Author's Note: I'll refrain from writing a diatribe about how angry I am a scene with Jay talking about his PTSD was cut, and instead offer up this (quick) drabble-ish fic I wrote up that attempts to fill in the obvious gap in the break room scene between Erin and Jay at the end of 4x18. I couldn't find specifics on where PTSD support groups meet in Chicago so I used the locations of Veteran Service Officers from the Illinois Warrior Assistance Program's website as a proxy.

"Thank God for the job, though, right? I mean, every day you get to meet somebody who's problems are bigger than yours."

"Yeah, I guess so," he replies with a nod of his head because she's right. The job keeps him grounded; the job keeps him focused and tethered to the here and now.

Yet the words still feel heavy and wrong as she explains how she's gone above and beyond to help today's somebody, as she provides herself with an out to leave him in the breakroom. And his gaze immediately shifts to the floor; his head tilting downward so he doesn't have to look at the small smile she offers him as she moves to tiptoe past him.

"Erin," he softly calls out, and he can hear her boots scuff on the linoleum floor as she skids to a stop long before he's fully turned around to face her. "I-"

"I, uh," he says pausing to swallow the lump in his throat. Her back is still turned to him; her body nearly halfway out the door. And - despite all their conversations in here, despite the fact that he followed her in her and initiated this - the break room isn't exactly where he imagined himself telling her about this. Telling her about something he's spent most of the last eight years trying to tiptoe around.

Yet he spent Monday night's meeting listening to an artillery field officer named Jon talk about how he tiptoed around things until he tried something stupid and this afternoon listening to Voight tell him to he'll be out of the unit if he doesn't stop tiptoeing around what's going on. So he squares his shoulders, lifts his head, and forces himself to find the words to tell her that, in fact, some days somebody else's problems don't seem all that bigger than his.

"I've been going to a, uh, support group for veterans with, um, PTSD," Jay confesses, and the pause that follows is accompanied by the loosened rigidity of her posture. By the scuffing of her boot against the linoleum once more as she turns around to face him, as those eyes wide with compassion normally reserved for their victims land on him.

He flinches at the look of pity because that's the last thing he wants to see from her. From anyone, really. He doesn't need people tiptoeing around him. Doesn't need to be reminded that he isn't living his life in a way that honors the sacrifice of those in his unit who didn't make it home.

Because he already knows that Petey and Spaulding and Clark would have some smartass, probably inappropriate comment about what kind of man turns down sleeping next to a woman like Erin. Knows that he's hurt her by keeping things bottled for so long, by tiptoeing around things instead of giving her warnings and outs for time apart until it all came to head.

"Is it helping?" Erin asks softly, and he keeps his gaze off over her shoulder at the empty bullpen as he shrugs his shoulders. Because, truthfully, he doesn't know. It seems like a never ending dance of one step forward and two steps back.

But he's trying to take the advice he gave her back after Nadia died. Trying to stop tiptoeing around the stuff he's got going on upstairs; trying to face it head on in the basement of a building on West 87th Street with seven other vets and someone from the Illinois Warrior Assistance Program.

"I don't know," he finally verbalizes shifting his gaze to look at her. The tears are starting to gather in his eyes, and he does his best to blink them back as he explains, "Mouse, uh, he took me - he and I went to the IWAP a few years back and-"

His voice tapers off, and his shoulders shrug once more. It worked last time. Or, at least, he thought it did. Enough that he could stop going about a year after Mouse finally got him there. But, seven years later, he's still spending his evenings off clutching cups of stale coffee - coffee that is somehow worse than the swill in the break room - and trying to get up the courage to speak. To start vocalizing how he's feeling instead of tiptoeing around it.

"It takes time," she concludes for him before offering him a sad smile, and he slowly nods his head. Shifts his jaw slightly from side to side as he tries to find more words to explain, to make sure she understands that this and the time he needs to focus on it has nothing to do with how feels about her.

But "it's not you, it's me" is a cliche he can't bring himself to say and, instead, he tries to look her directly in the eye. To let the way he looks at her say what he cannot verbalize; to let the tears gathering in the corner of his eyes tell her that he doesn't want to tiptoe around his PTSD in the same way he doesn't want to tiptoe around her at work.

"It's okay," Erin replies as she takes a small step forward and, for a brief second, he wonders if she'll try to touch him. If she'll place her palm against his chest or his shoulder or his cheek or his back like she has before when they've let their private lives seep into their professional moments. And he's not sure he'd be able to handle that. Took all the strength he had to let her go with a whispered apology last week.

Yet there are no further scuffs against the linoleum as her feet remain planted, as she tightens her grip around the coffee mug in her hand.

"Take your time," she tells him. The compassionate look in her eyes deepens; the hints of the way she feels about him and, thus, how he let her down causes the lump in his throat to grow and the tears in his eyes to fog over his vision. "We won't tiptoe around each other here, okay?"

He nods his head because he can't find the words to provide verbal affirmation, and she offers him one last supportive smile before turning away and stepping out into the bullpen. Leaves him to watch her retrieve her keys and coat from her desk and move towards the interrogation room where Sarah waits through the slatted blinds of the break room's window. Leaves him to hold back his tears as he glances at his wrist watch, as he tells himself that if he leaves now, he can still make the support group meeting over on South Halsted Street.