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It had been a long time since Emily had wanted her mom when she was sick.
It was a desire that had faded when she was young, a realisation she’d come to as a teenager, and one that made her all too aware that she would never be her mother’s priority, that any sickness was an inconvenience, something that would distract her mother from her important work. It was a hard learned lesson, one that finally sank in after one too many sighs and for goodness' sake, Emily’s as if she’d planned to get sick just to annoy her.
Despite that, despite all the years of looking after herself, as Emily lies in her apartment in Paris, her skin burning up because of a nasty case of the flu, she thinks of her mom, and for a moment, she wishes she were here. She doesn’t know what Elizabeth was told, if she had the clearance to know she was alive, or if she thinks her only daughter was dead. A part of Emily that she isn’t proud of wonders if her mother has any regrets, if, in the depths of her grief, she tried to reach out to grasp onto fond memories of them, only to find there were none, her hands as empty as the house that had never really been home to either of them.
She groans as she rolls over in bed, a balled-up tissue in her hand that she rubs against her sore nose, and she coughs again, and it takes everything in her not to burst into tears.
She’s healed, she knows that, but her scar aches when she coughs anyway, a phantom pain chasing her as she tries to catch her breath just like the man who killed her had. It was a penance of sorts. A constant ache that reminds her of the decisions she’s made, every choice that has led her here.
Usually, she was fine with it, could justify every single thing she’d done as she replayed it all over and over in her head when she couldn’t sleep at night. But now, her skin warm to the touch and her chest aching with a cough she couldn’t shift, she couldn’t help but wonder how she’d ended up so alone. She hated it. Hated that she wished someone were here and keeping her company, making sure she drank plenty of water, as they brought her tea and meds. And she hated that she couldn’t have that.
She knew even if she was back in DC, if Ian hadn’t torn through her life for a second time, her mom wouldn’t be the first person she’d call if she needed something.
The last time she was sick, a nasty sinus infection that had come out of nowhere, Penelope brought her freshly baked bread and enough decongestants to start a meth lab. JJ had sent her a video of Henry saying, ‘ Get well soon, Aunt Emmy, ’ and sent Will over with some soup when the rest of the team had to go away on a case, and she was too sick to go. Spencer had inundated her with articles he’d read on the best way to clear up sinuses, every one of them annotated with notes on what he thought was nonsense, and what he thought might help. Derek sent her teasing texts and did all of her paperwork for her, all the while telling her to get better soon because the team wasn’t the same without her.
And then Aaron had texted her, checking to see if he could come over to bring her some snacks - as if she wasn’t overwhelmed with all the food the others had brought her. But then he showed up with Jack in tow, and as the little boy sat with her on the couch, just as bossy as his father, as he told her to sit down and watch a movie with him, Aaron cleaned her entire apartment. Never complaining once about the number of balled-up tissues strewn across every surface, or the amount of empty blister packs of medication. He did it happily and unprompted, and smiled at her in a way that made her stomach flip.
After her showdown with Ian, when she was dead to almost everyone she knew, Aaron came to see her in the hospital before she was moved to another. A name that wasn’t hers was on her notes, and dried soil on his pants from when he’d sprinkled it into a grave that had a name that was. She didn’t remember much about it, only the pain she knew she’d never forget and the soft touch of his hand against hers. He’d held a cup of water up for her, held the straw to her lips so she could take a sip, as he told her they’d have her home soon.
She sniffs and rubs her nose again, sighing as the tissue feels rough against her bright red skin. She leans over and opens the drawer in her nightstand, and she digs through it, smiling sadly when she pulls a photo out of the back of a book. It was one of the whole team, a photo of them all smiling and laughing in a bar that was taken shortly before JJ was forced to leave the team. It was the last time everything felt normal, the last time she’d felt anything close to the feeling of home that she’d been chasing her whole life.
She places the photo down on the bed next to her head and places her hand over it, hoping in some way she can draw comfort from it, as if she could reach into the past and steal just one moment from the person she used to be.
___
“You just had to order from The Green Dragon,” she grumbles as she settles back against the wall next to the toilet, letting her head rest on his shoulder. She grimaces when he kisses her clammy forehead, but she wraps both of her arms around one of his anyway, hoping in some way just having him closer will calm her stomach.
“I’ve ordered from here hundreds of times,” Aaron says, swallowing thickly against the turning of his own stomach, “I’ve never got sick before.”
Emily pulls back to look at her boyfriend, narrowing her eyes at him, diminished by the playfulness that lingered in them even though they’d been throwing up for hours now, “Well,” she starts, pressing her fingers against her lips as she swallows thickly, “I don’t think we’ll ever be ordering from there again.”
He chuckles and kisses her forehead before he encourages her back against his side, “Agreed,” he says, running his hand up and down her arm, “I’m sorry.”
She turns her head and kisses his shoulder, “Unless you cooked those….” She swallows thickly again, her throat getting briefly tight as she thinks about the food, “Salmonella-ridden spring rolls, you have nothing to apologise for.”
He hums against the top of her head, “Still, take out and a movie was my idea for date night,” he says, guilt rolling in his stomach along with everything else, “And we ended up sick.”
She squeezes his arm and then links her hand through his, marvelling once again at the feel of his fingers between hers. “It was a nice date until we started throwing up.”
They’d been together for two months. Two, amazing, incredible months that she thinks may have taught her more about love than she’d ever learnt before. He was kind and funny, and handsome, and there were moments when she was convinced that he knew her better than she knew herself. He’d helped her find herself when she came back from Paris, helped her rearrange all of the pieces of herself, finding new places for them as she glued herself back together. He never expected her to be the same as she was before, and he knew what it was to live in the after, and it drew them closer to each other, pulled them towards each other until they became this, something she was now sure was inevitable.
In her more romantic moments, when she let herself get lost in the fantasy of them that didn’t feel much like a fantasy anymore but a reality, it felt pretty to think she’d always been walking towards this. Towards him. That their life together, something she knew they would have even only two months in, was her prize for everything she had endured.
She covers her mouth again and groans, and she swallows it back, suddenly all too aware that she’d spent the last couple of hours throwing up in front of her new boyfriend.
“I should head home,” she says, smiling at him as she pulls back, “I don’t want to be in your way while you’re sick.”
He grabs her hand before she can get any further, his eyebrows furrowed as he tilts his head at her, “Why are you leaving?”
She groans as she sits back on her heels, trying to get herself ready for how awful it’s going to feel when she stands up, “Because we’ve been together 8 weeks, honey,” she says, squeezing his hand, “It’s way too early for you to see me like this.”
He smiles at her, the very same smile she’d fallen in love with much longer ago than she’d care to admit, and he encourages her closer, “We’ve both seen each other in much worse states than this, sweetheart.”
She knows it’s true. He’d sat by her beside, and she’d sat by his. They’d seen each other torn apart and barely hanging on, and in comparison, this was nothing, this was normal. The kind of thing any couple could experience, and the ordinariness of it makes her stomach flip for an entirely different reason than the bad Chinese food they’d shared.
“Really?” She asks, even though they both already know she’s going to stay, and he nods as he pulls her closer again.
“Really,” he confirms, stamping his lips against hers, “I want all of you. The good…” he smiles as he drifts off, “Well, I’d say and the bad and the ugly, but I don’t think it’s possible for you to be either of those things.”
She chokes on a laugh and shakes her head at him, her hand over her mouth as she presses her other hand on his shoulder, “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry,” he says, reaching out and tucking her hair behind her ear, “But it’s true,” he winks at her when she rolls her eyes, “Plus, I want to look after you. It’s part of the Aaron Hotchner boyfriend experience.”
She shakes her head at him again and cups his cheek, running her thumb back and forth under his eye.
“I want to look after you, too,” she says, and could see it. A lifetime of them looking after each other in every way possible, and it makes her smile, makes her lean in to kiss him again and rest her forehead against his as she scrunches her nose up, “Your breath sucks, by the way.”
“Yours isn’t exactly great either,” he says, before leaning in for another kiss, smiling when she furrows her brow at him, “Worth it.”
She sinks against his side and groans, “I don’t know if I would have made it home anyway,” she grumbles, “Just the thought of getting up from the floor makes me want to throw up.”
He kisses her temple, and she knows if love was enough to make her feel better, it would, that her nausea would disappear in a second, and his would too. “I’ll go get some water and the bedding in a minute,” he says, “We can stay here until we feel better.”
She hums and pulls him closer, both of her arms wrapped around one of his again, “Not yet,” she mumbles, her cheek on his shoulder, “I need you right here to hold my hair when I inevitably throw up again.”
His reply is a promise murmured against her hairline, and it’s one she knows he’ll keep for the rest of their lives.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”