jacket, shirt, and shoes, leaving the slim man in only his jeans.
It made him look small.
“Now where’d he find a pretty little detective like you, hmm?” The boss man mused as he yanked Antonio’s head back by the hair.
While Hank rejoiced at his detectives defiant (though dazed) glare, part of him went cold inside at the man’s words. That kind of language never boded well.
“Tell me what the police know,” The boss man demanded of Voight, hand still in Antonio’s hair as he looked at his other prisoner.
Hank stared at Antonio before meeting the man’s eyes. “No.”
“Then we might as well get settled in,” The man said, looking down at Antonio as he motioned for one of the other’s to give him their cigarette.
Hank made himself watch as Antonio was held still, a man on each arm as the boss man pressed the glowing tip of the cigarette to the thin skin over the latino’s ribs.
“Mmmm,” The boss man hummed to himself. “Such pretty noises from the pretty man, right boys?”
There was scattered agreement from the little crowd as the boss continued to work Antonio over, burns turning into a beating as Antonio cried out. Hank made himself watch. This was on him. It’d been his CI who’d sold them out.
“Enough!” The boss finally ordered, approaching the detective, who’d curled up on the hard floor once he’d been released, the goons backing off. “Guess you aren’t worth much after all,” He crouched by Antonio, running a hand over the bare flesh, his victim trying to shy away. “Though I think I could get a good price, pretty boy like you.”
“Leave him alone,” Hank growled. He knew better than to rise to the sordid taunts, but he couldn’t help it.
“So he does speak,” The boss’s smile was threatening. “Get him back up.”
The man turned to Voight again. “He got a family? Kids?”
The twins faces flashed through Voight’s thoughts.
“Guess he’s got something to loose,” The man said, having undoubtedly seen something on Voight’s face, pulling a gun from the back of his pants. Reading the answer in Voight’s expression. “Get his mouth open.”
“Leave him alone!” Voight bellowed, shaking the chair with his futile struggles as the gun was pushed down Antonio’s throat. Feeling sick as he listened to Antonio gag, throat working futilely around the gun forced deep into his throat.
“But your boy gotta have practice for where I’m sending him,” The boss man sneered at Voight. “I got some buyers who’ll love this one.”
“You hurt him and I’m not telling you dick,” Hank growled, the useless threat making the man laugh as he removed the gun, Antonio coughing as he was prevented from doubling over while he caught his breath.
Straightening up as the man swaggered over to him, glaring up with hate filled eyes as the gun that was just used on Antonio forced his head up, disconcerting wetness transferring to Hank’s own skin.
“Well, you weren’t telling us dick with him, so odds are you still won’t tell us anything without him.” The man goaded Voight. “You ever had a piece of that? Cause that’s a fine specimen over there, ya feel me?”
“Go to hell,” Hank growled, head still against the gun’s pressure on his jaw.
“Maybe — but I ain’t gonna be the first person there.” And with that threat, he stepped back, approaching Antonio again, tapping the gun against his other hand in thought.
Spitting threats and helpless promises of violence, Hank could only watch as Antonio was once again restrained by the goons. His man’s already pale face was nearly grey as he stared at the gun, Antonio’s eyes flicking to Hank then to the man and then away, trying to hide his own fear and failing as the gun was tapped against his cheek once again.
“Think yor’ brave, police man?” The boss man told Antonio, yanking his head up with a bruising grip on his jaw, looking into his eyes. “Ya better take it — or your boss over there will be missing his balls.”
Hank could tell by the defeated slump of Antonio’s shoulders that he was going to obey, though he knew Antonio could beat the man going toe to toe in any other situation, the boss man’s pleased chuckles ringing in his ears, the derisive laughter of the watchers blocking out everything else as the gun was used to send Antonio sprawling, more blood dripping from his lips.
And that’s when the tear gas canister’s clattered into the room.
“The hell is that?!”
“It's the cops! Beat it!”
Voight couldn’t see anything, eyes stinging from the smoke. There were a few random gunshots, one of which he felt whiz by his head. Through streaming eyes, he saw the black clad figures of a SWAT team and so he focused on breathing, waiting it out, hoping that Antonio was okay. With his head injury and the stress and all the smoke, he was bound to be worse for wear once this was over.
All at once, it was.
“Clear!”
Fingers fumbled at the cuffs securing him to the chair and he was grateful for the mask held over his mouth, wheezes quieting. He looked up to see Alvin holding it there, curling hair that was going grey identifying him under his own mask and uniform.
“We need a bus!” Came a shout as Hank was freed and he started to stumble over to where he’d last seen Antonio, legs trying to give out on him, Olinsky sliding a hand around his back, keeping his oldest friend upright.
The gut instinct had been right - Antonio had been hit; Halstead, his mask already off as the smoke was clear now, was keeping pressure on Antonio’s upper arm. Voight let himself crash to the dirty floor, joining Halstead as he did his own examination of Antonio. Fresh blood was coming from the latino detective’s head; he must have hit it again in the confusion, Hank surmised. The detective was still pale, burns and bruises covering his exposed torso.
“What happened?” Olinsky asked, standing over them.
Voight shook his head, taking off the mask now that his breathing had eased. “Nothing good. But not the worst.”
Olinsky shook his head, not commenting, though he was looking through the men being processed on the other side of the room.
“I’ll check to make sure Gabby didn’t get called in for this,” Jay said, indicating that his boss should take over keeping pressure on the bullet wound.
Unusually un-combative, Voight put pressure on the wound, the familiar sticky sensation grounding him. He felt the bone move and knew his detective was in for a long stint of desk work.
Heh, Antonio’d love that. But it could’ve been a lot worse, glaring over at the criminals being escorted out — it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. Some things even cops didn’t recover from. Like a bullet through the skull.
“Are you gonna need five minutes with that guy?” Olinsky asked in a low tone, still standing guard over his friends and coworkers. He saw the glares of the biggest man in the group and how Voight was glaring.
“It’ll have to wait,” Voight conceded. “But yeah. I’d like to give him a little gift.”
“I think I’ll join you,” Olinsky said as Antonio gave a tiny groan, free arm trying to come up to defend himself.
“Hey, you’re okay,” Voight said as Antonio’s eyes fluttered open, confusion filling the dark brown orbs.
“‘oight?” Came the slurred rasp. “What…?”
“The cavalry came,” Voight told him. “It’s over. You’re okay.”
Their gaze met and locked, confusion gradually being replaced by dawning awareness and then shame. Perhaps he thought he should’ve fought more or that it should have taken more for him to be brought down. As Dawson tried to look away, collapsing into himself, Voight caught his chin, his gentle grip nothing like the bruising fingers that had hurt Antonio earlier.
“Hey, you listen to me,” Voight growled. “You got nothing to be ashamed of, you hear me?”
Antonio swallowed, forcing himself to meet his sergeant’s gaze. “I hear ya.”
“So you hold your head up,” Voight ordered. “You’re my best damn detective and don’t you forget it.”
A little smile made Dawson’s lips twitch. “…thanks.”
The moment was interrupted by Jay bringing in the paramedics, Hank grudgingly falling back to let them work. He watched as Antonio closed his eyes, only responding when absolutely necessary, a line being put in his arm and a mask being placed over his mouth.
“You wanna get him a blanket?” Voight rasped, waving a hand at Dawson’s state of undress.
“We have one in the ambulance,” One of the medics told him. “Alright, we’re ready to go.”
Finally, they emerged into the sunshine, the derelict house they’d been kept in surrounded by a sea of flashing lights and the area swarming with policemen. The crowd parted as Dawson was carried out, murmurs going through the crowd.
It was always a relief when one of their own was rescued - but seeing the damage was never pretty.
“We’ll give you a police escort,” Hank told the medics. Stopping to give Antonio’s good shoulder a squeeze before he turned away. “You hang in there, Antonio.”
Jogging over to Olinsky who was waiting by their unmarked SUV. “You get the guys name?”
“Yeah,” Olinsky said. “It’s all arranged.”
“Good.”
And away they went, the police escort peeling away from the scene as the fallen officer was hurried to Chicago MED.
———————————
While some would say that Voight practically lived out of his office; tonight he was sleeping in Dawson’s hospital room, keeping vigil over his unconscious colleague. He’d seen Antonio in a hospital bed several times before and it never stopped bothering him. As he’d told Burgess, he’d never had the pleasure of being shot — Antonio had been shot before. More than average, actually.
The hospital gown covered old and new scars, the latino detective’s left arm strapped to his chest, keeping the humerus that had been badly fractured by the bullet stable. The emergency surgery had removed several bone fragments. He’d be laid up for a while.
But his head was the bigger issue. Being pistol whipped was never a walk in the park; the fall during the chaos had made it worse. So Antonio slept, relatively peaceful, his face occasionally scrunching up in a pain filled frown despite the medication he was on. Laura had been notified and as his ex-wife, she was concerned — but not concerned enough to actually bring the kids to see him.
It killed something inside of Voight to know that his best detective’s drive and dedication meant nothing to his ex-wife. It was the job that had driven them apart. Voight could understand it, he’d been on the force long enough to see it all, but that didn’t mean he could forgive it.
Antonio needed comfort. Comfort was not Hank’s strong suit. His own life had pounded nearly all the kindness out of him. He was not the demonstrative type, most of the time. But seeing life keeping knocking Antonio on his ass had made him sympathetic, at the very least.
Remembering the imaging of Dawson, chocking around the gun in his mouth and the derisive laughter, how helpless he had felt — He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, blowing out a deep breath. He should probably try to sleep. The chair wasn’t too uncomfortable. Better to try to forget the nightmares or just deal with them when they came.
The erratically beeping monitor woke him, sometime later. He hurried to the bed, seeing Antonio trying to move, good hand pawing at his cannula and fingers fumbling uselessly. He was on the good meds.
“Antonio,” Voight said gently, trapping the fumbling hand, making sure he didn’t mess up any of the equipment. “You gotta leave that on.”
Scrunched face still pale, Antonio’s eyelids fluttered and he struggled weakly as he shook off some of the drug induced haze. “..’ght?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Hank said, giving Antonio’s hand a little reassuring squeeze. “You’re safe.”
Antonio’s eyes were drooping again as he murmured something unintelligible, slumping back into the pillows, the heart monitor now beeping at a sedate pace.
Since the crisis was averted and no nurses were rushing in, Hank indulged himself, running his free hand through his detectives’ thick, sweaty hair.
It felt nice.
“You’re gonna be okay, Antonio,” He said in the silence of the room. “And I know you don’t like it much when I do this, but I’m gonna get five minutes alone with the guy who put you here. That’s a promise.”
Eventually, he heard footsteps approaching and he retreated to his chair, feigning sleep as the nurse came in to check the patients vitals.
All was well.