In the morning he thinks maybe it was a dream, but he checks his phone and there it is – 2:45 AM – Call from Erin Lindsay. He gives his phone a bemused smile before going about his morning. He's the first one in to the Intelligence floor once again, nodding to Platt at the front desk. He can feel her eyes following him up the stairs as he scans in. He sets the coffee pot to brew, leaving it to go click on his computers, running his fingers over the keys to enter his password. With the burbling of the coffee pot as background music, he runs through his morning routine, checking his e-mail, the news feeds, and running through all the latest arrest warrants, reports, BOLOs or any other police updates that have gone out since he left the night before.

It's a fairly depressing way to start his morning, eyes flicking quickly through post after post of murders, robberies, arrests; but sometimes these are the details that will come back and help crack cases, so it's worth it. He comes to the end, sighing as he lingers on the detached report – "5:27 AM. 153 Elgin St. Home invasion. 3 dead at the scene – Marianna Delieux (36), Caleb Delieux (38), Sam Delieux (5). Witness, sole survivor – Elissa Delieux (8). 6:04 AM. Three offenders in custody." The coffee pot sputters, letting him know it's finished, and he taps the keys as he stands taking him back to the main page. Plucking his favorite wide mug from the cupboard (Black with old computer type spelling out "Updating my Java Plugin") he pours in the coffee and takes a sip. He scowls at the liquid.

"What did the coffee do to you?" Mouse glances up to see Erin leaning in the doorway, grinning.

"Same thing it always does – taste horrible," he says, lowering his mug back to the counter and reaching into the cupboard to pull out another one (white, image of a big red sticker reading "Allergic to Bullshit"), which he fills as she walks over.

"Can't argue with that," she agrees, taking a sip and scrunching up her face. He chuckles, reaching for the sugar, watching the little crystals streaming into his coffee. When he finishes he hands the sugar to her and stirs his own, the spoon clinking off the ceramic of the mug. Then he lifts the mug back to his lips and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose.

"Ugh. This isn't even coffee. Real coffee does not require sugar to be drinkable. Real coffee doesn't have sugar at all."

"Tell me about it. What is the point of all that mocha frappe whip shit? If you're gonna drink coffee, drink coffee. Otherwise, drink hot chocolate or something." Mouse snorts.

"Tell that to Jay, Mr. two-sugars-Mouse-I-can-tell-this-is-black-I'm-not-drinking-tar." He catches Erin just as she's taking a sip of her coffee and she almost chokes, pulling the mug away to chuckle. "Speak of the devil!" Erin turns as Jay wanders into the room raising an eyebrow.

"Clearly I missed something," Jay says, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. Erin shakes her head smiling.

"Nothing at all. We were just talking about coffee."

"Uh huh," he scoffs at her, striding up and pulling a mug for himself out of the cupboard and pouring it full. Mouse grins behind his mug and he wanders back out into the bullpen where Ruzek and Atwater are pulling off their coats. They exchange nods on their way by and Mouse slides back into his seat, setting his coffee down beside the keyboard. He clicks over to the traffic cams, quartering one of his screens and setting them to his favorite busy intersections. Then he leans back and keeps sipping at his coffee, glancing up to see Erin and Jay joking about something, laughing as they part ways to their desks. As Erin turns, she meets his eyes across the room and smiles.

Neither of them brings up the phone call as they run down leads on a double homicide that day, even when Mouse, Erin, and Jay all head over to Jay's apartment and Mouse teaches them how to make fajitas and Erin brings a carton of mint chip ice cream, or the next day. But that evening, when he's sitting on the couch after dinner ready to throw his laptop because this section of Javascript just won't cooperate, the phone rings. He snatches it up, huffing an annoyed breath.

"Hello?" It comes out sharper than he means.

"Mouse? Everything okay?" Erin asks, and he can picture the high curve of one eyebrow on her face.

"Oh, hey, sorry Erin. Just a line of code that refuses to work properly. What's up?"

"I was just thinking about what you said on the phone. Actually I've been thinking about it a lot." She pauses, as though expecting him to interject, but he's not sure where she's heading and doesn't have anything to add. After a moment she goes on. "What you said, about being 'used to it'… I guess it just got me thinking, and I'm not sure exactly what you meant, but I just wanted to say that you can call me anytime too." Mouse smiles to himself, pushing his hair back.

"Thank you. Although I think you do know what I meant. It's not exactly a leap," he says staring at a blank patch of the wall. He can almost hear her shrug through the phone.

"Maybe, maybe not. I guess I'm trying not to assume." Mouse chuckles.

"I thought being a cop was all about assuming?"

"Tsk. Investigating, not assuming," she says with mock indignation.

"Uh huh, whatever you say Erin," he says to her soft laughter, grinning. She falls quiet on the other end, sobering.

"Seriously though Mouse, I'm here if you want." The way it feels, hearing this, is a lot like the moment he saw her when Frazier opened that door, and the way she said "I was terrified of losing you," and standing in the kitchen with her and Jay laughing at the smudge of spices that Jay managed to get on his cheek.

"That means a lot to me Erin. It's been a long time since I've had this many people in my corner." There's a beat of silence where he worries he's said something wrong before she speaks again, soft and gentle and sad.

"I'm sorry that you were in a place where you didn't have many people standing by you. I know it's lonely. And it means a lot to have you in my corner too Mouse." Bam. It's like Frazier's apology, but a hundred times stronger, and he can feel the pressure rising in his throat, a steel cord snapping into place around his chest and he closes his eyes and tries to breathe. But unlike with Frazier, there's nowhere to run because Erin is on the other end of the line and he can't hang up.

"Mouse?" He's been silent for too long, and she's worried now, unsure, still so soft, still so gentle and he opens his mouth to try to say something, anything that will reassure her, let him get off the phone and ride this out because the first tear is already slipping down his cheek so it's too late to cut it off at the knees, but he can't make a sound.

"Mouse, are you okay?" Higher pitch, tinged with fear, needles in his skin and he still can't say anything, there's something clawing inside his chest, a beast in a too-small cage because there is something closing in on his lungs.

"Mouse, I need you to tell me that you're okay." Just a little bit breathless, louder, afraid, he tries to take another deep breath and it catches in his throat and it's such a small sound, such a small, small sound.

"I'm coming over." A bustle of sounds over the line and he's being held underwater, but a thought drifts over him – You don't know where I live – But he can't say it of course, can't say anything, can't breathe, can't move and then she's talking again. "I have to hang up the phone now to drive Mouse, but I'll be there soon, and if you don't open the door I'm going to pick it, okay?" She waits a beat, and silence is all the answer Mouse can give her and then she's gone and Mouse drops the phone to the couch looking past the swirling black dust at the edges of his vision to shaking fingers and he's adrift alone with just the sounds of his thrumming heartbeat and panicked breathing – gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, not enough air. It's like trying to breathe in the middle of a cyclone, in the middle of a hurricane. He's hunched over, shaking, limbs locked, muscles frozen and it feels like seconds and it feels like hours before he hears the staccato tat tat tat on the door.

"Mouse?" Erin calls loudly through the door, and something gets stuck in his throat, a choking gasp or cry or sob in between gasps for air, and then he can hear, just barely, the clicking scratch of lock picks in the door. The door swings open, the hinges creaking like they always do, and then snaps shut. She can't see him from the door; it opens into the kitchen, and the small living room with his faded old couch is around a little wall. He can hear her footsteps over his own rasping breath, the dizzy ringing in his ears, just a few footsteps and he knows that she's come around the corner. He can imagine the scene greeting her, a diagonal view, almost from behind of him curling in on himself, shaking, heaving shoulders with every fought-for breath on a ratty couch in a bare living room, and he wants so desperately to be okay right now, to not be this, but he can't. She only pauses a moment and then he hears a quiet thump and faster footsteps and he's still gasping, gasping, gasping, and she's suddenly crouching on the floor at his knees, and he hears a sharp inhale from her and he squeezes his eyes shut and he's so dizzy and his lungs are burning, pulse racing, gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, just breathe dammit!

"Hey, Mouse, it's okay." Soft and gentle, soft and gentle, I'm sorry. "Is this a panic attack, Mouse?" Gasp, gasp, gasp, he swallows hard, trying - failing - to stop the frantic shallow hyperventilation, trying - succeeding - in giving a quick short nod, trembling, shaking fingers, damp cheeks, breathebreathebreathe. "Okay, Mouse, is it alright if I touch you?" Yes, nod, quick and short and the only bit of control he has breathebreathebreathebreathefuck. The couch dips as she sinks into it beside him, and then there are warm hands on his own, steady fingers around his trembling ones and he's suddenly aware of how cold he is, numb limbs, tingling pins and needles, he can't feel his extremities except where Erin is holding his hands, rubbing small circles on them with gentle fingers. She moves one hand to his back, leaning in to share her steadying body heat, trying to almost wrap him in her arms. "It's okay Mouse, everything's okay," she murmurs quietly.

It's hard to say if Erin's presence helps the panic attack pass more quickly. It's several long minutes before Mouse finally manages to start catching his breath, his body too exhausted to keep pushing the adrenaline. Control comes back slowly, like fighting quick sand, or walking through sludge waist deep, the tight band around his chest loosening bit by tiny bit until he can breathe again, until he can move again, and he brings still-numb hands up to rest his head in them, focusing on the sensation of breathing, waiting for the whirling fuzziness in his mind to clear. Erin stays quiet for a while, still. Finally she rubs her hand gently along his back, shifting in her seat.

"Okay?" Soft and gentle. He nods silently, using one hand to push his hair back, sitting up a little, swiping the other across his cheeks. He sits a beat, then pushes to his feet, Erin's arm dropping off his shoulders. He feels weak and shaky in his bones, in his muscles, the kind that comes with a fever, the kind that always lingers after a panic attack, and his hands are still tingling, like they always do. He shakes them out as he strides across the room, pacing, because he can. He presses the heel of one hand to his forehead, closes his eyes, swallows, opens, breathes deep, paces. Erin slips off her shoes and pulls her feet up on his couch and doesn't hide the fact that she's watching him. Mouse is glad of that – somehow it feels better, less awkward, than it would if she tried to be subtle.

When he trusts his hands not to break anything, he goes to the kitchen, filling a glass of cold water and taking a long drink. Deep breath. He refills his glass, and another, and goes back to the couch, setting the second glass in front of Erin and sliding back down into the couch cushions. Deep breath. Finally he looks up and meets her eyes.

"Hi." A bit anti-climactic or inadequate or whatever, but it's all he's got at the moment, and it's a place to start. As though she can't help it, one corner of her lips tug upwards in a smile.

"Hi." She shifts to face him more directly, one leg tucked under herself. Her fingers tap restlessly on her knee. "Can you tell me what happened?" Blunt, to the point, he would have expected nothing less. But that doesn't make it any easier to answer. He looks away, eyebrows knitting together. Opens his mouth and closes it again. "I'm sorry if it's hard to talk about Mouse, but I think it was something I said, and I need to understand so that I don't do it again accidentally." He shuts his eyes for a moment before glancing back at her.

"It's not- it wasn't your fault, Erin," he says, voice slightly hoarse. He sees her glance away, take a breath, look back.

"Okay." She waits. Mouse presses one thumb to the pressure point between his eyebrows, runs that hand through his hair and meets her eyes again.

"It was just… it has to do with what you said, about being sorry." She doesn't understand, that much is clear, but he didn't expect her to. "It's hard to explain and it has to do with a lot of complicated shit like my parents and Afghanistan, but the gist of it is that the most sincere apologies usually come with the most pain and I can't disconnect the two." He says it in a rush of breath and looks away. She's silent for a moment.

"Okay." Like it's easy. Then, "It must suck." He can't help the startled laugh that follows that. Blunt and brash and exactly Erin. He looks back at her, perched on his crappy couch with a little smile. Gentle, but not soft, not pitying; gentle, and strong.

"Yeah, it does." Pause. "How did you know what to do?" Because she did – she knew what was happening, knew not to press, not to talk too much, knew to ask before doing anything, knew to be calm and unemotional, she knew.

"Course in the Academy about how to talk to witnesses and victims, actually. It doesn't happen as often as they make you think it will, but it's happened a few times. Scared the shit out of me the first time; I was on my own talking to a witness and I thought I was gonna fuck up and make it worse, but I guess some of what they drilled into us stuck."

"I bet you were a natural," he says, grinning. She laughs. "Also, how did you know where I live?" She brushes her hair back sheepishly.

"I called Platt." Mouse chuckles. "You can imagine how that went. She won't be terribly pleased with how I shouted at her."

"She'll get over it. You know she adores you." Erin grins, then glances away biting her lip. Mouse swallows, bracing himself.

"You can ask," he says quietly. Erin looks sharply back at him. "I won't promise to answer, but you can ask." She stays silent a moment longer, eyes searching his face. His pulse jumps, but he doesn't look away, and a moment later she speaks.

"Do they happen often?" Mouse shrugs.

"Depends on your definition of often. And since it's usually directly related to a trigger, it's unpredictable. Could go months without having one, and then have several in one month. They started after I got back from Afghanistan. The job helps. The panic attacks are dramatic, but sporadic. The anxiety is harder to shake." Erin's lips twitch into a slight frown.

"I'm not sure I understand the difference." Mouse pulls one leg up, turning to face her a bit more, fiddling with his hands in his lap.

"The panic attacks, like I said, are dramatic, sporadic, and usually linked to specific triggers. They're like… like being hit by a bus. The anxiety is… not constant, but closer to it. It's like a pot sitting on a stove – sometimes the burner isn't on, but a lot of the time it's on low, enough that the water gets warm but isn't disturbed, and sometimes it's turned on a bit higher and the water starts to bubble, and every once in a while it's on high and the water boils, which can turn into an anxiety attack, which is a lot like a panic attack. Some people don't differentiate at all actually, but I think of them as separate things. I don't know if that made any sense," he says, frowning at his hands twisted up in his lap.

"Kind of." He glances up to see her watching him. "How do you do that?" She asks in an odd voice. Mouse would almost say it's tinged with… wonder? Envy? He's not sure, just like he's not sure what she's asking.

"Do what?" She shakes her head a little.

"Talk about it like that, so easily." He looks back at his hands, lips involuntarily curling slightly up into a sarcastic smile.

"Easy," he repeats to himself. "Nothing about it is easy, Erin. Here." He takes her hand, laying her fingers onto his wrist so she can feel the race of his pulse for herself. "It's just that anxiety is so internal most of the time that it's easy to pretend to be fine, even when you're not. Especially when you've got as much practice as I do."

"But still, how do you…" she trails off, frowning down at their hands.

"It gets easier with practice? I guess? I don't know. For me it's just - I guess I just have to make the decision, you know? It's a lot harder if someone tries to bring it up themselves, tries to push me to talk or whatever. That's when I get stuck."

"Like on the phone," Erin interjects. "When I was asking if you were okay, and you didn't say anything."

"Yeah, like that. But if it's my choice, if I decide to talk… it's not easy, but I do it anyway." Erin pulls her hand away, turning and pulling her knees in to her chest.

"You make it sound simple." This time Mouse is sure that he hears envy in her voice as she stares at the ugly gray wall.

"It isn't simple. It never was. It's taken years just to get to where I am, Erin, and there were a lot of bad choices along the way." Erin glances back at him, meeting his gaze for a moment before looking away. Mouse waits, and though at some points it seems like she might be steeling herself to say something, she never does. Minutes pass, and Mouse notices her fingers turning white, digging into her knees. He breaks the silence.

"You wanna watch something? I've got Netflix," he says, reaching for the remote on the coffee table. Her fingers relax slightly, and he's relieved by the return of colour to them.

"Yeah, okay." He clicks the remote, navigating until he's greeted by the familiar grey screen and smiling icons. "Jay?"

"Hmm?" Mouse glances over at Erin, who's frowning slightly at the TV. He glances back, realizing she's remarking on the blue icon labelled with Jay's name. "Oh, yeah, we share an account. Why not, right?" He selects his green icon. "Anything in particular you wanna watch?"

They hmm and haw for a little while – Mouse is hesitant to put forward suggestions because he worries she might agree with whatever it is even if she doesn't want to watch it. He suspects Erin is doing the same. Finally Erin breaks down and says that she wants something light.

"You seen How to Train Your Dragon?" Mouse asks when the selector alights on it. The skeptical look on her face answers the question for him, even before she speaks.

"No…" He grins.

"You'll like it," he says, clicking the play button. "Trust me." He almost doesn't hear her response, murmured quietly like it is more to herself that directed at him.

"I do."

He's right about the movie – Erin does like it. As the credits open Mouse gets up and flicks off the lights, then pulls up the blankets that had fallen to the floor earlier and drapes them over the both of them. Erin burrows into the blankets and Mouse pulls his legs up to sit cross legged. They watch quietly, Mouse glancing over sometimes, pleased to see Erin smiling. When the end credits roll, Erin leans back and looks over grinning.

"I admit, I had my doubts, but that was good." Mouse smiles triumphantly.

"Another victorious conversion for the animated films," he declares. "I've always been a sucker for them." Erin glances at her watch, sighing and rocking up off the couch to stretch.

"I should head home." Mouse nods, unfurling his legs and standing in one smooth motion, bunching up the blanket and tossing it on the couch. The room is barely lit by the TV, still scrolling the credits. He strides over and hits the light switch, blinking owlishly in the sudden brightness. Erin rubs at her eyes carefully and wanders over towards the door. Mouse moves over to lean against the wall as Erin pulls her shoes back on and scoops her coat and purse off the floor where she'd dropped them. When she straightens up with her things in her arms, she hesitates, meeting his eyes uncertainly. He steps forward off the wall.

"Thank you, Erin. For coming… and everything." Her lips curl upwards, and she glances down and away for a moment, more like a reflex than anything else, before looking back.

"Anytime. And I mean that literally, okay? You need anything you call. Or if you don't need anything, you can still call," she says earnestly, eyes flickering over his face, studying him. He nods.

"Okay. But it goes both ways. You ever need anything, or you decide you want to talk, or whatever. You know where to find me." Erin smiles, surprising him as she steps forward and takes his hand, squeezing once.

"Goodnight Mouse." Then she withdraws, tossing one last smile over her shoulder as the door clicks shut.

AN: Review!