Author's Note: I always thought that maybe Camille wasn't happy when Hank brought Erin home, but 3x10 was the confirmation I finally needed to try my hand at something pre-series that explores Hank, Camille, and Erin. So here we are.
The hot liquid burns her throat yet she chugs it anyways. Enjoys the bitter aftertaste the reheated coffee leaves behind as she swipes her tongue against the back of her teeth, as she tightens her grip around the mug and lowers it from her mouth. The warmth of the coffee through the mug is barely discernible from the heat of the fire strumming through her body, and her eyes dart angrily from the young girl asleep on her living room couch to the man pushing open the front door her house.
A tiny part of her is pleased over the way Hank pauses in the doorway, steps back out on the porch to kick the leaves and dirt off his boots before coming back into her house. A larger part of her is pissed that he thinks him tracking dirt into her house is what she's pissed about.
"Justin get off to school, okay?"
She bites her tongue to keep from biting his head off and allows the nod of her head to be her answer. Turns the repetitive up and down motion into a twisted jerk over to the teenage girl he brought home in the wee hours of the morning, parked at her kitchen table, and then left at her house for hours without an explanation beyond him having something to take care off.
She watches as Hank's gaze shifts from hers to look at the girl curled up at the far end of the couch – knees tucked to her chest, dirty and stringy hair blocking her face from their gazes. Watches as the way Hank's features soften when he realizes the girl – Shelby, she corrects herself – has spurned the quilt and pillow offered to her last night.
"And what school bus was I supposed to get her on this morning?"
The acidity behind her words startles him. She can tell by the way his gaze jumps back to her, the way his brows knit together and his forehead wrinkles, the way he softly whispers his nickname for her. And, truth be told, the acidity startles her, too, as she moves down the hallway towards the kitchen.
Hank has told her small snippets about this kid over the last year or so – the sassy mouth who could likely run circles around some of the gang members they talk to, the question about whether or not a fourteen year old would want pink school supplies – and she had had known something was up when two hundred bucks inexplicably disappeared from their checking account.
But when the home phone rang at two in the morning, when Hank grabbed the shotgun out of their closet instead of his service weapon from the nightstand, Camille hadn't expected him to return with a sullen teenager in tow. One with track marks on the insides of her arms; one with a large bruise forming across her face. And she hadn't expected him to just leave Shelby there in their kitchen with instructions to help herself to anything in the fridge and hastily added words directed at her that they'd talk when he got back.
A promise she knows he plans on keeping given the sound of heavy boots following down the hallway behind her, given the way he clomps down the stairs to the basement without hesitation. They made a rule after Justin was born that they'd fight down here, that anytime Hank couldn't leave the job behind him would be handled down here away from inquisitive ears and innocent faces.
They've been married long enough – dealt with enough bad nights on the job and stupid fights – that each of them has their spot down in the basement. Camille's is over by the boxes of holiday decorations under the stairs because it's the only place down here where she can stash a box of tissues. Hank's is over by the shelves on the wheels hiding the safe they haven't talked about since the day he installed in because there are some things about his job that she doesn't want to know.
And Camille isn't surprised when she takes her spot, when she turns around to see Hank's got his arms folded across his chest and his lips have been drawn into a firm, pursed line as he tries to think of what to say. But, even after all these years, he still manages to surprise her as he explains how he's planning on going down to St. Ignatius and talking to Monsignor Bernard about getting her enrolled.
"And her parents are gonna pay for that how?"
It is the first question that comes to mind at the mention of the prestigious school because the two of them have spent years pouring over their finances trying to eke out fifty bucks here and an extra hundred there in order to save up for Justin's tuition. And as wrong as it feels falling from her tongue, it turns out to be the right question to ask because Hank is giving her a look that tells her everything she needs to know.
Everything she sort of already guessed based on Shelby's appearance because what kind of mother lets her kid go out like that? What kind of father doesn't bat an eye at some strange man – cop or not – coming to take her away in the middle of the night? And the unspoken answers to her questions coupled with the look in Hank's eyes causes Camille to frown, to raise her right hand up and run her fingers against the temple of her forehead in an attempt to calm herself. To give herself the opportunity to contemplate exactly what her husband is suggesting.
"She's not a stray dog, Henry," Camille softly, gently reminds him. "We can't just take her in because you want to. We have to think about what's best for Justin. We have to do what's right for our–"
"Cami," Hank interrupts in his gravelly voice, but there's something about the tone of his voice and the way he looks at that causes Camille to pause mid-sentence. To swallow back all the acidic words and given him the opportunity to explain why he's decided on this course of action without even talking to her. "Erin is –"
"Erin?" Camille questions and her eyebrows knit together in surprise because that girl upstairs on her couch right now told her last night that her name was Shelby. But Hank seems to miss out on why exactly Camille is surprised over Erin's name as he explains how Erin is a good kid who got dealt a shitty hand, who slipped on more than a few banana peels in her life but took his card and called him last night.
"You've given a lot of people your cards over the years, Henry," she reminds him because she doesn't understand what it is about this particular card recipient that makes him want to turn their lives completely inside out.
And in the long, pregnant pause that follows her statement, her mind starts to answer her own question. Starts to recall the thing cops' wives talk about in hushed whispers and fear every time their husband disappears from the family for weeks at a time. About how some men get so wrapped up in their undercover identities that they start to lose themselves and end up doing things they wouldn't normally do otherwise.
Lie, cheat, steal, do drugs, father children.
The similarity of Hank and Shelby's – Erin's, she corrects – gravelly voices are enough to plant the seed in her mind, and Camille forces herself to stand up a little bit straighter as she folds her arms across her chest and ruminates on the possibility. As she thinks back over the time she spent in that girl's company last night trying to figure out why Hank dumped her at their house without a word of warning. Trying to figure out why Erin.
"Henry," Camille starts finally interrupting the awkward and uncomfortable silence that has come to fill the basement. She forces herself to stand even taller; the stronger posture helps to banish any waver in her voice or tears in her eyes. "I'm gonna ask you this question only once and then I'm never gonna ask you it again, okay?"
There's a grunt of acquiescence on Hank's part, but Camille's need for answers means she wasn't likely to wait for it anyways. And she shifts her gaze from Henry's eyes up to the living room above them where Erin is currently sleeping and back again. Wishes her husband wasn't so damn good at hiding behind blank expressions as she examines his face for any clue that he knows what she's about to say.
"I know what happens when some cops go undercover. Liz DiMarco's husband came back addicted to heroin. Andrea Julius' husband ended up doing time in Stateville. Meredith and Al –"
"What are you asking me, Camille?" Hank interrupts, and Camille is almost thankful for it because she doesn't want to introduce Meredith and Al's problems to this argument. Doesn't want to think about little Lexi caught in the middle.
"Is Erin your kid?"
The question barely has time to escape past her gritted teeth before Hank is jumping in a with a firm and confident denial, and they both end up standing there for a long, quiet moment staring each other down. Her because she wants to be absolutely certain; him because he wants her to be absolutely certain.
"Then why Erin? Why this kid?"
"You want me to let you read her file?" Hank questions gruffly yet Camille shakes her head side to side, dismisses the opportunity outright because what she cares about most is understanding what it is about this teenager with the track marks and the bruises and the criminal file.
"I want you to explain to me why my husband wants to add a teenager – this teenager – in with the hellion we're already trying to raise right."
There's another long pause as Hank purses his lips, as he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. He's never been one for flowery language, and Camille is willing to give him the time to find the words he needs to explain. Gave him nearly two years to find the words to propose and then another to figure out to properly say 'I love you' to their son because not everyone knows his actions as well as she does.
And she has to force herself to blink back those tears when he finally does find them, when he looks her straight in the eye and explains how he knows Erin is a person worth investing in and how he's afraid no one else will see what he sees because Erin's already spent at least fourteen years being told otherwise by her mom and her dad and everyone in her life. Finds herself nodding her head and agreeing to this inane idea based simply on the fact that Hank believes in it.
"But, Hank," Camille adds as the corners of Hank's mouth twitch upward, "the track marks–"
"We're working on it," Hank interrupts as the floorboards above their heads begin to creak. There's a slight tremor in his leg, a clear desire to get upstairs before Erin realizes she's alone and bolts, but he stays rooted in his spot as Camille questions him about the source of that bruise – taken care of, Hank informs her – and Erin's parents – Dad's locked up in Stateville and Mom's whereabouts are unknown – and if anything else she needs to know.
"I don't want to read her file, Hank," Camille announces before he can offer again because she doesn't want to see Erin the way cops who aren't Hank see her. Doesn't want to carry any more prejudice around with her, if she can help it.
"Your friend Karen? The psychologist? Psychiatrist? She still workin' over at Med?"
"Lakeshore," Camille answers as she watches her husband shift his gaze from the floor to one of the tiny basement windows. And Camille knows immediately why he's asking about her childhood friend, knows from his reaction that Erin has been subjected to – whether by force or by economic necessity – the kind of crimes that turn the stomach of even a hardened cop like Hank. "I'll give her a call. See if she can squeeze Erin in tomorrow or on the seventeenth."
Somewhere in the time it took her to realize what he meant, Hank had managed to cross the room and press his palm to her cheek so that the rough pad of his thumb rubs against the soft flesh of the underside of her jaw when she finishes speaking. His silent affection amplifying his gruffly yet gently spoken, "I love you, Camille, and I know you're gonna come to love Erin."
Right now, she still doesn't fully understand why this kid and so she settles for a joke, tells him that she's not gonna love living in the poor house because Erin and Justin ate them both out of house and home. But she also knows he's probably right, knows he'll likely turn to her one day with an 'I told you so look' in his eyes because if it matters to Hank, then it matters to her. That's the deal.