Inspired by these bullets from "erin & jay: walking a thin line"
jay starting awake because the crack of thunder sounds like a mortar round, searching the dark room with his 9mm for an enemy, lungs too tight to breathe. the nightmare getting interrupted by his phone ringing.
erin laying awake when the storm begins to pound against her window, lost in thought, when thunder booms and her pulse jumps. cursing when realization strikes (a slammed door screws him over, there's no telling the damage of this) and dialing his number. pick up, jay. come on.
erin? his voice is hoarse, ragged. yeah, it's me. i'm coming right now but i want you to stay on the line. her feet are in her boots and the keys are in hand. i'm fine. don't drive in this weather. protecting her, never himself. i'm coming, jay. don't try and fight me on this. a silence, a breath. okay.
there are things erin doesn't know if she'll ever be able to voice. (let me in. let me in. i'm your partner, i'm yours. it's my job and everything i want to be the one to protect you like you do me.)
but she tries. she tries, with her fingers curled into his hair, holding him tight as he crumbles in her arms, flinching with every flash of lightning, tears in her eyes as she tries to keep them both from falling apart.
(Credit to the creators of Chicago P.D. where it is due.)
"I'm here, hang on," she murmurs into her cellphone, pinning it between her cheek and shoulder.
The distance between the elevator and her partner's apartment is covered with a handful of paces, and Erin barely notices, all her attention on the ragged breathing in her ear. Every time thunder rolls, battle drums heralding a war, she can hear him falter, almost tangible now after twenty minutes of listening. Her heart stutters along with him, a suffocating fusion of pain and worry pressing against her ribs—hang on, hang on, I won't make you do this alone.
Erin almost drops her keys in her haste to jam them in the lock to Jay's apartment. Rain water dribbles off the ends of her hair and rolls off her jacket, dampening the carpet beneath her feet and a curse bubbles when the metal key slips in her wet fingertips.
It finally clicks into place and the detective lets herself into the dark space with a habitual glance over her shoulder. Once her instincts are satisfied that there's no threat, she shuts the door with a gentle hand and toes out of her boots.
There's just enough light coming from outside that she can navigate but Erin moves slow in case there's any shoes or gear laying around, a tripping hazard in the making.
"Jay?"
A flash of lightning greets her low call instead of her partner's voice, followed on its heels by another cymbal crash of nature—Chicago hasn't seen a storm like this in a long time—and Erin almost misses the forcible exhale, a strangled pant that hammers her in the gut.
She's caught by the outline that the flare of lightning reveals—hunched shoulders, a bent head with palms pressed over his ears—and is rounding the couch almost before she's cognizant of it, stopping just short of touching Jay where he sits, sheltered between his couch and the coffee table. Erin learned her lesson the first time they went through this and knows to take this slow.
"Jay, talk to me." The war in her chest—compounding emotions, struggling for dominance—is hard to push back but she's had too much practice and her voice is low, calm.
"Erin." Her name is a lifeline on his lips, the effects visible.
Some of the tension loosens from his curled frame, enough that he can lift his head and search out her gaze through the blanket of darkness. The torture of a battlefield she will never be able to understand is laid out in the exhausted bruises beneath his eyes, the sporadic clench of his jaw.
It's second nature, to sling her leg across both of his, to settle into the fold of his body. Erin breathes him in, fingers lacing behind Jay's head as he shudders against her, leaning into her touch. His hands find her hips, grip tight, but she's intent on the relief lightening the creases in his brow.
"It's alright. I've got you now." She whispers, pressing her forehead to her partner's—friend, confidante, lover–, moisture flooding her eyes. How could you not ask me to come? "I've got you."
The storm rages and batters against the windows, unrelenting, uncaring of the destruction it wreaks. Erin is prepared for every shudder that runs through Jay when thunder booms, unable to imagine what assault the noise brings back but riding through it with him.
"The humvee was upside-down," Jay utters, his voice more uneven, stuck in the memory. "The humvee was upside-down and someone was screaming. They didn't stop coming—my rifle was too far away—the mortars just kept exploding."
There are no words, there is no way to comfort this and Erin hates it, hates that she can't protect him, that she can't take part of this burden and help bear the weight.
I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. It pounds in her veins, burns on the tip of her tongue, and Erin just presses a kiss to his temple, her hold on his shoulders tightening, fingers combing through the hair at the nape of his neck.
"It's all right there, I can hear it like I'm back there and I don't know how to make it stop," and there's agony, tangible and devastating in turn, but Jay doesn't push her away—that's her fear, that he'll reject her, push her away, not let her back in—just pulls her closer.
His breath ghosts across her collarbone when he drops his head to her shoulder and her knees dig into the carpet on either side of his hips but she couldn't care less.
"I'm right here, Jay." Erin wishes her voice wasn't so hoarse, rasping like sandpaper with her tight throat, as she rests her cheek against his hair. "You're home. You're safe."
Sandpaper or not, her partner goes lax under her soothing touch and quiet comfort, and Erin feels when the rigidity leaves him. Her eyes close—in relief, in exhaustion, she can't tell—and Erin doesn't need to say anything more.
There's no need, when her presence and his acceptance says it all.
I'm yours. I am yours. I don't want anyone else.
/
They wake up when sunlight cuts through Jay's living room the next morning, with Jay slumped back against his couch and Erin crashed out against him. They are both stiff and sore, but he kisses her with aching gentleness, every caress telling his gratitude, his hands lost in her hair.
Erin blinks back the tears and knows that he's it for her. Sitting on the counter in his bathroom, watching Jay attend his morning rituals—she'll steal his toothbrush later, even though it grosses him out—and Erin accepts that she wants this for the rest of her life. The nightmares and the flashbacks, but the teasing and the nitpicking over cleaning, the long kisses and unwavering trust.
Jay quirks a brow at her in question. Erin smiles and shakes her head.
"Hand me your toothbrush, will you?"
Thank you for perusing this scrawl! Comments, critiques, and concerns are always welcome.