A/N: You have asked for it (A LOT). Here and on tumblr, but I guess people who don't follow me on tumblr wouldn't know that it was actually coming. I hope it doesn't disappoint!
Special thanks go to my beta Tracey! phoenix9648 She's the best. ALSO go check out her fanfiction (especially if you're a stydia of a malec fan)! Another special thanks to Alejandra. I feel like I spend my life thanking her, but she helps me all the time. And Aurelie who actually read the first part and then made me let her read the unfinished sequel, and then gave me ideas for it.
Also thanks to all of you who leave me kind words on my fics, and come to lift me up when I'm feeling down.
Jay is sitting at the corner of the bar, writing in his little notebook. He carries it with him everywhere, though most writers have switched to an abundance of gadgets, available to be at their disposal when inspiration strikes. But he still loves the feel of a pen scribbling on paper. And the upside—the battery never runs out.
The bar is starting to get crowded with people coming to grab an after-work drink with their co-workers—firefighters, cops, doctors. Jay puts down his pen. His publisher is going to be happy with the progress, so he indulges in a beer, and watches the people around him.
People-watching is one of his main inspirations as a writer.
"Rough one?" The cute brunette bartender asks the guy that plops down on a stool next to him. His knowledge of human nature and the similar facial features make him assume they're good friends or even siblings.
"Got the guy. Saved a couple dozen kids he had trapped in his basement. Just a normal day at the office."
"Did you put a bullet in him?" She pleads, pressing a protective hand on her belly—a gesture so scarce it nearly escapes Jay. Perhaps he was wrong, and they are a couple.
"Linds did." The sound of a familiar name wakes Jay up from his daydream. This is, after all, the reason he's here, sipping on his beer, while he waits for his girlfriend in order to surprise her. "Three, to be exact."
"Where are the rest of the guys?"
"Ruzek caught a bullet," he replies, and quickly calms her outraged expression, "just a shoulder. He'll be fine. He's at the hospital as we speak."
"Thank god."
"Erin is stuck on paperwork. Filling out the hundred different forms that come with the use of a deadly force, and Burgess is at the hospital with Ruzek. Kissing away the pain I'd imagine."
Jay briefly recognizes the names that Erin's told him about during their conversations, but watching her unit in person is entirely different. It's a part of her world he hasn't collided with so far, and he feels maybe he's made a mistake in coming. From what he can tell, they're a tight-knit group.
"Here, on the house," she says, setting a double shot of an amber-coloured liquid on the bar. The guy downs it in one gulp. It makes Jay think about how mentally-draining their job—Erin's job—must be. She doesn't talk about it often, often shaking off his questions about what her day was like. It's hard to do what they do to see what they see, and still manage to sleep at night.
"I'll have a beer," a tall man orders, "and something for Dawson here."
"Stupid paperwork." His writer side is so entranced by the unit dynamics, and the conversation, that he misses her entrance.
"She drinks on me tonight."
"Your loss, Kevin. I'm gonna need a big bottle to sleep tonight."
Dawson nods at the girl—Jay still isn't sure whether she's his sister or not—and she sets a bottle of liquor on the bar.
"My poison," Erin murmurs, and it hits him how little of her he knows. How carefree she was during their time together. It makes him feel like an impostor. It makes him realize how little of her life she's shared, and now he knows the reason.
That is when their eyes meet, and she jumps from her chair and into his arms with no reservations. It makes all his doubts about being there disappear, as she makes quick introductions, and then settles herself in his lap, sharing her bottle with anyone who wants to drink with her. But her eyes are shining more brightly than they did before, and he takes pleasure knowing he had something to do with that.
Her body presses against his—not in a sexual way at all—Jay recognizes it as a search for intimacy and comfort, and offers both by wrapping his arms around her.
"What happened?" He murmurs into her ear, although he has a pretty good clue. But something inside him wants to give her space, an option to turn down his offer to talk about it. A part of him doesn't want to know what these people do so he can sleep soundly at night, blissfully unaware. The chatter from the background almost overpowers her silent words.
"We caught a nasty case," she explains, and he wonders how many times she's downplayed it for someone before. How many times a guy left when he learned what 'nasty' really means. He hopes she knows he's not one of them. Ever.
"We should leave," he says, leaving room for argument, in case she really wanted to stay. But she slides off the bar stool, nodding, while he places a bill on the bar. Gabby shakes her head at him.
"Already paid for. All of it." Which apparently also means his beer. Does that mean he passed the first test?
They slip out, and she leads him to her car, passing him the keys without as much as a question, while she slides into the passenger seat. She doesn't speak, unless it's to give him instructions to get to her place, and he's grateful, because navigating through Chicago traffic is as scary as he imagined. It's only when they reach her place, after he locks the door behind them and they tumble into bed together, that she finally speaks. She snuggles so close she could crawl under his skin.
"I'm glad you're here."
And even though her eyes close right after, and he'll have to wait till morning for a full story, he can't imagine being anywhere else.
"Where is the paper?"
"What paper would that be?" She asks in a voice so innocent she surprises herself.
"Small, covered in writing…?"
"Haven't seen it," she lies, because she has it on good authority that once more, she's thrown away something she wasn't supposed to. But her new boyfriend doodles ideas on every available piece of paper. He claims the idea escapes him otherwise. So she has to be careful not to throw away any wrapper, napkin, flyer, or random piece of paper she finds. This also results in him panicking over every piece of paper she does throw away.
She's smart enough to distract him with a gentle kiss that picks up fire somewhere on the way, when she straddles him on the couch, and they both forget what he was talking about. If he's quick to panic, he's also quick to forget what he was panicking about in the first place. And she knows that the idea will come back to him, even if said piece of paper never re-emerges.
Erin loves getting to know him—all the little quirks that make him who he is. It makes it even easier for her to keep falling (if that's even possible).
And that's not to say there haven't been bumps on the road, but the days she's spent without him—eight long months—felt so cruel, so lonely, that now even on the worst of days, it feels like heaven if he's there.
"Listen, honey, it's sweet that you're a fan, but I can't let you through."
"No, I'm…" It was supposed to be easy. Jay has a book signing here again, in Chicago of all places, so she just wanted to drop by and say hi. The attitude coming from his agent is something she hadn't been anticipating. "I'm a friend." The word girlfriend still gets stuck at the end of her tongue sometimes.
"You have no idea how many times I hear that in a day's work. Do yourself a favour and remove yourself from the premises, or I'm gonna call the cops."
"Well essentially, you'd be calling me," Erin murmurs, and the woman stares. "CPD, Intelligence Unit. Listen, I'm not a groupie, I just want to see my boyfriend if he has a minute."
"Oh, you're Erin! Oh sweetie, I'm so sorry." Erin lets the woman gush about how sorry she is, that she should have started with her name, as she ushers her behind the curtain and tells her she can wait there.
It's all so new to her, the celebrity status Jay appears to have. Knowing that other women use all the tricks in the book just to see him face to face. All the gorgeous young women she saw standing in line to get his signature.
"Erin?" His arms wrap around her without hesitation, and she's amazed how quickly her doubts fade away when he's holding her like that and whispering her name with that tone. She melts against him with a soft brush of her lips against his.
"Just wanted to drop by. I didn't mean to cause trouble."
"You are never trouble, babe. I'm glad you came."
"You better get back," she whispers. "There are girls waiting for you to sign their boobs or whatever."
He chuckles, and she looks to the floor, avoiding eye contact, because she promised herself she wouldn't bring it up. "Just for your information, I don't do that." Anymore. "But for you, I'd be willing to make an exception." The throaty voice in her ear reminds her how this thing started in the first place. With that same voice suggesting a quickie in the restroom of an airplane. Which she still blushes when remembering.
"You're blushing," he makes an observation, and she hates how nothing escapes his analysing eyes. "I could sign any other parts you'd want me to," he whispers into her ear, making her knees turn to butter. Her breathing gets hitched and he drags his hand softly across her back, knowing what it'll do to her.
"Mr. Halstead, you need to get back out there."
Erin lets out a breath of frustration, but nudges him to go. She takes her work seriously, and she expects nothing less of him. He whispers a last word into her ear, briefly touches her lips and walks out, leaving her to deal with the aching desire all by herself.
"You know, I'm a huge fan," she smiles. Every part of her is flirting with him—her eyes sparkling teasingly, her voice raspy just the way he likes it the most. "I was wondering if I could have your autograph."
"You know nobody wants autographs anymore, right? It's selfies now." He grins when she walks towards him.
"Call me old-fashioned," she purrs into his ear. Her voice is dripping with honey, her body leaning towards his. She slowly unbuttons her shirt, painfully aware that his eyes are watching her every movement. When she pushes the sleeves of her shirt off her shoulders, it reveals a white lacy bra. She knows she looks amazing. The moment she tried it on at the store, she knew she had to have it—knew she wanted him to see her in it. To want her in it.
"I was thinking here," she says, pointing to the swell of her breasts above the bra.
"Perfect spot," he murmurs. Losing no time, he fills his mouth with her soft creamy skin. His arms reach for her with a gesture of habit, pulling her body flush against his.
She surrenders to him, letting his hands explore the already familiar territory. Straddling him in an effort to satisfy the desperate yearning for closeness, he gives her just that in a kiss. A kiss he deepens, enjoying when it elicits a moan from the depths of her throat.
He inhales the coconut scent of her lotion, and tastes the beer on her lips, and it's the perfect combination. Because it's her—and sometimes he thinks he'll never get enough of her. That he will spent the rest of his life wanting more.
Her hips move in a desperate need for friction, and suddenly he feels the fabric of his jeans stretched to the very limit. He mutters under his breath, and a second later a loud squeal announces her surprise when he picks her up, making his way to the dormitory. After throwing her on the bed nonchalantly, he takes time to discard his clothes while watching her squirm on the bed. With a devious smile, she discards her bra, throwing it in his approximate direction.
"Oh, is that how you want to play." He smirks, yanking her forward by her legs. It makes her skin tingle with anticipation, but he takes more time to peel off her jeans, stroking her skin along the way.
He leaves a trail of fluttering kisses up her stomach, until he finally reaches the skin she exposed minutes ago. He sucks on the white canvas of her skin until she melts like butter in his arms.
Leaning back to pull off the last of what's separating him from her, he looks down at her, meeting her glossy eyes. He loves seeing that look in her eyes, knowing that he put it there.
Her arms extend in invitation, and he joins her on the bed. Her skin warm against his, her body flushed, as he aligns himself with her and enters her with a single thrust. Her eyes close at the wave of overwhelming pleasure, but he wants to see her. He wants to see her eyes in the exact moment she crashes over the edge.
Her eyes flutter open at his whisper, and her lips offer themselves for a kiss. So he takes. And takes. And takes some more.
But her eyes stay wide open, so he can get lost in them when they both reach the ultimate peak. And for some reason, he finally understands all the writers, who put cliché sentences in their works. Because as cliché as he sounds to himself, he knows he will always find home in her eyes.
Almost an hour later, her bedroom is illuminated by his poorly lit laptop screen. He has set the brightness to the minimum, so as to not wake her up. The warmth of her body radiates through the sheets she's wrapped in, still pressing against him in deep slumber. Her face looks so peaceful. The occasions when he gets to see her like this—calm, unguarded—are rare, so he takes a moment to appreciate it.
His fingers fly over the keyboard in a desperate attempt to keep up with his racing mind. It's incredible how inspired he gets after being with her. He wonders how he used to write before meeting her. His lips curve into a smile when he remembers that first time on the plane. How she looked reading his words—the blush creeping into her cheeks, so he knew exactly which scene she was reading.
Words pour out of him now—the scene picture clear in his mind. Entranced in writing, he doesn't notice her stirring next to him, or her eyes slowly blinking open with a yawn.
"We haven't done that part yet," she says with a whisper that's intended to be teasing, but comes out sleepy at best. But her heart skips a beat, just like it did that first time, when she read the scene he wrote, sitting next to him. When it all started.
He chuckles. "Yet."
"Cocky much?"
"Well, I got you exactly where I want you, so yeah." She smiles at that, because she, too, is exactly where she wants to be.
"As long as you never tell anyone where you get inspiration for these scenes," she breathes into his ear, her voice already compromised by the feeling of arousal. "For the sake of accuracy," she says with a shrug, as he pushes the laptop away, letting her straddle him on the bed and carry out the scene he has just finished writing.
She doesn't know how she ended up here, but wrapped in a satin sheet, snacking on strawberries with champagne, she is damn glad she did.
It's been an illuminating night—Jay's first release since they got together, and she's been right there by his side the whole time. She finds it charming that he insisted on having the official release in San Francisco, since it's the city that inspired his newest book.
She's been the first one to read it, before even his editor, and she woke him up at 3 am, a sobbing mess, assuring him it's the most perfect thing she's ever read. And the pride she felt that night was nothing compared to the pride that gleamed inside of her tonight.
Now that it's officially out, and the party is long over, her beautiful dress is pooled somewhere on the floor despite being way too expensive to get wrinkled like that. But his fingers were very persuasive. They always are.
"You know people always want to know where I find inspiration for my erotic scenes," he murmurs, making her skin blush a soft shade of peach. "They have no idea."
"Happy to be of service," she says, without reminding him that she wasn't always there, so he must've gotten inspiration for those other books from someone else. Some other woman, wrapped in a satin sheet perhaps, or perhaps a girl he had a quickie with on a train.
He must see the expression on her face alter, because he lifts her chin up gently and asks about it.
"I was just thinking about the other women," she admits, looking down despite his best efforts to catch her look. They haven't exactly managed to have to talk about their pasts yet, and while she knows they both have one, it hurts to know that she might not be the first one to have been in this place.
"I'm not gonna say there weren't other women, Erin. There were plenty." He takes a hold of her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers, just like he did that day when she realized she was in love with him and decided she had to go before getting hurt. It turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life—one that she luckily could mend before it was too late. "But none of them were you." She swallows hard at the words, trying to stop her stubborn heart from beating so wildly. "I never had with anyone, what I have with you."
And when he's looking at her with those ocean blue eyes, tracing gentle patterns on her arm, she wants to believe him. She does believe him. She lets his kisses and his touches wash the doubt away and make room for all the happiness he makes her feel.
"What's going on?" Her voice echoes in the apartment that he now officially has the keys to. She brought up the subject when he slept over for two weeks in a row, and it didn't make sense for him to keep the other place, since they were together all the time anyway.
He's still waiting for his things to arrive from New York, but he's perfectly happy to set up his "office" in the corner of her living room. Book tours still take him away for months at once, but they skype, and visit, and he comes home as much as he can. It just doesn't make sense to spend the little time they get together apart.
"Jay?" She pushes through the mass of people, when someone in a uniform stops her.
"Sorry, you can't go in."
"I live here," she says, digging her badge out. "Detective Lindsay, Intelligence Unit," she identifies herself. "Now will someone tell me what's going on?"
"There was a break-in. Your boyfriend called the police."
And yet he didn't call her, she thinks, the thought feeling bitter in her head. The thought gets washed away with the overwhelming worry about is whether Jay is okay.
"Where is he?" She makes a couple of steps. "Jay?"
"Erin, I'm fine. Sorry about the mess." Finally, she reaches him, and before she can say anything, he pulls her into a big hug. Relief washes over her like a warm shower after being out in snow. She barely notices the book shelf that's knocked over, and the broken coffee table.
"What happened?" She feels she's repeated the question for a thousand times, and she still doesn't have any answers.
"We think Mr. Halstead has a stalker." The patrolwoman standing next to Jay replies first. She's eying him like she can't believe she's in on this case—that she's meeting him in person.
"You think?" he scoffs. "She's crazy." He motions to the pictures of him she's left behind as a "present". There are pictures of him, jogging, shopping. Pictures of them together, smiling, kissing. There is a common denominator to all those pictures. Erin is crossed over with a red sharpie, making her message very clear.
"You should definitely take some cautionary measures until we catch her. She's erratic and devolving. She hasn't tried to hurt you this time, but when her fantasy is ruined, she might become a danger."
"I'm not cancelling my book tour," he replies, shaking his head.
"Excuse us for a second," Erin murmurs, and pulls Jay aside. A couple of minutes later, they come back, Erin wearing a winning smile on her face.
"I'm postponing my book tour," he says, his voice sounding defeated.
"I think maybe me staying here isn't the best idea," he brings the subject up when she's lounging on the sofa, browsing through the channels. "I'm putting you in danger."
She smiles. "I guarantee you this is the safest house in Chicago. Do you know how many guns I have?"
"But still…" She cuts him off with a kiss, and an hour later, he doesn't remember why staying with her was a bad idea in the first place.
They make it official, and he moves in completely, though she has her doubts about it. They haven't exactly talked about it yet, but she has a feeling his books sell really well. The kind of really well that means he's really rich too.
But money doesn't mean anything to her. She has her place, and she's been successfully paying off the mortgage, and she has enough to eat and buy herself a little something here and there. That's really all she can wish for. The rest she stashes in a bank account for rainy days. She's not a big spender (except when it comes to chocolate and lingerie).
But he doesn't seem to mind that her apartment is small, or that her furniture isn't from some home design magazine. Still, she gets bold once, and asks, happy that he grins in reply. The question doesn't seem to bother him.
"I'm rich," he admits. The words don't quite come out of his mouth naturally, like he hadn't gotten used to it yet. "But I've been raised in a normal family, so with the exception of travelling, I don't really know what to do with the money." He shrugs. "I have everything I need right here," he says and looks at her next to him on the couch.
"So you're saying you're good for life? Like if you never wrote another book again, you'd still be fine?"
"I'm saying, we'd be fine. But if something happens, we can always live off your detective salary. I don't mind being a kept man." He winks.
"Who says I'm gonna put up with you for the rest of my life?"
"If for nothing else, you'll keep me around for my body, and all the things I do to you." He cocks his eyebrow and smirks.
"What things?" She asks with a grin.
"Let me remind you."
And reminding is just what she had in mind.
Life goes on peacefully for a while, until they almost forget about the danger hanging over Jay. Jay's stalker has been in touch, but nothing drastic. Just a couple of notes how he should leave that bitch, because nobody will love him like her. A couple more pictures.
Jay is even considering setting dates for his book tour. He thinks maybe the break-in was just a one-time thing. But before every storm comes that calm—that suspicious calm, that is never suspicious until it is too late.
The storm is raging outside. The rain is pouring, and he can see a lightening flash every now and then, as he lies in bed. It makes him even more glad to be inside, with Erin snuggled against him, under the comforter. He loves the feeling of her naked body pressing against his—it's his favourite way to fall asleep. Her slow breathing slowly lulls him to sleep as well.
But his dreams do not prepare him for what is about to happen.
She doesn't even know what wakes her up—whether it's the thunder, or the feeling of someone else in the room. She can't say with certainty. But what she sees almost stops her heart.
"We have to be together," she whispers frantically. "But we can't. Not while you're here. He's mine!"
She scrambles for her gun, the gun she's been sleeping under her pillow with since she became aware of the threat, but when they made love last night, she fell asleep on the other side of the bed. Before she can reach it, the knife against her throat is stopping her.
She feels Jay waking up from her sudden moves. Erin can tell the exact moment that he sees her, because his body tenses whole. The room is poorly lit, but the lights coming in from the streets are enough for him to see the big butcher knife pressed against Erin's throat.
"I'm sorry. It's just the only way," the girl is practically sobbing now, but all sympathy disappears when she feels the knife press harder and break skin. An inch further and she's gone. Then the pressure is gone, and the gunshot is echoing in her ears so hard, she thinks she'll hear it forever.
The knife hits the floor as the attacker stumbles backwards, holding her chest with an awed expression. Erin can only assume she hit her head when she fell, because it's clear she's not conscious at the moment. The gunshot seems to be a through and through, so she got off easy, she thinks.
That's when she dares to turn her head, and look at Jay, still holding her gun. His hand is trembling now, even though she's pretty sure it was steady when he fired it. She takes a hold of his hand, slowly prying the weapon from him.
And then he scoops her up in his arms, and doesn't let her go, until he knows she's okay. His fingers trace the red line on her neck. Gentle. Healing. His lips press kisses everywhere—her hair, her temples, the eyes he loves so much. Soft kisses. Comforting kisses. Possessive kisses. She knows it's hitting him how close it was, and she knows she has to call the police, but she can hear the sirens approaching, so one of her neighbours probably did already. So she lets him hold her a little while longer, because she knows that the police are going to need statements, and it's going to be a long night.
"It's okay. I'm okay."
But it's not okay. Because in her ten years on the job she has never been so close to dying. Because she nearly lost everything, just when her life was starting to make sense; when she was starting to find happiness. But the rapid beating of Jay's heart reminds her she's still here, and she will be damned if she lets anyone steal that away from her.
She pulls on some clothes before the police arrive, and calls down for paramedics.
It's her own precinct responding to the call, probably rushing over when they heard her address over the scanner. Patrol must've called Hank, and he must've bombed everyone out of bed, because moments later, her apartment is filled with her co-workers.
It's a horrible night, there is no doubt about that. But the storm is passing now; the sky is clearing, and dawn is peaking through. And though she's chilled to the bone because of what happened, she feels a rush of warmth when Jay looks at the unit around her, making calls, making sure that she's okay, leans over and whispers: "And I thought you said you didn't have a big family."
Because no matter how annoying they could be, or how much she used to hate their prying and curiosity, when push came to shove, they were there. And they proved that over and over again.
"Guess I just didn't realize how lucky I am," she murmurs. "And it's about to get bigger."
"Yeah," he replies dreamily. "Wait, what?"
"I found out today and I was going to tell you tomorrow, make it special, but life is too short."
He looks at her with disbelieve. "Are you saying?"
She nods, her feet already being swept off by his hug. His kiss takes her breath away, but she doesn't care. As long as she's with him, he can take everything.
"It's so much like you to tell me we're pregnant seconds after I shot my stalker who tried to kill you."
"Well with me, you'll never be bored," she teases with a wink, before letting herself get lost in his embrace.
Everyone writes about it.
The media writes articles about the simple flower arrangements of daisies, her elegant ivory dress, and the privacy of the occasion. They write about where the famous writer comes from, and who his bride-to-be is.
But they don't know, he thinks. They don't see what he sees when she walks towards him. They don't see every moment they had together flash before their eyes. But he does. He sees everything, feels everything—the little blush the first time they met; her voice that day when she came to the book store, taking a leap of faith; her smile when they moved in together; the grip of her hand on his when she delivered their son into the world; the tears in her eyes when he asked her to marry him.
He sees his family when he looks at her; his home in her eyes; his future in her smile.
He is a writer, and yet no words can possibly describe this feeling in his chest. How even after all this time, he still falls in love with her every time he looks at her; after all this time, he's still falling.
And as they exchange vows, he hopes he keeps falling for the rest of his life.