Title: The Way From Here

Author: ZombieJazz

Fandom: Chicago PD

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.

Summary: Erin must deal with the consequences of her decision to take a position in FBI counter-intelligence at the expense of her relationship with Jay and her relationship with her family. But an emergency with her younger brother provides her with the opportunity to re-examine her choices and to try to rectify any damages to her relationships. This story takes place in the AU established in Interesting Dynamics.

SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath and So It Goes (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to the finale of Season 4 of Chicago PD.

****WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS A MILD M FOR SEXUAL CONTENT. ****

Erin lay against Jay's shoulder. She'd normally would place her head lower – on his chest, against his heart. Normally, his hand would be lower too. That he'd be playing his fingers down her spine or in circles on her hip or tracing across the side of her thigh. Not the loose clutch he had on her shoulder that night. A position she thought had more to do with keeping his arm from falling asleep than him trying to hold her close. But nothing had really been normal that night.

They probably shouldn't have had sex. She knew that now. Or at least that's where her head was going as she lay against him processing and trying to figure out where his head was at as he stared blankly at the ceiling above.

She should've known it would turn out that way. Them laying there. Not talking. And maybe she had. Maybe she didn't care. Maybe he hadn't either. Because they really hadn't done any talking. At all.

She got home – or to the townhouse, she wasn't sure if it was home or if it even felt like home right now; it actually felt kind of foreign. He was there. In front of his flatscreen. Working on a beer. Watching the news that he turned off when she came in but she really wished he hadn't. She really wished he'd left it on and given her something to stare at. But that hadn't stopped her from staring at the blank screen anyway.

She'd give him that he'd asked if she wanted to talk about it. Not them. Not the job. Not the case. Not the FBI. She knew that wasn't what he was asking. If she wanted to talk about Ethan. If she wanted to talk about how it went at the hospital. But she suspected he had a pretty good idea of how it'd gone – or hadn't – and how she was feeling right in that moment. And she really hadn't wanted to talk anyway. At all. Because she didn't know where to start with that. Any of it. How to process it. Or the fear and the guilt and the utter sadness that she was feeling that was stinging in a way she wasn't prepared for. This fucking hurt that almost felt more agonizing than when they'd lost Camille. Then when she'd found the brother she'd been raised with with a gunshot wound in his head stuffed in the trunk of a car, left to die. She somehow felt like – now – she was slowly bleeding out too and she couldn't figure out where the bullet was or where to put the pressure. She did know she felt drained. In so many fucking ways.

He'd stood from the couch then. He'd moved toward her. He'd asked if she wanted something to drink. If she'd eaten. He'd stood in front of her – stared at her – when he'd asked that. There was sincerity in his eyes when he'd asked it. Genuine concern despite the sadness she could see radiating off him too. A sadness – a hurt - that she knew might include what Eth was going through in it – but it was more about what she was putting him … them … through. What their relationship was – or wasn't – in that moment. But there he was – still trying to … take care of her. Look out for her. Even when his annoyance – his anger and just how … pissed off he was at her – was bubbling pretty close to the surface too.

But she wasn't thirsty – as much as she did want to start in on a bottle and to try to just fade away from all of this. And she didn't have an appetite. What she needed – what she wanted – was just some kind of comfort. Some kind of touch. So she'd kissed him. She'd leaned into his space and he hadn't backed away. He hadn't stopped it. He'd positioned himself to let her – to meet her halfway. He'd kissed back.

And there hadn't been anymore talk. No discussion. About where they were or what they needed or what they wanted out of any of it. There was just an unspoken agreement that they were headed up to the bedroom and into bed.

And that had about been where the kissing had stopped too.

It'd been … very basic sex. Just sex. It wasn't an anger fuck. It wasn't make-up sex. And it didn't seem like a one-last-time round. It was literally just sex.

This unspoken acknowledgement too that this was their window of opportunity and if they didn't take it that it might be a while before they had it again and who knew what things would be like – where'd they be at – when the next window appeared. If it did. So it was just this basic release. This meeting of some primal need. But it hadn't really been what she needed. And she didn't think it had been what he needed either.

It wasn't good. It'd felt all wrong. For them. From the moment they were in bed. It just didn't feel like them. It didn't feel like the routines they'd established. Or the way they were with each other. Before. It felt forced. And maybe it was.

They probably should've just stopped. She probably should've told him to stop. Because he wasn't him and this wasn't them. But she hadn't.

She hadn't when he'd stopped and gotten up without explanation only to come back with a condom from somewhere. The closet or the bathroom. Not the nightstand drawer. And she'd watched him put it on while her head churned to try to remember if they'd had any left in their stockpile when they'd decided to stop using them or if he'd gone out and got more for some reason. In the past six weeks.

Even after he was in her, her head wasn't there. It was still labelling the condom use. Something that before she might've taken as him being respectful and protecting her and them. Just being smart. Because now wasn't the time to have some slip up. But somehow instead she found herself reading deeper into it. That he didn't trust her to be responsible enough and organized enough on this undercover to be managing her birth control on her own outside of her routine and home base. That he wasn't going to take any risks – not to protect her or her career, but because he didn't want that baggage right now either. Or worse, he didn't trust what she'd been up to the past six weeks and who'd she'd been with – and was literally protecting himself.

She had to repeatedly push it to the back of her mind. To focus on where she was at and who she was with and what they were doing. To try to get something from it. But that had been hard too. Because she wasn't getting the comfort or the contact she was so craving. She didn't even get the primal want and need out of it either.

Jay was usually bordering annoyingly diligent in making sure sex was a shared and equal experience. To the point she sometimes had to tell him that on a particular night she didn't care if she came (or came first) or that for whatever reason it just wasn't going to happen that night.

But that night – it hadn't happened. Not before. Not after. Because she didn't think Jay had even tried. Or at least he hadn't gone through his usual motions or techniques. And she hadn't even gotten the physical contact or positioning to nudge it toward being in the realm of possibility.

It was like he hadn't wanted to be too close to her. He'd stayed propped on his knees and without putting any of his weight on her. He was in her but she wasn't getting any skin-to-skin contact. To feel him and smell him and to have that comfort of his weight and strength above her and against her. And he hadn't even bothered to use his hands in his usual explorations – her thighs, between her legs, her stomach, her breasts, her neck. He'd just held at her one hand while she held at his one thigh. His eyes set more at his movements – at the only place they had any negligible connection – than his usual push for eye contact.

He'd leaned forward – over her – and kissed her at one point. She'd thought it might be a turn in the tides. Their primal connection getting them to actually connect. But it was like after barely connecting with her mouth, he'd realized he'd let himself – his body – do that. And he'd rose away from her. Even though she'd followed until he was too far out of reach.

She could feel him growing more fatigued and frustrated. It was apparent in his movements. It was apparent in the look on his face that she'd call more a scowl than any kind of arousal. So she'd eventually gotten to be closer to him. But only because he must've decided he was going to cum no matter what and that he wasn't going to achieve it in that position. But even when he did shift and let himself come closer to her there'd been nothing normal about it. For them. Nothing nice. Nothing comforting. Instead he had his eyes fixed somewhere at the side of her head – staring at the sheets. And she'd felt like little more than some vessel as he moved against her.

She could tell he was struggling. It'd be hard not to. She didn't think either of them was getting enough out of it for it to be remotely satisfying in anyway. She could tell his head wasn't there either. Not in a way to get anything out of it.

And she should've again told him she wanted to stop. Because that wasn't them. She didn't think they'd ever just had sex. Not sex purely for the sake of orgasm. Even when one or both of them was just as horny as fuck and the objective was to get-off there'd always been more to it than that. Because of their relationship. Because of the kind of relationship they had. Because they were friends. They were partners. They cared about each other. They loved each other.

And sex purely for orgasm - treating another person purely as an instrument to that outcome – that was their previous selves. People they were supposed to be better than now. People they were supposed to be better than with each other. Even if this was going to be the last time they had sex for a long time. If. She hoped it wasn't. Or maybe based on this – she hoped it was. She hoped that … needed, wanted … for them to figure out how to move beyond just having sex. For them to figure out how to get back to making love. To figure out how to take care of each other – that way – again.

And something about that had shifted her a bit. Put her mind back in it – who she was with, what they were doing – again. To focus on the important things. To acknowledge that before – in their previous life, their previous relationship – that if Jay was struggling on any given night they … he … would've stopped long before this. They wouldn't have gotten this far. That previously him struggling with presence and his climax would've been about … a case, fatigue, his PTSD – both from Afghanistan and from growing up. But she knew that night it wasn't. It was about her. It was about them. Or more accurately what she'd put – was putting – them through.

That for whatever unspoken reason Jay wasn't stopping. He wasn't giving up. He needed that orgasm. And part of her suspected he needed it to prove to himself that something was still there. That they could still figure out how to make any of this work. That it could be fixed. That it was still worth fighting for. And he was fighting. It was dripping off him in his frustrated tension and his jerky movements that had lost any sense of his usual rhythm.

So despite how uncomfortable she felt. Despite how much this didn't feel like them. How much she just wanted to tell him to stop. To give up. That it wasn't going to work. She didn't.

She spread herself wider for him and repositioned her legs and the angle they'd settled into with his weight and fatigue. She let him have more access. And she forced herself to participate – even though she wasn't sure she wanted to at that point and she didn't get the impression he wanted her to. But she also got the impression that it was what he needed.

She pulled her hand away from his. She wrapped her arms around him. She ran her nails up his back and then against his scalp. She turned her head. She offered him whispered assurances that he was fine and to take his time. To breath. To calm down. She kissed at his earlobe and his neck and his jaw line. She pulled his hips forward and held them tightly while he found – rediscovered – the angle and depth and rhythm that felt good to them. And then she wrapped her legs high around his waist and let herself feel how his thrusts rocked her body against the mattress. Let herself feel the soft, sweaty skin on his stomach and pressed against hers only for it to separate and stick there again. She let herself feel and hear his breathing against her neck. Let her lips rest lightly against his ear so she could feel his urgent pulse. And as she finally felt the tell-tale changes in his thrusts and catch in his breathing – that six weeks did nothing to pull from her consciousness – she ran her fingers through the short hair on the beck of his neck with one hand, as she stroked his cheek with her other.

And she held onto him for those few moments he allowed himself to come down. To catch his breath. She held onto him so tightly. To them. But it only lasted seconds before he pulled away. Before he rolled away. Before he sat on the edge of the bed with the tissues and focused on his crotch. Before he got up to toss the wadded mess into the trash can. To get a glass of water in the bathroom.

But he came back. He brought her a glass. And a warm, damp washcloth.

And he got back in bed next to her.

He let her lean against him. His shoulder. He let his hand come up and clutch her shoulder. He let them share space. He let them not talk. He let himself stare at the ceiling. And her stare across the room at the big window in the master bedroom that she was almost certain Jay hadn't opened since she'd been gone.

So they were in darkness – no the usual streaks of street light that she preferred to let peek into the room from between the blinds. But maybe darkness was where they needed to be in that moment. Maybe that was their new normal. Or it was just the hole she was currently in. But maybe she needed that dark – that silence – to try to process. To try to figure out if they could ever be normal now. Or if she'd fucked it all up again. To try to decide if they should or shouldn't have had sex – even though the act had already been done.

And even though it hadn't been normal. For them. That it hadn't been what she wanted or needed. Maybe it was exactly that. For both of them.

AUTHOR NOTE: Your readership, comments, reviews and feedback are appreciated. There should hopefully be another chapter or two within the next 3-10 days.