Author's Note: This chapter is set directly before the first scene with Erin and Jay in bed in "The Silos" (4x01), and it is an attempt to bridge the gap between the two seasons. I thought Erin's headspace about Hank going into the fourth season was pretty clear, and I was intrigued by the way she was and wasn't leaning on Jay (i.e. inviting him over to her place to sleep, presumably telling him that she was meeting with Crowley given their "How'd it go?" conversation yet keeping him handcuffed on how to help her). So I decided to explore how much Jay might have known about where Erin went after she hung up on him, how he felt about the traps being sprung for her and Voight by Crowley, and how might have come to decide that moving in together was the best solution for what she was going through.

Before the chapter begins, though, I wanted to offer a huge thank you to those of you who stuck with this story after I took a year long hiatus from writing it and those who picked it up in the last few months . I'd love to hear any final feedback on this story that you may have.

The relentless rain beats against the windshield; a torrential downpour rather than a pitter patter that has turned the streets into riverways and cleared the sidewalks around the city as people seek refuge inside their homes. Occasionally, a lone individual with the lapels of their trench coat pulled up to their ears or a couple huddled under a shared umbrella hurry past his parked car, past the Mom and Pop stores flipping over to chain coffee shops and clothing retailers thanks to the shiny, new high-rise forming above.

But, for the most part, the sidewalk remains deserted, and he only has to give each person a passing glance to ascertain if they're waiting for him or not. Waiting to show off the high-rise building looming over the street, to talk square footage and amenities with him.

The spec sheet the realtor sent over two nights ago is pulled up on his phone, and he glances down at it. Lets his eyes skim over words about how the place has two bedrooms and underground parking and access to a gym as he tries to figure out what she would say about the place. If she would be willing to overlook the lack of "real" Chicago character for a place where she doesn't have to shovel out her car in the morning or wake up early to get across town to Antonio's.

Yet the early hours haven't seem to affect her over the last few days. He's awoken twice now to the feeling of her slipping out of his bed and once to the sound of the front door of her apartment clicking shut behind her. Spent three nights wondering how she is and what she's up to until the wee hours of the morning when she didn't answer her phone, and two other nights when she did answer her phone, when she showed up at his place or told him to come over feeling like she'd rather he go.

Feeling like she'd rather he leave her alone as he reclines on her couch beside her nursing a beer and not talking about Justin. As he sits across the bullpen from her and doesn't acknowledge that the photographs and notes pulled from the unit's whiteboard and handed over to Commander Crowley are just a bunch of dead ends now. As he slips under the sheets beside her and doesn't ask about the ball of wet clothes left in the corner of her bedroom.

At least, this place - with its gentrifying neighborhood and ubiquitous appearance - has a washer and dryer in a unit. Offers him the chance to lander those clothes, to remove the reminders of where she went when he told her that Voight wasn't at the house with him or the rest of the unit without it becoming obvious what he's doing. Without implicating what he knows - or, at least, thinks he knows - about the hour and a half gap between his phone call to her and the 300 arriving back in the District's parking lot by doing a load of laundry at her place instead of his own.

By completing a silent yet physical omission that he thinks there is something to that pile beyond those being the clothes she was wearing when she and Voight found Justin. That the evidence Crowley is going to be looking for when the team she has assigned to Justin's case finds only dead ends in the folders and evidence boxes he and Dawson handed over is actually laying in the corner of Erin's bedroom.

The thought causes him to sigh, causes the knot in his stomach that has been there since he heard her voice over the radio calling out for an ambulance to tighten because this played out in both a way he expected - with Voight possibly getting a moment alone with their main suspect - and a way he didn't with her possibly getting snagged up while the rest of the team was offered plausible deniability.

Possibly because he doesn't know. Only has theories and suspicious and three years of knowing what Voight meants to her. That Voight, in Erin's eyes, is the reason why she's here today. Why he has gotten to know her rather than her becoming an unknown face in a file cabinet of unsolved homicides and overdoses.

But Jay also knows that he - with his decision to drive rather than ride shotgun beside her, with his phone call to her rather than directly to Voight - helped the hunt for who killed Justin Voight play out in a way that might have ensnared her. And he can't stand the idea of of the traps that are bound to set for Voight pulling her down another hole, of watching her come and go out of his apartment and his life - inside and outside of work - because of what he did and what he hasn't managed to do since.

And, so, he is here on a rainy Tuesday night waiting to check out an apartment that he hopes she'll like, that she'll maybe want to spend more than a few hours at with him. That will maybe feel like home, like a place that can keep her grounded through the loss of the guy who was like her brother and the home that Voight offered her.

Except he's pretty sure she's not going to like this place. Can already hear her incredulous voice about how he'll need to pick up multiple Violence Reduction shifts and pull in extra overtime in order to afford a small latte at the residents-only coffee lounge the spec sheet boosts about. Can already hear her knowing hum and see her suggestive smirk in response to him saying that he'd only drink the stuff in the breakroom, if it meant getting a place with one of those waterfall showerheads and a jetted tub.

He thought the place he emailed her about this morning - the condo located on the second floor of a brownstone - would catch her eye. Would, at least, warrant a text back or an acknowledgement as she came and went out of the District today while the rest of the team pushed paper and kept their mouths shut and their eyes averted from the elephant in the room. But she hadn't said anything, and he hadn't been able to find a moment in the breakroom after awakening to an empty bed for the second night in a row to ask her about it. To tell her about his appointment to see this place tonight.

So the headlights shining into his rear windshield from the car pulling up behind him aren't from her sedan, and the woman with the light brown hair who steps out of the vehicle and hurries over to stand under the flat, metal awning over the entrance of the high-rise condominium isn't her. And Jay takes a moment to squint through the heavy rainfall to watch her, to double check her identity before pushing open the driver's side door of his car. Slips his cell phone and his keys into the front pockets of his jeans as he hurries through the rain to meet her.

"Mr. Halstead?" The woman calls out as he comes towards her, as she thrusts her hand out for him to shake. And he grasps it with a nod of his head as she introduces herself as Sarah Murphy, the realtor working with the developer of this site.

"Will it just be you tonight?" Sarah inquires, although the unspoken addition to her question is evident in the way she glances at his left hand. And the question causes him to pause for a moment because somehow his search for a place to call his own, to put down roots had become a search done with her - her opinion, her presence - in mind, but she had gone from the District this evening and hadn't come with him. Hadn't returned his text inquiring what she was up to or if she wanted to grab dinner; hadn't really talked to him since the night she showed up at his place after shrugging off his attention and being noncommittal about whether or not he'd see her later that night at Justin's funeral.

"Yeah, uh, my girlfriend couldn't make it," he says telling himself that it's not entirely a lie. That if this was a normal week, she would have been here to offer her opinions on what is too intimate and too ridiculous for a place that he'll call home for, at least, the lifespan of his mortgage.

"Oh, that's too bad," Sarah counters glancing up at the sky and the steady rain before returning her gaze back to him. "I'd be happy set up another time for her to come see it. Perhaps when the weather is better so she can really see the view."

"Yeah," Jay replies soft because maybe the weather will get better. Maybe the dark cloud hanging over her life will dissipate and he'll figured out how to help her get through this beyond trying to distract her with real estate listings and showing up when and where she wants him to. But, right now, the storm is still raging, and he has no idea where she's at.

So, instead, he stands alone outside of a high-rise apartment building listening to the realtor tell him about the security system installed throughout the building as she fishes out a badge from her purse. About how residents can get in twenty-four/seven with a plastic badge and visitors can be let in by the front desk when it's staffed from nine to five.

And Jay keeps his mouth shut about how he's seen the system she's bragging about in more than one burglary-homicide during his years on the force. Tries not to give away how much more he likes the fresh paint and clean lines of this place over the linoleum and rusty mailboxes in the entryway of his apartment building as he follows her through the lobby to the elevator.

"So the unit we'll be seeing has two bedrooms," the realtor reminds him as they step into the elevator and she pushes the button for the eleventh floor. The doors shut behind them without the horrific clanking noise that comes from the elevator at his place on the rare occasion that it's actually working, and Jay jams his hands in the pockets of his black coat as Sarah points to the button for the fourth floor explaining that they'll stop and check out the gym and club lounge after seeing the unit.

"Gym access is included, right?" Jay questions, and the realtor launches into a list of what is and isn't included in the purchase price and the condo's co-op fees - unlimited gym access for homeowners is included while more than two coffees a month at the club and day passes for guests aren't - as the elevator inches closer and closer to the eleventh floor.

"Uh, washer and dryer in unit," Sarah informs him when they reach the eleventh floor, when she fumbles with the keys to unlock the front door of unit number eleven-oh-four. And she steps aside when she finally unlocks the door, gestures for him to step into the apartment first, offers him the first look at the hardwood floors running from the front door through the open-concept living room and kitchen to the wall of windows on the other side. The wall of windows that look a lot like the ones at Erin's.

And that realization causes him the smile because maybe he can turn these windows and their view of a stormy sky instead of the brick wall of the apartment across the street into a selling point for her. Can maybe finally end her complaints that his current place with its small windows and close proximity to another building is like living inside a tomb.

"All appliances are included," Sarah announces dragging his attention away from the wall of windows towards the kitchen with its gleaming white cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances. It is about three times the size of his current kitchen - bigger than Erin's, too - and he can't help but imagine how much easier it would be to cook them dinner now and then without having to step around her. Can't help but feel a little crestfallen at her not touching him - eyes sparkling and mouth smirking in such a way that they give her feigned innocence - under the excuse of cramped spaces.

And he turns on his heels to look at the rest of the space; his eyes settling on the large, blank walls running the length of the room. There's no fireplace, but there's plenty of room for a sixty-inch plasma TV mounted to the wall and storage space in the second bedroom for all the blankets she has insisted on needing at his current, fireplace-less apartment.

"Unit comes with one spot in the underground parking garage," Sarah informs him, and he pauses for a second as he moves towards the hallway leading off from the right of the kitchen. As he realizes that someone will still end up circling the block looking for parking and digging their car out when the city turns into Chiberia, that those loops around the block and attempts to dislodge the car from a snowbank will be the only times he gets to drive.

"But," the realtor jumps in when she catches the look on his face, "a second one can be allocated to the unit with a little negot-"

The caveat is interrupted by the crash of thunder and lighting outside, by the trilling sound of Jay's phone ringing in his pocket. A sound that causes the knot in his stomach to tighten and then sends his hand scrambling into the pocket of his jeans. A sound that causes him to throw the realtor an apologetic look and then furrow his brows as he sees her name written across the screen.

"Hey," he greets after clicking the green button on screen and raising the phone to his ear. Jay's voice sounds rough, panicked. Nothing like the flat, monotone voice that greets him on the other end of the line. But there's an edge to it - an edge he hasn't been able to figure out, an edge he hasn't been able to decide if he wants to fall over - as she asks if he can come over to her place.

And he doesn't hesitate to say that he'll be right over. Offers an apology to Sarah about needing to go and barely notices the way she panics over losing out on a commission as he leads them both to the elevator. Barely absorbs her sputtered words about how he hasn't checked out the bedrooms or the bathroom or the resident's club on the fourth floor as they ride down to ground level in the elevator. Barely notices the rain falling overhead as he promises to be in touch about the place and jobs over to his car.

The high-rise is further from her place than his current apartment, and he arrives outfront to find dark windows and not a single light on in her apartment. At least, none visible from the street. But the phone his tossed on his passenger seat is lit up with a text informing him that she left the front door unlocked for him, and he climbs three flights of stairs to find that to be true. Pokes his head into the darkened apartment and calls out her name because only idiots sneak into apartments and homes owned by cops.

"In the bedroom," she calls out in a gravelly voice from the bedroom and only then - with the sound of her voice, with the reminder that she really wants him her - does the knot in his stomach loosen and his shoulders relax. He takes just a moment to slip off his coat and boots, to add the coat to the hooks by the door and straighten the jumbled mess of shoes by the door, to lock the door behind him.

Only then does he pad through the dark apartment to her bedroom, round around the corner to find her laying in bed with the covers pulled up and her back towards him. And as his eyes adjust to the low-light conditions, his gaze drifts from her to the corner of her bedroom, to the spot where her wet clothes from that night lay.

Laid, it turns out. Because, now, the pile is gone. The last remnant of it - her green trench coat - is wrapped in the plastic the dry cleaner sent it home in and draped over the chair to his left. The sight causes him to pause long enough that Erin seems to notice, that she rolls over on her back and stares at him with eyes that seem to both challenge him to ask and beg him not to.

And another long pause follows as he tries to decide what to say or what to do, but the decision is made for him by her reaching out to pull back the covers, by her silently asking him to lay down beside her. A request he answers by yanking his damp t-shirt over his head and dropping it onto the floor where her wet clothes used to sit, by fumbling with his belt and sliding his jeans and his socks off so he slips into bed beside her with nothing by a pair of boxers on.

And unlike the last few days when she's come and gone, when she's pulled away from him, she rolls into his grasp, curls her body up against his, and places her head in the crook between his arm and his torso. Lets one - no, two - hot tears fall down her cheeks and onto his chest as his arm wraps around her, as his thumb traces patterns on the soft bit of skin peeking out from between the hem of her off-white t-shirt.

"Crowley wants to see me tomorrow," she informs him, and the confession causes his hand to still because he knows what that means. Knows that the cloud of suspicion hanging over their unit right now is narrowing over her, that someone outside the unit has finally noticed the gap in her and Voight and the rest of the unit's timelines and whereabouts.

"Erin," he starts, but she cuts him off. Handcuffs him and all his possible reactions by pressing her face further into the crook between his arm and his torso and telling him that she doesn't want to talk about it. That she just wants to lay her with her boyfriend.

And he agrees because she asked him to come here, because her arm is tightening around his chest as though she needs an anchor right now and he wants to be that for her. Wants to help keep her head above water as she tries to work through her loss and keep her and her career on solid footing as the Ivory Tower starts picking up on rumors and hearsay and unspoken understandings of what happens when a cop's son is killed.

When Hank Voight's son is killed.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, she'll pull away from him. She'll end up on her side of the bed and he'll end up on his. Close enough physically that she'll smack him with the back of her hand when her nightmare wakes him up; far enough mentally and emotionally that she'll brush off his concern and run out the door. But, right now, she's not coming and going, and twelve hours of stability, of laying in bed beside her as her boyfriend has to be good enough.

For now.