Title: Interesting Dynamics

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: Hank and Erin are forced to re-explore their complicated 'family' dynamic when an unexpected 'family emergency' causes Voight to have to deal with demons related to his wife's death, his failings in parenting, and the challenges his work has created for his family and for his ability to be the father he wants to see himself as.

Voight rubbed at his temple as he heard his son quietly call him from the top of the stairs. He let out a sigh and gazed at the computer screen for a moment before acknowledging he'd heard the kid's voice.

"I don't remember telling you you could come out of that room," he called across the house.

There was silence for a moment but then Ethan said at a bit more audible level, "Can I come down?"

"No," Hank replied flatly.

The silence hung again.

"Are we going to eat dinner?"

Hank glanced at his watch. It was 9:30 p.m.. Later. "What do you think?"

The quiet again. "Can I just come get something?" he finally asked.

"I don't know, Ethan. Is the kitchen up there?" Hank said, leaning back in his chair.

He heard a shift. He knew that his son was now sitting at the top of the stairs. Sulking. Trying to piece together in that fucking kid head of his how to navigate this. But there wasn't anything to navigate. He'd fucked up. He was paying for it now. They had to tolerate each other for two weeks. Voight had to rearrange his fucking schedule to be a fucking babysitter for the next two weeks – and then Ethan could be someone else's problem. Thing was, though, that even when the kid was away – he was still his fucking problem. He got more fucking calls about that kid than he ever had with Justin and Erin combined.

"You're supposed to be in the bedroom – not sitting on the fucking stairs, Ethan," Voight barked.

He could feel the kid shift. Him fidgeting with the recognition he'd been caught and trying to decide if he was going to listen – to scurry back into the hole. But he didn't move. He likely thought moving would just confirm he'd again done something he wasn't supposed to.

"Is Erin coming?" he asked meekly.

"I'm not her personal scheduler."

Quiet hung again while Ethan processed that. As he took the time to come the realization that his sister wasn't likely going to be around that night to give him some mothering. To baby him. To make him feel not so badly about what he'd done. To bring him dinner and to give him distraction. To give him permission to laugh and smile. To tell him it'd be alright and that really deep down his dad loved him. That they'd work it all out.

No. Erin wouldn't be around that night. Voight was sure of that much. Not after the talk they'd had during the day. She was smart enough to know that right now she was on the shit list too. Though, Voight didn't much want to think about or reflect on her running commentary. Or listen to it.

"Maybe you could bring up dinner?" Ethan asked quietly after a long silence.

"Ethan! Go to bed!" Voight barked more sternly.

The quiet hung for a long moment. He could feel the sadness in his son radiating down the stairs. He just didn't have much tolerance for it at the moment. Regret? Repentance? He wasn't sure it really accomplished much of anything at this point.

What the kid really needed was for all hell to rain down on him. For him to get him into some kind of program. To put him into some sort of support group. To send him to the shrink and the behavioral therapist – again. Or to get his ass beaten. Fuck this shit about corporal punishment. Maybe all his kids would've done well with having the fucking strap taken to them once and a while. But he'd never raised a hand at any of them. Had he wanted to? To knock some fucking sense into them? That was a different story.

Maybe they would've actually been scared of him – would've actually fucking listened - if he'd slapped them around once or twice. For all Erin and Justin claimed he was so fucking intimidating. So fucking terrifying. They certainly hadn't shown that he'd been nearly fucking terrifying enough.

And, clearly he wasn't scaring his son that night. He heard the stairs creak and the quiet footsteps of Ethan trying to come down unnoticed. But Voight was already glaring at the entrance way of the living room when Ethan peeked around the corner at him.

"Did I tell you you could come down?"

His son looked at him glumly. "I'm real hungry, Dad," he said quietly. "I didn't come down at lunch like you said."

Voight just continued to stare at him. He wondered how long it would take this time for Ethan to get the point and retreat. But sometimes Ethan could be so fucking dense. He didn't think it was defiance like he'd seen in Justin. Justin was too much like him. Sometimes he didn't think it was the hot-headed stubbornness like he'd dealt with in Erin. It was just stupidity in Ethan. Or fucking brain damage. Sometimes the kid just couldn't read situations – let alone faces and emotions.

"What are you doing?" Ethan finally asked instead – apparently deciding that getting food was going to be a losing battle.

"Working," Voight put to him flatly.

Ethan stepped around the corner and eyed him a bit more – taking in the room. It might still be classified as the home's living room – but it hadn't much felt like that for a long time. Voight used it as a glorified office anymore. And even then it didn't get used that way much. He didn't have reason to go home – or to drag paperwork to do at home with him. He preferred to leave the work in the office – and to stay in the office as long as possible and as late as possible most nights. And, if he was done there, there was always the 'social club' he could go to to put in time rather than sit in his mausoleum to his life failures. He'd taken his eyes off his family too much over the years – and now this was what he got out of it. An empty house and dysfunctional kids. He should've known better than to think marriage and kids could be in his cards. That that made any sense for him. Not when his life was his city.

"I really was saving the money," Ethan said quietly, casting him a downward glance.

"I don't like being lied to," Voight put back to him. He didn't have the time or patience for that on the best of days. With Ethan that night? He'd already tested the extremes.

"I was," Ethan protested weakly. "I wanted to buy a PlayStation."

Voight leaned back in his desk chair and examined his son. The kid was such a fucking runt. Hank got that. He'd been a short kid. Wasn't exactly a tall man. But he'd learned how to hold himself. How to deal with it. How to make sure no one gave him shit – as a kid and as an adult – as a cop. Ethan didn't have the first clue how to do that. But he seemed to be a fucking expert at getting himself into situations. He just never fucking walked out of them as a victor.

"Twenty-five dollars. So let's pretend you didn't spend any of it. All fucking year," Hank said. "But we both know that's true. You know how I know that's not true?" he asked and looked at Ethan, who again diverted his eyes. "Because I get a fucking statement from the school every month about how you spend the money I put into your account." Hank spun his chair back to his desk and clicked around on his computer, opening up his email and then scrolling for a moment before loudly clicking the mouse again. "So let's take a look at … May." He gazed at the screen. "Doritos. Dollar fifty. Chocolate milk," he spat out. "Two dollars. … Chocolate milk. Two dollars. Chocolate milk. Two dollars." He gave his son a glance. "Should we be calling Erin and having her bring chocolate milk for you tomorrow morning?" Ethan's shoulders slumped. Hank looked back to the screen. "Track pants."

"I needed them for baseball tryouts," Ethan said quietly.

Hank gave him a look. "Mmm," he allowed. "Got a guess at how much those were?" His son just shook his head. "Thirty-nine dollars. Expensive 'track pants.'" Hank turned his chair back to look at the kid. "But let's pretend that you don't spend any of the money I send over for you. That you've saved that twenty-five bucks every month the whole school year. Now, I know you were pretty much failing math – despite me paying to get you a fucking tutor. But why not try to demonstrate for me what you might've learned at this fucking school that I paid a fucking arm and leg for you to go to and tell me, Ethan, if you didn't spend any – ANY – of the money I sent you. If we pretend that's true. How much money would you have saved up right now?"

Ethan cast him a small glance but then looked at the floor again. Hank rocked back in his chair again, folding his hands across his chest.

"Need some help figuring it out," he said flatly. "It's twenty five times the number of months you were at school. So … September …" he held up a finger to count of the months for him.

"I can do it," Ethan said angrily.

"Then tell me the answer," Voight said.

Ethan kept looking at the ground, scuffing his foot. Voight could see him fidgeting his fingers slightly as he clearly attempted to figure out the simple math. He must've managed to work it out in his head because it suddenly seemed to hang lower.

"You got it all figured out," Voight put back to him flatly.

Ethan cast him a small look. "Two hundred and twenty five," he said at a near whisper.

"So you can do math," Voight allowed. "And, you want to tell me how much money was in that envelope?"

Ethan flared his nostrils but looked up at him that time – his eyes burning. "Four hundred and thirty-two."

Voight gave him a nod. "Look at you. You know how to count too," he said drily and Ethan glared. "How much are these PlayStations?"

"Four fifty," his son spat at him.

Voight gave that a pucker and rocked a bit more. "You were almost there," he said. "Hey, you cut back on that chocolate milk and you could've had one already."

Ethan made a noise and looked away from him. He likely regretted coming downstairs at that point. The kid had balls. He seemed to think he could still get this to all blow over and come out of it relatively unscathed. At least with him. Maybe it was a good thing that some punks beat the shit out of him at school. Voight didn't get to do that. Let someone else. Too bad he had to fucking deal with the fallout from it all in the process.

"So, I'll ask you again, Ethan, where are your fucking medications?"

"I DIDN'T LIKE THEM!" Ethan yelled at him.

Voight just glared. "And, I don't fucking like having a fucking head case as a son," he said. "The doctor says you need the pills. You take the fucking pills."

Voight watched his boy. Even through the dim light he could see his son's eyes glassing at that. The gulping in his throat and the catch in his breathe.

"I'm not a head case," Ethan put back to him. He sounded about ready to cry.

Voight let out a small sigh at that and looked away. It'd likely been poor word choice. He felt a small sting of guilt. Guilt for the words but also a wave of pain about why and how they'd even become part of his vocabulary and thought process when it came to his child.

"I'm NOT CRAZY," Ethan yelled. "I'm not brain dead!" The tears did slip out at that point and the kid's hand smacked up to his face to feverishly wipe them away.

Voight watched him for a beat and then pointed at the couch. "Sit," he ordered. Ethan ignored him. "Sit the fuck down," he said more firmly.

Ethan stormed over to the couch and sat heavily on it – wincing as he did so. Then he buried the heels of his hands against his watering eyes.

"Stop that," Hank said.

"I'm not doing anything," Ethan blubbered.

Hank let out another annoyed sigh and rose from his chair, moving and setting himself down next to his son. He grabbed the wrist that was closest to him and pulled the hand away from the kid's face.

"Stop that," Hank said. "You're going to make it swell more."

Ethan yanked his wrist away from him and looked off in the opposite direction. "I'm not crying," he mumbled.

"No? Could've fooled me," Hank said, examining him.

"Stop looking at me," Ethan mumbled through the tears he was clearly trying desperately to hold back but wasn't doing a very good job.

"You're my kid," Voight said. "I'm allowed to look at you."

Ethan made a noise and just kept staring off into the corner, occasionally reaching up and swiping at another stray teary that defiantly slipped out of his eyes.

Hank just sat there. No saying anything. No trying to offer any sort of touchy-feely comfort that might make him think that everything was alright between them. But he was there. Next to him. He found that sometimes that was enough with kids. That that was what really counted in the end. Unfortunately he'd learned that through all the times he hadn't been there and all the shit that had slipped through the cracks because it. The bullshit that had slipped through the cracks yet again because of it.

"It's not like I sold the whole bottles all at once," Ethan finally muttered while still looking away from him. "I don't like the pills. Some people like them. So I just … saved them for later when I didn't take them."

"And you think selling them one at a time makes it better?" Hank said flatly.

Ethan gave him a small glance. There was a pleading look to it. This face was still streaked with the tears he'd missed. His swollen eye already looked more puffy from the way he'd been poking at it in his futile efforts to try to man up.

Hank sighed and leaned forward onto his knees, turning his head and examining the kid more.

"You know what really fucking scares me, Ethan?" he put to him. "That either the administration at that school is so fucking stupid that they didn't clue into this aspect of what was going on – or that you've gotten so fucking sneaky that you had the wool pulled over their eyes."

Ethan just stared at him. Voight watched him – trying to read an answer in the kid's eyes. It figured it was a bit of both. But that still pissed him off.

"I really don't want to go to camp, Dad," Ethan finally said – not giving him an answer.

"And, you think I feel good about sending you to camp right now?" Voight put to him. "You going to be dealing to some other people's kids there? You going to be off in the woods toking? What the fuck kind of trouble are you going to find there?"

"I really hate camp, Dad," Ethan pleaded with him.

Voight let out a breath and sat straighter. "I hear that," he allowed. "And, hearing that is about the only thing that makes me feel good about sending you to camp. Because your behavior – what you did – it has consequences."

"So keep me here," Ethan whined. "Punish me here."

Voight slapped his hands on his thighs and sat back into the cushions, staring at the kid. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you here, Ethan? I work."

"Most dads work," he countered.

Voight gave a nod. "Yea. Most dads work. My job? I don't think so. And you think I'm going to trust you in this house – in this city – running around doing your thing? Alone? Especially right now?"

"I could go live with Justin," Ethan suggested, giving him hopeful eyes.

Hank snorted at that and crossed his arms. "Right now, your brother's life belongs the army. Which is pretty much where you're charging toward at this point too. And, he's got a baby on the way. His hands are full."

"I could stay with Erin," Ethan said with less confidence.

"Erin? You mean your sister – who works for me?"

Ethan sunk into the couch too and looked at him sadly. "I don't want to go to camp, Dad. I just want to stay home. I want to be here."

"See, son, the thing is - I really don't fucking care what you want. And what I get to decide is what's best for you. Now 'til your eighteenth birthday – my say goes."

Ethan looked at him with eyes that looked ready to cry again. "You said it was just while you were away. And, You and Justin ain't in jail anymore."

Hank let out a noise and looked away from him. "I wasn't in jail. I explained to you –"

Ethan cut him off. "You said it was temporary. You said me going away too was temporary," he protested weakly. "Just while you were gone."

Voight looked at him. "Yea," he allowed. "And, maybe if you could stop fucking things up and making this whole situation worse – we could work on a way to make things a bit more temporary."

Ethan's eyes brimmed again and then he hung his head, going back to examining the floor.