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She slammed the empty bottle, all that remained of beer number five, down against the bar- not intentionally slammed, but her coordination had seemingly vanished four beers and six shots ago- and slurred to the bored-looking bartender, “another.”
There was a reason she had chosen to drink here, instead of at Molly's. She should have been cut off long ago, and if she was at Molly's, she would have been. Them calling Hank was up in the air, she knew there was history there that drove the man to other bars, but she didn't want to risk it.
If she was grieving, he certainly was, and she didn't want to bother him with having to take care of her too. No, she'd drink until it hurt less and then take a taxi home. Probably. That had been her plan, at least.
And then Jay Halstead slid onto the stool next to hers and plucked her new beer from her hand, taking a swig of it himself and setting it down on his other side, past her reach.
“Rude,” she slurred.
“Partners look out for each other.” He didn't sound particularly apologetic, though his eyes told a different story.
Those were pity eyes. Erin had been a recipient of them enough to know and hate the expression. As a teen, that expression was always better than the alternative reactions she garnered: horror, suspicion, disgust.
But as an adult? Erin wanted nothing more than to punch the man next to her. She swung before realizing though, drunk as she was, she missed Jay entirely and started to fall off the stool from the momentum of her fist, which hadn't even been traveling that fast in the first place.
“You're drunk,” Jay unnecessarily pointed out as he helped her right herself on the stool once more.
“Your face is drunk,” she replied immediately. Okay, so she wasn't drunk enough to be oblivious to the fact that ‘your face is drunk’ was a dumb comeback. Not like she'd admit it out loud.
“Let me drive you home, at least,” he offered, ignoring her childish retort.
“I'm not done drinking.” She reached across the bartop, trying to take her beer back from Jay.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “You are.”
“You can't tell me what to do,” she protested.
“Maybe he can't, but I sure can.” She jumped at the familiar gravelly voice behind her, turning with dread.
“My car,” Hank said. “Now. I'm closing out your tab. Thanks for trying, Jay.”
“Trying?” She turned to Jay, suspicion rising forward as he winced at her expression.
“Voight was concerned about you. For that matter, so was I. You weren't answering your phone; hell, your phone wasn't even on! So Burgess and Roman found your car, and Sarge gave me five minutes to try and reason with you before the cavalry came in.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her out the door as Hank spoke to the bartender who sounded no less bored than he had at any point in the night preceding as his voice faded and the door shut behind them.
“You can leave, you know.” Erin shoved her hands in her coat pockets as she leaned against Hank's passenger door. The car was locked, but the ground was moving a little too much under her.
“I'll wait.” Jay stuck his hands in his pockets too, rocking on his feet, seemingly unaffected by the scowl and glare Erin was aiming his way.
The wind softly blew the first of the leaves fallen in the street as they stood in silence.
“Thanks, Jay,” Hank said, a direct dismissal.
“Goodnight, Sarge,” he turned to Erin, adding, “text me tomorrow,” before walking off to his own car, parked behind Hank's.
“Get in,” Hank said tersely, nodding at the door as it clicked unlocked. His frown lines were more pronounced than normal, she thought. Not that she could blame him, after everything that had been revealed.
She obeyed without question.
She wasn't sure what she had been expecting really, as to where Hank was taking her. She hoped it would be her apartment, but she wasn't terribly surprised as she distinctly recognized the drive back to Hank's. She was pretty sure it was the drive back to Hank’s, at least.
“Out,” he growled as he parked. “In,” came another terse order as he unlocked the front door.
“Go to your room, Erin,” Hank said once they were inside. As much as she hated the one word commands, she perhaps hated the exhaustion in her surrogate father's more. Guiltily, she didn't argue as she stumbled up the stairs to the childhood bedroom with the rattling window pane; it hadn't been until the grief of Nadia’s death drove Erin to new lows that she had started occupying this bedroom again. Hank had let her move out a few months ago, but she wasn't blind to the way he was keeping a closer eye on her, finding excuses to invite her over more frequently.
She couldn't say she minded. Most of the time, at least.
Because Hank had effortlessly taken up the same strategy Camille had used when Erin first came to live with them. It had been one of the things to make Erin truly feel safe in her new living situation, even if it was a pain in the ass.
Like, a literal pain in the ass.
Camille wasn't heavy-handed by any means, but she was the parent less likely to let Erin or Justin get away with any shit. Most people would have expected Hank, but he was careful with his temper around his family- Erin couldn't have stomached living there otherwise- and he was home less frequently to catch onto the bullshit of two teenagers.
Hank and his belt would make appearances for the most egregious offenses- Erin would never forget the first time she was busted with drugs after moving in; it had only been pot, though that hardly mattered to Hank- but, typically, it was Camille and her trusted wooden spoon doling out consequences to the children.
And, after Erin had quit her job and backslid into drugs and partying, Hank had taken on a more active role in her life again. He'd only discipline for the major infractions, still; he refused to stifle her autonomy, knowing how important that was to her feeling safe.
She had a feeling that Hank might consider her little bender as a ‘major infraction,’ and she wasn't particularly looking forward to her surrogate father's belt.
She closed her eyes and the world spun.
Erin woke the next morning with a hangover, complete with a pounding headache that was only getting worse as the knocking at her door.
“I want you downstairs and at the table; no more than five minutes,” her surrogate father's voice clearly traveled through the door.
“Hank, that's not nearly enough time-” she started to call back.
“Make it work. Table, five minutes.” It was the same sort of ‘tough love’ that had accompanied her when she first moved back in with Hank. Though, at least then she was more preoccupied with her withdrawal. A hangover wasn't nearly as distracting from the dread that settled in her stomach.
Showering was clearly out of the question, so she settled for brushing her teeth.
She had a feeling she wouldn't need proper clothing that day and, besides, she could use the reminder of her pajama set that Camille had bought for her back when Erin first moved in.
When she saw Erin and decided that if Hank saw something in Erin worth sacrificing for, she could try too.
Standing in her old bedroom was a little surreal, bringing back simpler times when their family was more whole. When Camille was alive, when Justin was home and, more importantly, wanted anything to do with them.
“Thirty seconds,” Hank's gravelly voice floated up the stairs and Erin shook herself from her reverie and booked it to the kitchen table.
“You intentionally trying to test me, kiddo?” Her face heated at the question, memories from years past when she had first met him starting to bubble up to the surface. She shoved them down as quickly as possible, not wanting to remember the teen she had once been.
“Got caught up in thought,” she shrugged.
“What about?”
She didn't want to answer that, because to do so would force Hank to grieve more. And, less altruistically, she was pretty sure she couldn't tell him without crying herself.
She really didn't want to spend the morning as a puddle of snot and tears even before Hank spanked her.
“Just old memories,” she tried. Fortunately, Hank seemed content to leave the conversation there.
“How are you feeling?” Hank asked as Erin ate the last of her toast.
“Okay,” she replied honestly. As far as hangovers went, this was hardly the worst she'd experienced; not like she was going to share that with Hank.
“Okay.” Once again Erin heard the thread of exhaustion running through his voice and hated herself for contributing to that. “Okay,” he echoed himself. “Go wait for me in your room kiddo, it's time we had a talk.”
Yeah. A talk.
She had gotten lost in thoughts once more when she heard a knock at her bedroom door. Without waiting for an answer, Hank opened the door.
To Erin's surprise, before sitting next to her on her bed, Hank pulled something from his back pocket.
Something that Erin hadn't seen in a while. In six years, actually. And her last memory of it remained vivid in her mind.
“Hank-” she started, voice breaking as she found herself unable to tear her eyes from the old wooden spoon. “This… you don't…” she stammered, but the words wouldn't come.
“I think I need to,” he said simply. “Remember, I'm not always going to tell you why I do what I do. You're not always going to love it,” the words were an echo of previous conversations.
“That's at work,” she protested.
“No, that's being a parent.” At least she didn't turn bright red at the words, the same way she had the first few times she had heard them. “If Camille was still alive, you know that she'd be the one talking to you right now.”
“If Camille was alive, it would be a moot point.”
“Maybe so,” Hank admitted, wrapping an arm around Erin's shoulders. Warm and there, as he always was, and it was enough to push the first tear down her cheek.
“I'm sorry you have to deal with me on top of all the rest of-”
“Hey,” Hank interrupted. “You're just about the best thing that ever happened to me, remember?”
“You have to be grieving yourself,” Erin protested. “I don't want-”
“And you're not grieving?” he asked.
“Of course I am!” Erin was quick to deny that claim, frantic to make sure Hank knew otherwise; that he knew how grateful she was for his late wife who had come to treat her like one of her own. “Of course I am,” she repeated, “I just… didn't want to bother your grief.”
“Didn't want to bother me, you mean.” Hank could always see through her, more than anyone else she had ever known.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“This isn't the first time we've had this conversation, Erin.” Hank's hand closed around hers, squeezing gently. “You're not a bother to me. You'll never be.”
“Have you called Justin yet?” Erin asked instead. “He should know, considering…”
“Considering what?” Hank asked. “Considering that he's her real kid; my real kid. Right?”
“If you could stop reading my mind-”
“I asked you a question, Erin; I expect an answer.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “Yes, considering that he's your real kid. You and Camille knew him from birth, saw him grow up. There was never any question as to his place here.”
“And there was that question for you?”
“In case you forgot, Camille didn't like me in the beginning. I don't blame her. A sixteen year old screw-up suddenly living under her roof? I'd be far less graceful than she was about it.” She hastily brushed away another tear that escaped down her cheek. She didn’t know why she had been thinking of that so much in her grief; maybe it was the wasted time that they had all thought they had more than enough of to make up for it in the future.
“She came around, though.”
“She did,” Erin sniffled. “She showed me what a mother should be, and it wasn't anything like Bunny.”
“And…” Hank prompted.
“Do you really think she'd be proud of me now?” Erin asked. “Or was that just the right thing to say in the moment?”
“Of course she'd be proud of you-”
“Yeah?” Erin challenged. “Even though I backslid to my teenage self after…” she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence, to call to her mind yet another devastating loss.
“If I remember correctly, you were a lot worse going through withdrawals as a teenager.”
“That's not what I meant and you know it, Hank.”
“She'd have told me to pull my head out of my ass a lot sooner,” he said quietly. “To bring you home, to remind you that you're loved and that you belong. I heard her voice a lot, when I was checking up on you.”
“You never…” Erin trailed off, trying to remember seeing Hank when she wasn't busy partying at club after club, taking pill after pill and shot after shot.
“I did,” he said. “From afar, but I was always looking out for you, kiddo.”
“Some might call that stalking,” her voice trembled even as she tried to joke, brushing away even more tears wrought from her surrogate father's words.
“I call it being a parent,” he said gruffly.
“Still…”
“She'd be proud of you, kiddo. I promise. She would have told me to take my belt to your ass for even looking at the pills you were popping, but she would never have stopped being proud of you; she’d never have stopped loving you. And, if you recall…”
“Yeah,” Erin winced, remembering one of the more painful talks she had had with Hank.
“This wasn't drugs,” he said quietly. “This was sneaking out and getting drunk.”
“I didn't sneak out!”
“You can't quietly bypass the notice of a room of detectives unless you're sneaking, Erin.” His logic was sound, even if she'd never say as much to him.
“This was something Camille would have handled. But she can't, so I will. Up and over my lap,” he instructed. Voight had apparently decided that it was time, and once he made up his mind about something, arguments and procrastination ceased to function.
If Hank said it was time, it was time.
The position was a surprise, as much as the spoon had been. Hank's warm hand settled on her lower back and, to add to her surprise, he immediately divested her of her pajama pants and underwear. That wasn't his normal style at all, either.
“Hank-” she tried to object.
“You telling me this isn't exactly how Camille would have done this?” he asked.
She didn't answer, and he didn't bother asking. Instead, the first smack of the spoon fell; Hank didn't bother lecturing, just bringing down the spoon again and again.
He knew how to wield a wooden spoon just as well as his late wife had, his technique just as effective as her surrogate mother's.
“Why are we here, Erin?” The spanking abruptly stopped, Hank's hand still firm on her lower back that reflected how heavily she was breathing. Yet her punishment wasn't over, not that she truly thought it would have been with a question like that.
“You never do this,” she whined, because it was a notable departure from Hank's normal style of discipline. He hadn't been one for lecturing mid-spanking, and Erin couldn't say she minded.
But Camille had asked the same question to Erin every time, the words echoing in her mind, in the voice she remembered as belonging to her surrogate mother. Light and melodic, even while she was scolding. She hadn't needed a particular quality of voice to get her point across.
She was nothing like Bunny, who relied on screaming and sharp words to try and maintain whatever control she thought she had over her children.
“Well, I'm doing this now. And I expect an answer, Erin. Why are we here?”
“Drinking,” she said between breaths. While she knew it was not even close to being done with, the spanking had been sharp and fast, a few tears spilling down her cheeks. Another volley of sharp swats was her reward for answering before Hank's had stilled again.
“What else?” Erin froze. She wasn't sure what else she had done other than…
“Being out of contact?” Once again, her answer was rewarded with swats of the spoon hailing down on her increasingly tender backside.
“That too,” he snorted, and Erin wasn't really sure what was funny in the moment but before she could go off on an indignant rant, Hank spoke again. “There's one more thing I'm looking for here, kiddo.”
Erin racked her brain for anything that might be what Hank was looking for, but she came up blank.
“Hank,” she gasped, and his warm hand was gently rubbing her lower back.
“It's okay, Erin. Do you know what I'm looking for?” She quickly shook her head even as new tears pooled in her eyes. She had disrupted his grief and for what, to not be able to answer one of the few questions he asked for and-
“Breathe,” Hank's voice was sharper, and Erin took a deep breath on instinct. “Better,” he said. “Do you want me to tell you?”
His voice was painfully gentle, softer than she had ever heard it even though he frequently spoke more gently to her than anyone else she knew.
She nodded, and thankfully he accepted that as answer enough.
“You snuck out,” he said, landing a few smacks of the spoon. “You made sure to avoid everyone and you snuck out to a bar because you were hurting.” Another round of swats rained down on her ass, always hitting their mark despite her twisting.
“That's the start of a slippery slope, kiddo. You didn't talk to anyone after Nadia’s death, you bottled it up. And it did you no favors.
“I'm not willing to watch you go down that path again, Erin. Not if I can do anything about it. When you're hurting, talk. To. Someone.” Each word was accompanied by a sharp smack to the top of her thighs.
“It doesn't have to be me,” he continued. “I'll always be here for you, Erin; even when you don't want me there. Maybe especially then. I'll always listen, kiddo. But if you want to confide in Jay or anyone else, that's fine too. If you want to see a shrink I can make that happen too. This habit of bottling up your feelings has landed you in this position more than once, and I'll give you sufficient motivation to avoid it in the future.” With that, he concluded his lecture and resumed spanking, raining down continuous swats with that spoon.
Between the stinging swats and Hank's words rattling around in her brain- not to mention the grief that she was still processing- it took little more for her tears to escape faster and faster.
Still Hank continued with that spoon, and memories of being in the exact same position with Camille, her soft voice echoing Hank's words in her head, and finally it was too much.
Her tears flowed down her cheeks as she sobbed quietly; a result of the pain across her ass yes, but also a result of years of grief that she hadn't ever processed. Instead, she had ignored her emotions, all in the pursuit of not being a bother.
Eventually, her sobs calmed enough for her to realize that the spanking had stopped. Hank had even righted her clothing once more, and she had been too busy sobbing to notice.
Hank apparently noticed her sobs subsiding, though, as he asked,
“Ready to come up now?”
“Please,” Erin rasped, and soon she was sitting on the bed next to her surrogate father, who set a heavy, grounding hand between her shoulder blades as she continued to cry. She was no longer sobbing, but she felt like she might cry for years more.
Hank just stayed next to her, silently rubbing her back as memory after memory of that spoon returned to her. She had been a dumbass teen, there was no shortage of memories to choose from. Once her tears were only occasional, she dared to speak again: no more hitched breaths and sobs interrupting the words, just a slight shake to her voice as she said,
“I didn't know you still had that,” she nodded towards the spoon.
“Now you know. So if you want to avoid it in the future, you know what to do.”
“Yeah yeah,” she rolled her eyes. “I know, talk about my feelings.”
“Exactly.”
Erin took a deep breath, willing herself to speak again. Hank had promised her it was okay to share her feelings with him, had actively encouraged it, even. Her sore ass would linger for the rest of the day reminding her of it, even.
She fell, trusting her surrogate father to catch her.
“I miss her, Hank.”
“Me too, kiddo,” he said, kissing the top of her head gently. “Me too.”