As the title might suggest, this is a continuation to Chicago P.D. ep 3x14 "The Song of Gregory William Yates", written in the aftermath of a devastating but somewhat lacking episode. Thank you, by the way, for all your kind reviews! It means the world to me that these crappy drabbles are actually enjoyable to people.
(Credit to the creators of Chicago P.D. where it is due.)
The rap on his door is jarring, disorienting. Brow pinching, Jay grabs his phone to check for a missed call or text, leaving his documentary—ancient Japan and an empire long lost—playing so whoever is on his front step has no reason to suspect he heard them.
His phone is dark, no notifications waiting.
The guys would know better than to show up at his place. Ruzek had invited them all out to Molly's after the case, but Jay had shaken his head. It'd been scarcely two hours after the case closed and even then, he'd been able to feel the adrenaline of the day wearing off, leaving raw, bruised nerves behind.
It hadn't helped that Erin had left with Sergeant Benson without a backwards glance, and he'd known then that space was the only way to get through tonight. Antonio had seemed to get it, giving Ruzek a shove towards the stairs while offering an understanding grimace to Jay.
Even now, anxious energy churns in his chest, two beers and a handful of hours later, the frustration burning hot enough to spell a long, hard run in his near future. But with the rest of the unit aware that he needs to be alone tonight—for their sake as much as his own—Jay's left with a pitiful short list of who might be on his doorstep half past twelve am.
Right on time to reset his thoughts, the knock comes again, more insistent this time and now Jay decides to respond. Grabbing his piece off the coffee table, he hauls himself up off the couch and treads across his apartment to the front door, steps muted to keep his approach unknown to whoever is outside. You can never be too careful.
With a smooth, low announcer still offering commentary on his television program, Jay takes a breath before easing close enough to check the peephole.
Air catches in his chest when he draws in another lungful out of shock, faltering as he gets hammered with the very frustration he's been trying to dull for the last while.
Erin.
Her head is ducked to the side, watching the hallway, but he knows her, would know her anywhere, under any circumstances. That's just who he is.
It takes a moment to build the willpower to even grasp the doorknob. Jay can still hear Voight's angry, stressed announcement—Lindsay's gone after Yates, meet me at this address—resounding in his ears, can taste the distance she forced between them later with a platitude that meant crap to him, and he fights to remember when "never go in without back up again" became just another lie built into their jobs.
Yeah, he might still be pissed off.
Jay stops to get a rein on his temper—she screwed up but she's still his partner, she's gotten the third-degree from Voight already, and she should know already where he's at—and sets his 9mm on the kitchen counter. His door creaks when he turns the deadbolt and eases it open, gritting his teeth for whatever comes next.
The motion catches Erin's attention, her head coming around and catching his closed off gaze without difficulty. The red rimming her eyes is a blow to his gut—his fingers curl around the edge of the door to keep from responding to it—and Erin is working her jaw before she even attempts to speak.
It's easy to hold onto the anger, that burning low in his stomach, until she's falling to pieces in front of him, easy to wonder where the trust has gone, until Erin has to clear her throat before trying to talk and moisture pools in her eyes.
"Erin—"
"I'm sorry," she interrupts, trying to smile and the expression wobbling on her lips in the worst way. Grief haunts her visage, raw, unforgiving, unavoidable, the last three days ripping her apart like he knew it would. "Jay, I'm sorry."
I'm sorry for not waiting. I'm sorry I had to do it alone. I'm sorry for putting you through that. I'm sorry I couldn't let you take part of this from me.
Jay wishes he could hate that he knows her so well. That he can read every guilt weighing on her shoulders along with the relief—it's done, it's done, he's gone—how he doesn't have to ask to know where her head is at. He wishes he could and can't because—
Shaking his head a fraction, at her, at himself, Jay opens the door wider and reaches out for her with his free hand.
Erin stares at him for a long moment, almost disbelieving, as if unable to understand that he's forgiving her, but then a tear leaks from the corner of her eyes and she cracks—finally. Jay slides a hand around to hold her shoulders when she steps into him, her arms going around his waist, and he can feel her fingers knot together at the small of his back.
Everything in Erin shudders as she drags in an uneven breath, forehead pressed to his collarbone.
The door complains as he closes and locks it again, knowing she won't be leaving tonight. Jay crushes her to him without letting himself think twice, cradling the back of her head as he rocks them both, her hair spilling through his fingers.
Time slows to a crawl, disappearing between Erin's soundless sobs and the onset of Jay's own exhaustion, finally given a place in the absence of his anger.
They end up on his couch once the lights have been extinguished and Jay knows she won't sleep tonight, instead rewinding the day over and over again, second-guessing her every choice and action, but he won't ask her to share it until she's ready.
They'll talk—argue, defend, grieve—when the sun rises. Tonight is for affirmation and connection, remembering who they both are, reminding her that they are better together. Jay presses a lingering kiss to the crown of Erin's head, and she lets out a quiet breath, her hand smoothing down his side.
Her presence eases the tightness in his chest, having her laying against him, her weight familiar and reassuring. It's enough, for now.
You scared me.
I'm sorry.
I forgive you. (I need you alive, I need you by my side.) It's going to be okay.
Sleep comes somewhere between the loose strands of Erin's hair tangled in his fingers and her palm pressed over his heart and it is enough.
For now.
Thank you for perusing this scrawl! Comments, critiques, and concerns are always welcome.