#x51163

[fireho3sarc]

📸  7  pictures  that  buck's  taken  of   @x51163  !

[oncalls]

THIS IS A CALL OUT POST FOR USER @x51163 : the aesthetics? flawless. the writing? beautiful. the characterization of jay mf halstead? incredible. like ?? save some talent for the rest of us, stop being so selfish mal !!

[respondsfirst]

sir , why don't you love your grandson ? @ olinsky

"that's not a grandson. that ... is a dog. an old dog even."

[burqess]

jay halstead ( @x51163 ) : i love you, but please don't ever make dinner again.

unbelievable. here kim was, a working mother and wife. mother of two lovely ( cute and adorable girls ) and a senior baby dog. but she's still surprised to hear her husband quip up about the dinner she'd made. brows furrows together. "yeah mama, never cook! more mcdonalds!" georgie adds, making kim cross her arms over her chest. little rosie with her arms wrapped around her leg. "i think ... that this family could use a nicer tone." giving her husband a look, then poking his chest with her finger.

"the girls happen to love when i cook chicken for dinner," she frowns, but georgie scrunches her nose. "it kinda dwy, mama." and kimberly halstead groans at her family. "how come you two always team up?" shaking her head, there's a laugh as she looks to the chicken - that looks entirely too dry. maybe they had a valid point. "would you like to cook dinner instead, agent halstead?"

[squadthree]

jay halstead ( @x51163 ) : the winner takes it all.

playing poker in general? super fun. playing strip poker while sharing a bottle of whiskey? could be fun. but doing it with jay halstead? that was probably a real bad idea. but after almost half a bottle of whiskey? well. bad ideas seemed like good ones, and no one was there to tell him no. so he arches a brow at the man in front of him. "i'm going to win, but you can't go crying to your boss or your partner. i'd rather handle olinsky - than erin lindsay. she'd kill me." he laughs, taking another shot before he starts to deal the cards. "one object of clothing per win? duty belts, guns and cuffs don't count." those felt like important things to mention to the detective in front of him.

[x55055]

the    echo    of    a    shrill    wail    :         GET    DOWN  !      vocals    posses    solicitude  ,    vocals    are    your    own  .    fear.fear.fear    —    it    envelopes    you    like    frozen    vapor    clinging    to    mountaintops  .       will  ,    will  !    hang    on  ,    stay    with    me  ,         you    urge  .       you    don’t    believe    in    god    …    but    today  ,    you    plead    to    spare    will    halstead's    life  .    just    this    one  . 

tick  ,    tick  ,    tick    goes    oval    clock    occupying    wall    of    waiting    room  .    duo    waits  ,    and    waits  ,    and    waits  .    it’s    been    hours    and    still    no    word    on    condition  .    alive    /    dead  .    small    hand    occupies    much    larger    one  ,    squeezing    gently    :          ❛ ❛       hey    …    you    need    anything  ?         ❜ ❜          it’s    a    whisper  ,    barely    audible  .    it    hurts    to    speak  ,    to    see    the    terror    /    melancholy    /    defeat    in    eyes  ,    a    loss    of    color  .    yearn    to    aid    washes    over    her  .    eyes    speak    the    words    she    can't    :   you’re    not    alone  .      please  ,    let    me    in  .      let    me    help  .

a    hospital    waiting    room    at    3    in    the    morning.           @x51163

[izstevns]

under 51, the air clung. thick. greedy. heat like breath on the back of your neck, like something waiting to exhale. it smelled of scorched rubber and rusting regrets— metal bones groaning beneath the weight of too many quiet breakdowns. a space for things that hiss and leak and hold. tools. pipes. people. izzie pressed herself into the corner of it. one boot balanced careless on a box of coiled hoses. arms folded like she might hold herself in. rainwater dripped a rhythm off her jacket, hooked beside her like a ghost. hair damp, storm-struck. neck cold where droplets clung— vertebrae of water, chilling her spine like memory.

jay’s voice shattered across the room, sharp enough to cut steel: i'm not sad. i'm pissed off. she didn’t blink. just tilted, soft, a shift in weight like something listening. watched him move — back and forth, back and forth — a metronome of fury. “        i know,        ” she murmured, like the words weren’t meant to interrupt. soft. still. “        you always are, when it’s someone you know.        ” a breath caught on the cusp of finishing. she didn’t let it go. it wasn’t her call. not really. pd territory. but chaos doesn’t care for maps. and she’d been close when the sirens rang too late, when the life drained out too fast, when blood pooled too wide. she hadn’t known the name. jay had. and the look on his face hadn’t been badge-polished— it had cracked, hairline fissures exposing something raw and human.

he paced. she let him. and then — without asking — she moved. workbench. two old mugs. coffee, tepid and bitter, from a dented steel pot that had probably outlived gods. no cream. no sweetness. just heat. just something to hold. she offered him one. kept the other like it might keep her here. grounded. tethered. “        you know what no one says?        ” quiet. not tentative. just real. “        when someone dies, it doesn’t always come as grief. sometimes it’s this thing— this crawling heat in your ribs. not mourning. just… this rage. like if you smash something hard enough, the universe might finally look you in the eye.        ”

she leaned back. let herself sag. like her spine remembered softness now that no one else was watching. grease beneath her nails. shirt torn at the seam. tired. in the way people get when they stop pretending they’re not. “        i’ve been where you are.        ” the words were a bruise, thumb-pressed and familiar. “        you think staying angry means you’re in control. but it’s not that. not really. it’s just what’s left when you’ve got nothing else but fists and the sound of your own heart breaking in the back of your throat.      ” her fingers tapped the ceramic. one. two. a heartbeat, dislocated.

“        you don’t have to talk.        ” beat. “        but don’t tell me it doesn’t matter.        ” she meant it. god, she meant it. and maybe he knew. maybe that’s why he was still here. still storming inside— but breathing. maybe just a little deeper now. above them, the rain punched metal. the sky poured out whatever it couldn’t carry anymore. and in the thick-breathed heat of the boiler room — where silence wasn’t empty, just tired — izzie didn’t fix anything. she just stayed. because sometimes staying is the only thing left when someone else is burning, and all you can do is stand in the smoke. / @x51163 .

[oncalls]

sergeant platt didn't look up from her paperwork, she showed no signs of even acknowledging @x51163 when he walked into the station at all. until she said his name. "halstead." she finished the last line on the paperwork, taking her glasses off and held onto them but lowered her hand on top of the file in front of her. then she finally looked at the detective on the other side of the desk. "detective halstead," she said again, motioning vaguely behind him with the glasses hand. "do you see that chair over there? behind you? the chair in the corner?" there was a long pause before she continued. "sit in it."