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Emily Prentiss does not get sick. She feels her throat close up and drinks some hot water before driving in for work. Her nose is clogged and she barks out a laugh at Morgan’s pathetic joke and pokes Reid in the side when he stammers at the innuendo. There’s a pounding in her temples and she closes her eyes for a moment before standing at the precinct and telling officers their unsub is a sociopath and they needed to be aware of those whose smiles were too wide and eyes too charming.
JJ asks her if she’s okay after flinching at the bright sunlight, and Emily flashes her her signature smirk, and even though JJ’s eyes are still filled with concern, she drops it, and they continue their stroll through the Musee d’Orsay because she knows JJ loves old paintings and the Louvre is too busy and crowded for one last walk with someone she must forget. And even if the Metro ride there is loud and shaky and fluorescent lights blinding, her head spinning is worth the way JJ’s eyes glitter in dim light, hand still clasped tightly in Emily’s as she gazes at the massive wall-size paintings.
On the fourth day, Emily collapses.
She tries to make a joke out of it, but her throat has closed up and she’s breathing hot air and this bedroom floor is as grimy as a dog’s ass (dog’s ass?), and the only sound she can make is an undignified grunt.
“Oh my God— oh my God, Em.”
There’s something wet sliding down her face. Is she crying? Or is that sweat? She can’t feel anything and her eyes are burning. She lets out a groan.
Someone takes her shoulder and rolls her over, and Emily’s head lolls to the side, the only thing keeping her up the strong, calloused hands of JJ, her pretty face blurring in and out of Emily’s vision. Her other hand brushes against her forehead.
“Em, you’re burning up,” she hears, and in one smooth move, JJ picks her up and back into bed.
“Unh,” Emily says.
“I know, I know,” is the reply, and JJ rearranges the sheets so that only the thin bedsheet is covering her instead of the thick duvet she sleeps in. “Let me get you a cloth, you’re gonna be just fine.”
“Unh,” Emily protests, because her skin is burning up and she’s blinking back hot tears and her head hurts so much and the only thing that would make it all better would be to see JJ and her soft, pink lips.
It feels like a lifetime when JJ returns, which is impossible because the bathroom is right next to Emily’s bedroom (in her old apartment it was down the hall, and Emily considered it a major design flaw but not one worth buying another home for), but JJ returns, and she comes back with her honey-voiced murmurs and a cool cloth laid across her forehead.
“You’ll be fine, Emily,” she says. “You’re so strong.”
Emily doesn’t tell her that the cloth has long dried up because if she does, JJ will leave her again.
The day passes by with Emily floating in and out of consciousness, head pounding every time she opens her eyes, and the only things she can recall are JJ’s hushed murmurs as she talks about getting better and being okay and the way JJ’s thumb traces gentle circles over her knuckles, fingers still intertwined, curled up in the armchair on Emily’s bedside. JJ orders takeout with what little French she retained from her high school years, exhaling sharply every time she pronounces an unnecessary consonant, and when the doorbell rings and JJ stands to answer, Emily grabs her hand.
“Unh,” she says with as much emotion as possible, and JJ’s eyebrows knit together.
“I’ll be right back, I promise,” she says, and she squeezes Emily’s hand, but she doesn’t let go.
You only came back after I died , Emily tries to say.
“Unh,” comes out.
In the end, Emily is too tired to hold JJ back, and as her hand falls limply to the bed and she watches JJ slip out her bedroom, she curses her body for betraying her.
French Chinese takeout is similar to American Chinese takeout, Emily notes: oily, savory, and mouth-watering. JJ doesn’t let her eat the stir-fry (apparently it’s bad for her stomach) and passes her small amounts of fluffy jasmine rice and wet bak-choy, but Emily can only barely hold down the pitiful foods JJ passes her.
JJ gets Emily a pitcher (an entire pitcher) of water on her nightstand for the night and promises that she’ll be there if Emily needs anything and Emily just needs to yell, and Emily lets out a thankful grunt. Closing her eyes, Emily drifts off to the blood roaring in her head, mouth hanging open slightly to breathe properly.
Emily wakes up to a burning sensation on her chest and in her stomach and in her eyes, and fuck it, she is the burning sensation, and she tries to call for JJ.
“Jayje,” she says, words slurring, and even though she tried to say “JJ”, it works for now.
The way JJ appears in her door frame is like some God-given miracle, and even through her blurred vision, Emily can never forget those blue eyes.
“Em, what’s wrong?”
She crosses the room in quick strides and leans over Emily, and when her gold curls fall over Emily’s face and her nightshirt hangs lower than any work attire would require, her heart skips a beat.
“God, you’re burning,” JJ says, and if Emily weren’t so delirious, she would say JJ sounds almost worried, but JJ is never worried, pretty, perfect, media liaison JJ is never worried, the way she holds her chin up and the way her eyes always meet the other person’s.
“Don’t leave me,” Emily says, and JJ’s hand cups Emily’s cheek, shaking slightly from the heat radiating off of her.
“I need to get you some water,” comes as a whisper, and she disappears despite Emily’s groan.
When she comes back, the bedsheets are spread haphazardly around the bed from Emily’s weak attempts at kicking them off, and balancing the small tub of water and towels on her right hand and hip, JJ plucks off the bedsheets with ease, and Emily relaxes as JJ settles into her seat.
“You’re going to be fine, Em,” she says, draping another towel over Emily’s forehead before wetting another one. “We just need the fever to break.”
“I haven’t felt this hot since I got stabbed,” Emily says, and she lets out a croaking laugh at her own joke.
There’s a flickering smile on JJ’s face, and Emily continues.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve been dead before, remember? This fever ain’t shit.”
JJ replaces the cloth on Emily’s forehead and stays quiet.
“Why aren’t you saying anything? Your voice is so pretty. I could listen to it all day.”
“You’re gonna have to listen to me for the next few days, Em,” is the murmured reply, but everything is too hot now.
“My stomach hurts. Jayje, Jayje, my stomach–”
There’s a burning sensation as the chair leg pieces her, and she screams.
“Jayje, Jayje— it hurts, it hurts, I’m sorry—”
And Emily can’t do anything except cry when JJ unbuttons her nightshirt and places a wet cloth on her stomach, chest heaving as she gasps for breath.
“Jayje, it burns, please, I can’t—”
“You’ll be okay, Em, it’ll be okay,” JJ says, draping another cloth over her chest and taking off Emily’s nightshirt. “It’ll be okay, everything will be okay.”
But still her stomach and chest burn, and maybe in a different world Emily would be ashamed of herself, with how pathetic and weak she is, crying and sobbing and begging, in front of JJ, of all people.
But if it means JJ’s hands will trace over her bare chest and her hair will tickle Emily’s cheek, she will take it.
It doesn’t get better.
The fifth day Emily spends throwing up, except she’s too weak to get out of bed and so JJ brings a trash can to Emily’s bedside so at her convenience, she can simply roll around and spit up whatever the fuck is still in her stomach.
And her head still fucking hurts. JJ touches her hand, and Emily recoils.
“Leave me alone,” she spits, and her mouth tastes like sandpaper. “Leave me alone.”
“Em—”
“Leave me alone!” she shouts, except she doubles over and retches into the trash can, dry-heaving at this point because all of last night’s vegetables and rice are gone and Emily’s going to rip out her entire digestive tract.
And also because this is pathetic. Former CIA and Interpol spy, BAU profiler, lying half naked in a bed in Paris, supposedly dead, drenched in sweat and her own spit, recently branded and staked, succumbing to a fever. A fever. If Emily had it her way, she would rather hurl herself out the window than to have JJ see her like this.
JJ retreats to the corner of the bedroom and blinks back tears. Emily is too busy coughing into the trash can to notice.
“Why can’t you give me any pills?”
It comes as a croak, and wordlessly, JJ pours Emily another cup of water and passes it to her. She takes it shakily and sips, knowing that inevitably, it will come back up and into the bin. JJ is silent watching Emily, curled up in her armchair, and her eyes are unreadable.
“When Doyle stabbed you,” she says quietly, “he ripped part of your stomach.”
“He ripped more than my stomach,” Emily comments drily, and JJ’s eyes flash with something Emily cannot quite understand.
“They stitched it back up, but the doctor said something about how you shouldn’t take any Tylenol and similar medicine until it completely healed.”
“Why Tylenol?”
“Because— because—” JJ huffs. “I don’t know, I’m not a chemist. I guess it’s something to do with how it affects stomach lining.”
“I bet Reid would know,” Emily says, and there’s a pang in her heart as she imagines the young doctor. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Almost instinctively, JJ’s hand reaches out, but just before touching Emily’s, she freezes. Emily frowns, blinks.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
JJ brings her hand back.
“You wanted me to leave you alone.”
“I did?”
A pause, and Emily’s heart twists at the look on JJ’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know,” is JJ’s immediate response. “You were sick.”
This time, Emily reaches out for her, and JJ takes her hand immediately, fingers interlacing and squeezing tightly. JJ’s eyes glitter in the dim moonlight, and Emily wonders how much longer she has with her.
“When are you going home?” she asks her.
JJ is wearing Emily’s old Yale sweatshirt, she realizes. A muted, old navy color, the letters flaking off, and her hair looks disheveled, as though she hasn’t brushed it in days. There are bags under her bright eyes, not unlike the bags she had when she first had Henry and still insisted on coming in for work, and Emily feels a pang of guilt.
“I’m sorry, Jayje,” she says.
“It’s not your fault,” JJ says quietly. “Let me get you some water.”
Emily begins burning up again that night. All the water JJ coaxed into her earlier comes back up, and JJ still tirelessly drapes wet towels over her and removes the dry ones.
“I’m going to die,” Emily groans.
“You’ll be fine,” JJ repeats, squeezing a wet cloth down Emily’s face. The droplets stop the pain momentarily, but once they touch her skin, they evaporate immediately, temporary relief gone. “You’ll be fine.”
“I love you,” Emily says. “I never got to tell you that. My eyes hurt.”
“Close your eyes, Em.” JJ keeps trailing water down her face.
“I want to see you. Every time I see your eyes, I know it’s going to be okay. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Em. Close your eyes.”
“It’s really hot. Jayje, it hurts.”
JJ replaces the towel on her stomach, and she flinches at the sudden cold.
“Jayje, it hurts.”
“I know, baby, I know.”
“I like it when you call me baby,” Emily says, eyes hot and vision blurry, and she can’t see the way JJ stiffens and squeezes her eyes shut.
“Go to sleep, Em. It’ll be okay.”
“Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t.”
The last thing Emily registers is a singular wet drop on her face, just above her eye, and bleakly, she wonders why that one droplet was more hot than cold.
Emily’s hand is cold.
“Jayje?”
But it comes out as a grunt because her throat has closed back up and the pounding has returned, and she lets out another grunt as her hand flexes. Something takes hold of her and squeezes, and Emily grunts.
“Unh,” she says. I need you. I need to feel you. I love you.
“I’m here, baby.”
The cloth on her head is replaced, but the burning persists. She’s stopped sweating now, thankfully, it’s just her head.
“Unh,” Emily says.
“I know, baby, I know.”
JJ used to smell like vanilla. Emily’s nose is clogged up right now, but she’ll bet ten thousand staked stomachs that she still smells like vanilla, with just a hint of cinnamon. She remembers asking JJ about it once; her shampoo was vanilla, she said, but she can’t imagine where the cinnamon came from.
“Unh,” Emily repeats, and she tugs on her hand.
“It’ll be okay, baby, I’m right here,” she hears, and Emily tugs her hand harder.
“Unh,” she emphasizes, and she brings their hands to the bed.
A pause. Emily’s vision is blurred and spotty, but she imagines the way JJ’s eyebrows scrunch together when thinking.
“You want me in bed with you?”
“Unh,” Emily confirms, and she squeezes her hand again.
A rustling of clothes, and JJ squeezes her hand gently before dropping, and Emily notes the soft footsteps as JJ pads around to the other side of the bed (JJ has the lightest footsteps, Emily’s tried making hers softer but she can’t manage it). The bed creaks as JJ settles in, and suddenly there’s an arm wrapping around Emily’s waist.
“Come here, baby,” JJ murmurs, and Emily curls into her warm body immediately, burying herself into the old sweatshirt and her soft curls. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
The pulsing in her head ebbs away as JJ’s nimble fingers thread through her tangled hair, and Emily drifts off to an uneasy sleep.
It’s a choked sob that pulls Emily halfway out of sleep, eyes flying open and trying to pinpoint the cause of the noise through her blurred vision. Another sob, and it’s coming from behind her.
“I’m so sorry. This isn’t how it was supposed to turn out.”
The voice breaks off at the end, and blearily, Emily wonders who it is.
“I love you so, so much, I don’t think you’ll ever know how much I love you.”
Everything is so heavy. The words float in and out of Emily’s head, and there’s a ringing in her ears. She makes out a shaky inhale before something; Emily has to strain to make out the words.
“I thought— I thought we could do it, I thought we could— but then Will came and Henry and— and I didn’t— Em, I’m so sorry.”
A choked sob, and Emily feels tears drip onto her neck.
“You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Emily tries to say something, say anything, but all that comes out is a grunt and a jerk of her body, and the arms around her tighten, kisses pressed into her hair over and over as circles are rubbed onto Emily’s skin.
“Sh, sh, it’s okay baby, it’s okay.”
Another kiss pressed into the crown of Emily’s head, except this one seems desperate and raw and she can feel someone linger there for a moment longer before burying their face in the nape of Emily’s neck.
“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. God, I’m so sorry.”
When Emily opens her eyes, she’s greeted with JJ perched on the armchair next to her bed and diligently studying a magazine, and she can smell coffee-
She can smell coffee.
“I can smell,” Emily says abruptly, and to her delight, she can speak .
JJ’s head jerks up, and her lips curl up in her signature soft smile, eyes twinkling. “You’re awake.”
“Yup,” Emily answers, and tentatively, she swings her legs out of bed, a grin forming on her face as her feet plant on the carpeted ground easily. “And better.”
“Oh, thank God,” JJ says, and when Emily glances up, she’s met with a looser smile, more tired. “I thought—”
With her recovered vision, Emily can now make out the dark circles under her eyes, and she flinches. Her body still aches, but that must be nothing compared to what hell she put JJ through, and JJ, of all people—
“I’m sorry,” Emily says. “Was I that bad?”
A pause, and JJ’s smile drops and her eyebrows furrow together. Emily stills, insides twisting because did I miss something?
“You don’t remember?” JJ asks quietly.
“Uh, I— I don’t think so. It’s all very hot. And blurry.”
Emily is a profiler, she is a seasoned profiler who has worked in the elite department of the BAU for several years, but she can only make out the way JJ’s eyes widen slightly and the way her mouth drops for a moment before they’re instantly masked, covered by a smile that seems almost relieved.
“Jayje?”
“Don’t worry about it,” JJ says, reaching out to take Emily’s hand. “Nothing happened worth remembering.”