Title: Hereafter
Author: ZombieJazz
Fandom: Chicago PD
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.
Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.
SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.
THIS CHAPTER IS SET AFTER S05E01 - Reform. It will be reordered to be Chapter 1 later.
He'd looked so broken – been so broken – on FaceTime. She could see it in his eyes. Their glassiness. His struggle to hold back the tears. But it wasn't just his eyes that worried her. It was the view they gave her into his entire being. Even from 800 miles away.
It was because she knew what he was going through. Even though she didn't. Because she hadn't been through the exact same thing. Because he wouldn't talk to her. He wouldn't tell her what was going on. Not that she needed him to tell her. She could still read the news – watch the news – in Chicago from New York City. Another miracle of the information age and the technology and the world wide web. The same things that had landed her as an investigator on an inter-jurisdictional case. One that struck too close to home. To her baby brother. To Teddy too. To Nadia. To her own past in a way. A past that could've become her future if things had gone just a little differently. A case that had her stuck based in another city – while hoping all over the country for interviews and research and meetings. And one that now let her use the same technology to see just how much Jay was hurting. Even when he was halfway across the country.
But she still needed him to talk to her. To say something. Because she knew what it was doing to him. She could see it in his face. She could hear it in his voice. She could see it radiating off him in front of the cameras that he never wanted to be in front of but had been tossed to by … the new CPD. The new order of things. That maybe she wasn't so upset to be distanced from. But it also meant she was distanced from Jay. When he needed her. And he did. Right then. Whether he was ready to admit that or not. To verbalize it. Because she could see that he was teetering. She could see that it was more than the case – that stray bullet, that little girl. There were other layers to it. Other losses. Previous actions. Memories. And he was triggering. He was trying so hard not to. But he was. And he wouldn't tell anyone. Not there. Except maybe at one of his meetings. If he brought himself to go.
But she wasn't sure he would. Not then. She wasn't sure if he was ready to admit just how much he needed help when he was that vulnerable. She wasn't sure that he was close enough to any of the guys in that room. She wasn't sure he'd talk to Will. Or Choi. Or Hank. Or call Mouse. Or Natalie … Or he'd go home. Alone. To the Xbox and the dark and a bottle. To nightmares. So he wouldn't sleep. Or he'd just stay in bed entirely. Or spend hours in the gym – pounding a punching bag. And hours more pounding the pavement. Until he could forget. But none of those methods had worked for him not really.
So there was the other possibility. That he'd snap. At someone at work. In the bullpen. Kim. Or Adam. Or maybe Upton if she pushed too hard. If she kept chipping at him in trying to connect with him in a way that was rubbing Jay all wrong. That he tried to be professional in his complaints to her about. But that Erin could hear the message behind them. That he was out of sync with his new partner. That he wasn't sure he trusted her to have his back yet. Or anyone else's. Because he wasn't sure she was a team player. Because it felt like she was always watching out for her own self-interests. Her own career. And she didn't see Intelligence as making her career. Not with the situation that unit was in anymore. But at the same time it was a line she wanted on her resume for whatever trajectory she seemed to think she was on. That she always was looking to say or do the right thing. To not rock the boat. To only tell the truth.
And as much as Jay respected that – as much as he felt he had nothing to hide, as much as he knew he was good police, as much as maybe he'd been the same way when he'd been brought onboard Intelligence and had to deal with 'Hank Voight' – he also wasn't sure how it fit into the present reality. Into the team and the partnership and his life and CPD. Because it felt like she was on the wrong side – even if she wasn't. He said. He'd tried to explain.
But Erin only knew as an outsider. She'd only worked with Upton on a few cases. And she looked at it as a woman too – trying to make it in an Old Boy's Club in a system that had flaws and in a city that was in its own kind of turmoil. And she knew it was hard terrain to navigate. That she'd had her own fuck ups. And she'd had Hank to pick her up and right her. To cover up and tell her lies for her. To a point. Until the wheels came off.
And even then, Erin wasn't sure what to make of it. Of her. Of any of it. Of how she felt. Or how she should allow herself to feel. Because this was Jay. Her partner. Her fiancée. She friend. And she wanted what was best for him. She wanted what was manageable for their future. She wanted to get to the future they'd talked about. She wasn't sure how much of a roadblock Upton might prove in them getting there. If they … if Jay … had to manage her with kid gloves. If he always had to be watching his back around her because he couldn't trust her to have it. If she couldn't distinguish the various grey areas of truth and telling the truth that existed when you were in an Intelligence unit. If she big undercover gig hadn't taught her that. But Erin did know that she didn't want Upton to be a stalling point in derailing them from the track her and Jay were still working on getting back on. Erin needed Jay on track. On his own track. With a job. His job. With his head on straight. With him functioning at home – so she had a come to go home to. So they had a home – a future – to build. Soon.
And maybe Jay losing patience with Upton or anyone else in the bullpen really should be the least of her worries. Because she knew his M.O. She knew him enough to know that even if he yelled at his friends … his colleagues … his co-workers … his partners … that the fall out should be – would be – minimal. It would be worse – it could be worse – if he snapped at someone in the cage. Or in the box. That he'd lose his temper. That he'd get in their face. Or worse. That chairs would get thrown. That walls would get hit. And that there would be blood. Not his. And that couldn't happen anymore either. They knew where that got them. Got her. And where he had the whole team now. Under their own surveillance. Cameras. And internal independent auditors. Talks of reform and federal oversight. Pushing them farther and farther into a smaller and smaller box of their own. To do the job. And to fail at it because of all these new rules and regulations. These changing goal posts that seemed to give the bad guys an advantage – the ones in blue and otherwise.
And Jay couldn't find himself in that situation. He needed the job. Sometimes she felt like he needed the job more than he needed her. And in her own ways, she could again understand. She did too. She'd grown up – she'd spent her adult life – around men who needed the job. For all different kinds for reasons. Right and wrong.
For Jay it was a lifeline. It was the lifeline he'd managed to grab a hold of after Afghanistan. After the Rangers. After war. After the loss of his mother. After a fractured childhood. Abuse, trauma, neglect – that she again was starting to understand from his perspective as he let her. Things – experiences – she could understand and relate to in her own way. When he let her. The job had been what saved him. Saved him from the dark place he was in. The hole. It'd given him a purpose. A direction. And now it'd become what buoyed him. It kept him afloat. Through good and bad. For the right reasons and the wrong reasons. And Erin knew however he was feeling right now – as he struggled to keep from floundering, to keep from drowning – that buoy couldn't be taken away from him. He couldn't let it go. He couldn't make a mistake that – couldn't succumb to anything – that might cause him to lose his grip on it. Because those life rings, they could be yanked away too quickly.
So she'd ordered him on a plane. She'd ordered him to get off his ass – and his ass-duty – and to take a few days to get his head on straight. Before he let it spin around too much. Before he went charging back into the job while he was like this. And he did something stupid. He lost his grip either at work or at home. Either way – alone. Because he wasn't letting anyone have his back. Not like before. He didn't trust anyone – like before. And that was her fault. She was part of that equation. That cascade of dominoes in his life … in her life … in their lives … that had gotten them … where they were.
He'd balked. But she'd pressed. She'd argued. And she'd watched his eyes grow glassier and glassier. She'd listened to him try to push her away. To pull away. Until he'd said he was fine. That he really needed to go. And he'd cut out on her. Like that. Like he did. Because despite the therapy and the counselling and the group sessions – he wasn't healed. And she'd slowly had to accept that he never would be. That his wounds and his baggage – it was part of the deal. Just like hers were for him. And she couldn't be angry with him for that. She couldn't punish him for that. She just … she had to be a different kind of girl … kind of woman … than she was with other men. In previously short-lived relationships. And she had to be patient. And she had to be kind. And sometimes she had to wait for him. And not just be the friend. Or the fuck buddy. She had to put in the hard work of the relationship. Of being the fiancée to a man with PTSD. To a man who wanted to be Type A and macho and dominant. And in as many ways as he was. He wasn't. Not with the people he cared about most. Not in the situations – with the people – where it mattered the most.
And she had to do all that now from long distance. For now. Because of her actions and choices. The ones that had made it harder for them. And for him. And for her whole family. Harder on herself. Because she needed him as much as he needed her. Even when they weren't ready to fully admit it. Not that way. Despite it being a known fact.
So she'd let him hang up on her. She made herself not be angry. Not be frustrated. Not let him win and leave him alone. To decide to stop reaching for him – to stop grabbing at him before he went down into that hole. That wasn't an option. Not when she was 800 miles away. Not when they had so much more they needed to work on. Together. When there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Even if it was dim. Even if it was taking longer than either of them wanted to get to. But they were working on it. They were slogging through the fucking sewers. And now wasn't the time to stop.
So she'd gone and booked the flight herself. She'd sent him the ticket. She'd texted him that she'd be expecting him. She told him that she loved him. And who he was. And that she'd be waiting.
And she'd left it at that. Even though she'd wanted to push harder. Even though she knew she could've gotten back on the line with him and turned it into an argument. That would've only further upset both of them.
And she was glad she hadn't done that. That she'd – they'd – taken a different route. Because he was at her door at just after midnight. Sagging and broken and even more glassy eyed than before.
And they hadn't spoken. Because she knew him. And she knew there were times – too many times – that he didn't want to talk at all. But they'd been through enough that she was learning too that if she gave him time and space – and let him be the man and let him be his own man – he talked to her. In his own way. When he was ready.
So she'd just taken his hand. She'd brought him inside. She'd closed the door. And she'd guided him to the bathroom. She'd turned on the shower as hot as she knew either of them could stand. Maybe a tad hotter. Until the room was just mist and steam.
And he'd just stood there. A crumbling statute. So she'd undressed him herself. Piece of clothing by piece of clothing. Until he was bare.
"Get in," she'd told him. Gently. Holding the curtain back for him. And he had. Leaving her to strip off her own clothes. To step in behind him as he stood under the steaming stream of water. His head bowed. His back to her.
She'd left him be. For a moment. Only long enough to lather the sponge. To run it down his shoulders. His back. But by then they were already shaking. His efforts to hold it all in failing. The dam breaking. And the flood trying to press itself out through the cracks it'd managed to find.
So Erin had taken his hand again. And she'd turned him toward her. Even though he still didn't want to look at her. As he tried to and tried not to all at the same time. Because he thought he wasn't the kind of man who cried. Or he thought she wasn't the kind of woman who tolerated a man who cried. That he somehow wasn't allowed to. Not by her or himself or society. That she couldn't handle it. Any of it. Not just the tears.
But she could. And she didn't care if he shed tears. She wanted him to. She needed him to have some sort of outlet. Because she knew that all those years of him just trying to hold everything in hadn't worked for him. And it hadn't worked for them – in their relationship. It wasn't the solution now. Even in their not ideal situation – that was the best they could do with the bad situation. The one she'd gotten them into. The one they'd gotten themselves into. Because they hadn't learned to communicate the way they should. To cry those tears. To have those talks. To be vulnerable and exposed and honest the way they needed to. But they were trying now. So hard. And harder because now it was all long distance as they mended the wounds and put in the hard work of getting through an engagement and planning a marriage that would actually work. If they could still actually make it work. And they'd both committed to trying. And sometimes that meant crying. And arguing. Fighting. And talking. And knowing when not to talk to. To be there. Even with the 800 miles between them. And knowing too when those 800 miles needed to be less – literally and figuratively.
So she pulled him to her. And he didn't resist. He didn't pull back. He didn't tense. He just wrapped his arms around her. He draped around her until his eyes were pressed somewhere against her head and against her shoulder. Until he hunched right around her as he shook. As he cried but they could pretend he wasn't. Hidden amidst the water droplets of the steaming hot water.
And they stood like that. They held each other. Crying. Until they couldn't trying anymore. Shaking until the shakes were shivers from the water running cold. And it was only then that they got out. That they dried themselves off. And they went to the bedroom.
That they lay there. Nude but covered. Skin-to-skin. Him on his back and staring at the ceiling. And her taking her turn to drape against him. To still try to comfort him. To feel him. While she looked at nothing. And her mind went a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out what to say and what to do and how to help. While she listened to his heart. Pounding slow and steady under her ear. When she knew that sleep wasn't likely to find either of them that night. In that bad and that apartment that felt so far away from home. In the now that felt so distanced from the reality she'd imagined for herself. But the reminder that it was all only temporary. That they just had to get through this. This bump and the next. And the never-ending bumps that she knew were ahead of them. But that they'd managed to keep moving past – one at a time. If they just kept going. Kept trying.
She lay there and she weighed what he was thinking. If he'd talk. Or if he wouldn't. If she should call in to work and take a day. Or two. If she left him alone would he stay in bed all day or sit in front of the TV all day trying to not think when she knew he'd be thinking. When he'd be playing things out over and over and laying the self-blame on thicker and thicker. Or if he'd find something for himself to do. If he'd designate some stupid handy-work job that he decided needed to get done around her apartment that didn't feel like her apartment. Chores and upgrades that she didn't feel necessary – because now was just temporary. It was just a stop until she got back on track. Until she got back to where she was supposed to be. Living the life she was supposed to live. But if he wanted to … put up poster frames or change out cupboard doors or put together a book shelf for her – she'd let him. She wrecked her brain trying to think of some job … some chore … she could assign him that would distract him. That would make him feel of use. That would give him a purpose. She tried to think of how the weekend should look. What he needed it to be. But there wasn't any point in trying to figure that out. Because she needed him to tell her that. To show her. And she needed to listen. For once. For now.
"A dead kid," he finally almost whispered from somewhere off in space. "That's what got us here."
And it was and it wasn't. The boy – the teen – she'd gunned down was different. It wasn't the same.
"We were both just doing our jobs," she said. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Tell her that," Jay said. "Tell her mother."
She just gripped his shoulder. She held him tighter. Because she knew there wasn't anything she could say to that that would make it any better. She knew that kill shots were hard enough. When it was a child – it was different. So very, very different. And it didn't get better. Or easier. It changed you. It became a part of you. For the rest of your life. And it made you question this piece of yourself – who you were and what you were capable of and your worth and reason – from there on out too.
"It doesn't go away," he mumbled and muttered and whispered all at the same time.
"I know," Erin conceded.
"I feel …," he let out a long, shaky breath. And she reached to touch his face. His scruff. The other tell in where he was at. Where he'd been at in the preceding days. Where his head was at. How he was managing. How he was taking care of himself. The value he was placing in himself. "I feel like I'm back in Afghanistan. Only now there's her. And him … that hut. The breach. … Six years old. Now eight. She was just eight years old."
"Don't do that to yourself," she urged.
His next breath was even shakier. His hand went up. It pressed against his eyes and then his forehead. The heel staying there. Like he had a splitting headache. A migraine that just wouldn't let up. And he liked did. It's own kind of ache and presence. That just never did let up. That was something Erin could understand too.
"I don't know how much longer I can do this job," he muttered.
"You just need some time to get past this," she offered weakly. Even though she – they both – knew that it wasn't something you really got past. Ever.
"Mouse was right," he said and gazed down at her. "He was on to something. He saw it. He felt it. Knew it before I did. That … this job … it's all just fucking grey areas. I don't know who's the good guys and the bad guys anymore. I don't even know if I'm the good guy."
"You are the good guy," she pressed at him. "You're good police, Jay."
He shook his head. "I don't feel like it. Not anymore. Not lately. It all just feels … fucking grey. And now we're … we aren't even allowed to do the job. We're just … pawns. Pawns on these fucking bureaucrats chess board. Moving us around to serve their purpose. Sacrificing us when it suits their needs. And how the fuck do you do the job in a situation like that?"
"You keep doing it the same way you always have," she said.
"That doesn't work anymore," he snapped her. His head lifting off the pillow. His eyes drilling into her until they glassed and softened and his head fell back down and he stared at the ceiling again. "I did the job. And I killed a little girl. Doing my job. Working on our Intelligence. In our city. In a neighborhood that we should've known. It was … a fucking scenario I should've seen. I should've anticipated that."
"Jay, it was a stray bullet," she said. "In pursuit. While you were being shot at."
His head just shook again and his hand went back up to press his heel harder into his eye.
"Sometimes it feels like nothing makes sense anymore," he said. "Nothing feels right."
She held him tighter. "It's because you don't feel right."
"Am I ever going to …"
And as much as it was a statement she heard the question in his voice. The plea that he'd put out to her. Flatly and quietly. In a way only a practiced ear could hear. But she'd heard.
"With time," she said.
"That's … it's like you saying again, that you just keep wanting to believe, that everything is behind," he said. "Behind me. In the past. And it's not."
"That's not what I mean," Erin said and lifted her head to look down at him. "I meant … I mean … you've got to keep working at it. We've got to keep working at it."
He made a shaky sound – a near gurgle – and gazed up at her. Those sad eyes setting on her. "I don't think I should be here right now."
"This is exactly where you should be right now, Jay," she pressed at him. "And, whatever it is – that you're feeling – I can handle it. We can handle it together."
"I don't know even what that means anymore," he whispered. "I don't know where to start. Or how to do it. And … I feel like … that's what I'm supposed to be figuring out now. In Chicago. Alone."
"You aren't alone, Jay," she told him. Her own eyes brimming again too.
"I don't know," he muttered and reached to pull her closer. To hold her. To cling to her. And she let him. She let herself settle. Though she could feel the shaky in his chest and she knew he must feel the tremor in hers.
"There's this drug," he whispered through the long silence. The one that hung there so heavily. "For PTSD. For soldiers. For veterans. It's supposed to do something to your memories. How you … the body … processes them. To … help you forget."
That hung there for a long time too. Because she didn't know what to say. "That … sounds scary too …," she finally managed.
"Yea …," he pressed out slowly. Like there was a brick sitting on his throat. "But sometimes … I don't know how to keep remembering."
And she lay against him. She could feel the catch in his chest. She could feel – without looking – that he had tears streaming silently down his cheeks. And she knew he could feel her own tears pooling against his chest. She gripped at his bicep. She clung to him too.
"Then let me help you remember," she whispered against him. "Because there's so many things I don't want you to forget."
Too many good to lose. The good man. The good cop. The good times. She'd take all the bad. She'd carry it for him. As much as he let her. If it meant there would still be the good in him. For him. For them.
AUTHOR NOTE:
Couple questions on generally when this would be set in the AU. The Way From Here is set in June. So this would generally follow the season (i.e. September, October, November, etc.). I know the season said that there was supposed to be a "time jump" ahead six months. But I didn't really feel that. Maybe a month or two — but not six. So this would be set beginning approximately four months after the S4 finale (i.e. assuming it ended in May-ish) and approximately three-four months after The Way From Here (or five-six months after Erin left to work with the FBI — she's now in the job she was exploring in The Way From Here).
And, yes, there might be some fluff chapters/scenes (i.e. Hank being Papa or Hank being dad to Ethan or Jay and Ethan, etc.) outside of being something inspired by an episode outcome (i.e. maybe you'll get a Papa and Henry — and maybe Ethan — carving pumpkins). But these chapters/scenes will be much shorter than what you're accustomed to out of me and will likely be much more dialogue driven than I normally do for the prose that is FF. However, these sorts of chapters/scenes won't likely be the norm.
Thanks for your feedback, reviews and comments. And continued readership.
