Ruzek's scrawl becomes even more illegible as the paperwork falls from his hands, flutters down to the floor, and then is crunched under his foot as he pushes himself up away from the table. The leg of the chair he had been occupying catches on the edge of the rug covering most of the dining room's hardwood floors, and Hank wrestles with it for only a moment before he gives up. Before he stops worrying about the china cabinet behind him and lets the damn thing crash down to the floor with a sound that echoes the one coming from upstairs.

The sick thud – the startling thud – had caused his heart to leap in his chest, and the pounding only grows louder in his ears when he starts up the stairs taking them two steps at a time. His socks slip on the hardwood of each step; his normally rigid and confident posture collapsing so quickly that he has to reach out to steady himself on the banister.

And a curse falls from his lips because he's tearing through his own house without his boots on out of respect for Camille's rule about work boots in the dining room. Sunday best or socks. That's it. And you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Can't stop the memory of Camille admonishing him for tracking mud through her dining room early on in their marriage melding with one from the weeks before she passed when he wrestled Justin into a suit, cajoled Erin into putting on a dress, and tried to do one of her Sunday dinners.

Hank ended up paying someone to come in and clean that damn rug anyways because Erin and Justin started bickering and knocked a whole platter of lasagna onto the floor. He planned to make those two hellions pay for it – take it out of Justin's allowance and hit Erin up next payday – but then Camille had laughed so hard she cried and it was worth the ninety-nine dollar charge. Would pay out his entire pension to hear that again, to have her here for this.

Because Camille would have already beat him up the stairs, would have pushed her way right into this room and barked out orders at him before he reached the doorway. Wouldn't have – he realizes as he reaches the door to Erin's room – left her cellphone downstairs on top of that mountain of chicken scratch his unit calls completed paperwork.

The door is old – expands and contracts with the changes in weather – and it takes him a minute to jimmy with it, to wish Halstead or Atwater were around before he turns and throws his shoulder up against it. The hinges creak loudly as the door swings open, and the light from the hallway illuminates the darkened bedroom. Casts a long stream of light – a spotlight, almost – onto the crumpled mass on the floor beside the bed trying to right itself.

"I'm okay," the gravelly voice calls from the floor as she pushes her palm into the hardwood floor. And her voice breaks, of course, when the pain in her wrist flickers across her face – sullen eyes, pale almost translucent skin – with the effort.

"I just stood up too quickly," she adds as though that explanation is cause enough for him to release the tension in his jaw. And he grits his teeth further even as years of training, of being first on scene for some pretty heinous things kicks in so that he moves calmly, steadily towards her. Sinks down on bended knee beside her and presses on hand against her shoulder as he lets his gaze slide around the room. That same hardened, cautious gaze he uses when he and the unit are securing a scene.

There's no criminal in the room – not that he expected there to be one – but there's also no cell phone as far as he can tell. Just a stack of Erin's clean clothes on the dresser, a still unpacked suitcase on the floor, and a quilt of Camille's draped haphazardly over the chair in the corner giving the appearance that's where Halstead slept last night.

Voight's not an idiot. He knows that Halstead squeezes all six feet of himself into that twin-sized bed on the nights he thinks Voight's working late. But sometimes it's fun to see the lengths his kids and his unit will go to try and pull a fast one on him. Nice to know that Halstead hasn't gotten much better at lying when it comes to thumbing his nose at Voight's rules about Erin.

About the young woman who stirs who rolls her cold cheek into the warmth of his palm hen Hank moves to cup her cheek with his hand. About the young woman he raised who looks up at him with eyes that struggle to focus and betray the lie she peddles about being okay.

"You lose consciousness?" Hank questions as he strums his thumb against her jaw line. He watches her eyes for her tell – the flicker to the right, the dropping of her chin to her chest – and he lets his jaw unclench slightly when it doesn't come as Erin promises that she never lost consciousness. That she was still pretty out of it when she went to stand up; that she got all twisted up in the blankets and the clothes on the floor.

"Told you and Halstead to clean this place up," he gruffly reminds her as he curls his left hand around her upper arm and moves to right her. To help her into the seated position now that he's confident she won't slump right back over, won't lose consciousness again from the sudden movement. Learned that the hard way with her a couple weeks back and had to scramble to keep her from hitting her head on the way down – had to move without the deliberateness and control and confidence that usually marks his movements.

This thing with Erin – her passing out, losing consciousness in the shower or in the car or at the kitchen table – is new for him. Not something he ever went through with Camille. And getting that call from Jay that Erin had passed out in the shower when no one was home with her? Arriving at Med to find Halstead fully clothed and soaking wet with Erin's blood on his hands?

That was the end of her living alone. Moved her back into her old bedroom, told Halstead he could take Justin's old room or the couch, and talked to Trudy about being a little lenient with loaning out her patrol officers so he could make sure someone from his team – Al, Tonio, Burgess, Mouse, Atwater, Ruzek – could be here with her when he couldn't. When Halstead couldn't.

Because he had to hand it to the guy, had to give credit where it was due. Not many guys would stick around through this; not many guys would come back time and time again after being let off the hook. And he knows that Erin tried that, tried to push him away in order to save him from getting hurt because while he's never been one for status updates about their relationship, this the daughter he raised and he knows Erin.

Knew that she would likely give Halstead hell – something about being independent from him, about making her own choices without Hank – but secretly appreciate the gesture of respect when Jay came to him, looked Voight in the eye, and asked for permission to marry her. Knew that the ring missing from her finger and from the chain around her neck the night he came home to find her sitting alone in living room waiting to talk to him probably had more to do with her than with Halstead. String of broken hearts since she was fifteen and all.

Of course, that night, he thought she was coming to tell him – at best – that she wanted a transfer out of the unit and – at worst – that he was gonna be a grandpa again. Hadn't expected this; hadn't expected he'd be on the phone with Sharon Goodwin over at Med cashing in all the favors he had and then some as the terror and the fear of something he can't control touched their lives. Again.

"Where's Jay?" Erin rasps out drawing his attention back to her, and Voight's gaze slides from the small scar at the top of her skill – a reminder of why she's living here – to meet her eyes. To catch the flicker of confusion in them that echoes all the looks Camille used to give him towards the end when the pain ravaged her body and muddled her mind.

"He's on shift over at Med," Hank reminds her breathing out a huff of relief when the confusion in her eyes is replaced with understand. With remembrance that she and her stubborn fiancé – if she's still calling him that – are stretching themselves to the max to pay for the doctors and the medicines that insurance won't cover. Erin's dipping into her pension early and Jay's picking up extra shifts over at Med – exposing himself to germs Erin doesn't need to be around – because Halstead doesn't like where the money in Hank's safe downstairs comes from.

Not that there's much of it these days. Unrest in the city over charges of police brutality led to more oversight, more of the Ivory Tower and politics invading into how Voight and his unit and the rest of the men and women of the Chicago Police Department do their jobs.

And some of that money in the basement is earmarked for a different purpose. Crinkled bills tucked into an envelope that Camille saved from Christmas money in the years after Erin came to live with them and set aside to pay for Erin's wedding dress. Hank hasn't touched that money yet, but he considers it when Jay's brother starts talking about some trial or he sees the neatly stacked bills in a drawer in Halstead's desk or he even just looks at Erin.

Figures Camille would forgive him if it meant Erin made it to her own wedding. If it meant Erin could shift in her seated position against the bed without whimpering in pain, without clutching her wrists and blinking back the tears forming in the corner of her eyes.

"You been able to keep anything down?" He questions remembering the mess on his kitchen floor earlier tonight, the half-eaten lasagna forgotten on the table. The doctors were all adamant that they try, that the find something she can stomach and just keep feeding it to her. But that something keeps changing – pot roast the first few weeks, lasagna more recently – and Erin's body is becoming gaunter. Sicker. More engulfed by Halstead's sweatshirt with each passing day.

"Scrambled eggs," Erin whispers out after a momentary pause. Hank's not sure if the pause is because the chemicals being pumped into are affecting her memory or because it's truly been a long time since she's had them. But he'll go with it, run down to the corner store if it turns out there aren't any eggs in that fridge full of homemade lasagnas downstairs.

And so he moves his hand from her cheek to her right bicep, curls his other hand around her left arm once more, and moves to his feet. Carefully, gently pulls her upward so as not to tug on the still healing scar and draw her attention to what isn't there anymore. His deliberate slowness allowing his gaze to notice every flicker of pain across her face, every grimace as her aching joints unfurl and she stands on two feet.

The dim lit in the room gives him the excuse to hold onto her for a bit longer. He doesn't want her tripping over that still unpacked suitcase or the dirty clothes on the floor or the stack of audiobooks by the front door that Halstead brought home from the public library for Erin to listen to when she is too nauseous to watch television. To do anything more than lie in bed with her eyes clamped tightly shut. But Erin is Erin and she shakes off his embrace when they step out into the hallway, when they reach the top of the stairs.

Her grip on the banister is light and her back is to him, but Hank still catches the way her body shakes with pain with every step and his lips pull into a tight grimace. His hand still ghosts against the back of the oversized sweatshirt she's wearing in preparation of catching her if she falls. Or, more likely, catching himself because his socks slip on the stairs once more despite the slow and deliberate pace both he and Erin are taking.

Eventually, they both make it into the kitchen. Erin shuffling over to one of the stools at the kitchen table; Hank striding over to the fridge to pull out the eggs. He grabs the carton of orange juice, too, because Erin could use the vitamins and because orange juice was one of the only things Camille could keep down. Something about the sweetness or the tangy taste that she could tolerate when everything else tasted awful and turned her stomach.

And Hank recognizes that the orange juice will be better for Erin's empty stomach than water. That he needs to get something solid in her before she takes one of those pills that have been left untouched up in the cabinet above the stove. So he pours her a glass as he watches her knead her thumb into her wrist trying to alleviate some of the pain out of his peripheral vision.

Listens to the whimper that escapes as she shifts in her chair. Sees that brave mask return as she drops her hands to her lap when she catches him watching him. Makes up his mind once and for all as the memory of Camille in this very same position flickers to the forefront of his mind. Already watched his wife be ravaged by cancer; not gonna watch his daughter suffer through unnecessary pain as her body tries to fight the cancer that stole her body, paused her career, and upended her relationship.

"Hank," she warns as she watches him stride over to the stove, open the cabinet, and pull out the bottle of opiates prescribed to him. Erin repeats his name when he swipes the plastic cup of orange juice from the counter. Says it even louder a third time with a determined grit to her voice when he places the plastic cup and the pill bottle down in front of her.

"Take two now," Hank instructs tapping his index finger against the top of the bottle. "You can have one every eight hours after that."

"I don't want it," she hisses back shifting in her chair, flexing her fingers against the top of the table as though she plans to leave. But her movements only manage to prove his point because the pain in her eyes amplifies, because she looks away from him as she blinks back tears.

"Erin," he gruffly replies as he sinks down onto the stool opposite the table from her. Hank waits for her to look at him, and then eventually reaches out to curl his hand around her shoulder so her glassy eyes twist to right to meet his gaze. "You're in pain. A lot of fucking pain. And you and I both know it doesn't have to be like that."

There's no reply on Erin's part. No nod of her head or glimmer of agreement or even recognition of what he's saying in her eyes. And, for a moment, he feels like he's back to sitting at this table with fifteen-year-old Erin who didn't want to believe that he and Camille were serious about this being her home. Serious about them trusting her so long as she told them everything – the good, the bad, and the ugly.

And this – the cancer that stole his wife and is now trying to steal his daughter, the pain that she's subjecting herself to – is the ugly. And he's having a hell of a time trusting Erin's judgement right now when she won't tell him why she's so adverse to the pills. Because he knows her history, knows how the banana peels in her life have lead to pills and worse before, but this ain't that and he isn't – he and Halstead aren't assholes pumping her full of drugs and using her in some bastardized version of love.

"You don't get it," Erin finally breathes out in an emotional whisper.

"You're right. I don't get it," he agrees with a gentle squeeze of her left shoulder and a small nod of his head towards the pill bottle between them. "Cause I'm watching you go through this and I'm – I'm thinking of Camille and how much pain she went through. And how sometimes this helped her have a good day – let her watch Justin play baseball and quiz you for your detective's exam. So explain this to me until I do, kiddo."

The lull in their conversation is longer this time. Erin shifting her gaze down to the wrists she hides in the sleeves of Halstead's sweatshirt; Erin trying to hide her eyes behind a curtain of hair that no longer exists. But he waits – waits for her to find the courage to tell her the truth – and his eyes soften further when she finally lifts her gaze, when his red-rimmed eyes dark with pain meet hers.

"Cause I don't know if I'll be able to stop if I start."

The confession he was afraid of because he knows Erin, knows how she trusts herself the least is finally out there robbing the room of oxygen and leaving them both unsure of what to say. Just like when Erin was sixteen and coming clean about her and Charlie. Just like when he was facing facts about Camille's prognosis and trying to get Justin and Erin to do the same.

"I hurt so bad, Hank, and I just want it to be ov–"

"Hey," Hank interrupts as his stomach flips. All that hardened exterior giving away to the big old softy – the guy only his family gets to see – inside that doesn't like to hear her talk like that. Doesn't like the way it dredges up memories of him holding Camille late at night as she shook with pain and begged for this to be over.

Because while he's not the kind of guy to pin a teal or pink ribbon to his lapel, to buy into all that bullshit about positive attitudes, that doesn't mean he can stomach the idea of watching Erin slide into depression just like Camille did. Of seeing the similarities between Erin and Camille, between his daughter and his wife stack up further and further.

"You want me to flush these down the toilet and take you over to Med for an IV? Fine. I'll call Sharon and get you all set up. Or, I'll lock these up downstairs and work out some kind of schedule with Halstead. But watching you sitting here in this much pain? That–"

His voice breaks and then trails off because watching her go through this, especially after he went through it twice with Camille? That's harder for him to stomach than any of the thousands of crime scene he's seen in his years on the job.

He'll be that guy in her life – the one that pushes pills on her – if it means saving her and him and, hell, even Halstead who went through all this before with his mother from a tiny bit of pain. If it means she keep some food down or get a full night's sleep or stay awake through a Hawks game or do a better job of sneaking Halstead into her bedroom.

Because he'd rather be cooking her eggs in the morning and yelling at her to wake up like he did when she was seventeen and dragging her ass about getting to first period at St. Ignatius. Because he'd rather watch her – his lone hockey fan in a house of football and baseball fans – get wound up about the Hawks losing to the Red Wings. Because he'd rather be making disgruntled noises about Halstead's skivvies mixed in with Erin's clothes in the hamper when there's no ring on her finger. Rather be doing anything than watch Erin's body ravaged by pain as she tries to fight this.

And so he releases his grip on her shoulder, snatches the pill bottle of the table, and pops off the lid. Swallows back some smartass comment about her not being able to open the child lock with the way her wrists are right now as he plops two pills on the table beside the glass of orange juice in front of her. Sits back and waits for Erin to make a decision, to realize that the ugliness of this – her pain, her creeping depression, her confession – doesn't mean he's stopped trusting her.