Work Text:
Emily walks into the apartment the same as usual. She dumps her keys into the little ceramic dish by the door, kicks off her heels with a sigh and hangs up her purse and jacket on the coat stand. She smiles when she sees you.
“Hi, princess,” she grins, her smile faltering when she sees your face. “What’s wrong?”
“My stomach hurts so bad,” you groan. “Feel sick.”
“Like cramps?” she asks, sitting on the couch next to you and rubbing your back. “Is your period due?”
“Not for ten days,” you groan. “Feels different.”
“Show me where,” Emily says, worrying it might be something serious like gallstones or kidney stones.
You’re about to show her where when your mouth fills with saliva, and you feel the sudden urge to throw up. You hold up your hand and run to the bathroom, and Emily winces when she hears you retching. She pouts; she hates it when you’re sick, and it sounds painful. To make matters worse, it starts coming out the other end, and you literally shit yourself.
“Don’t come in,” you groan, holding your head over the toilet bowl.
“Honey, I’ve seen you vomit before,” she says. “Let me in.”
“No,” you retch, trying to push the door closed while actively fighting the spasms. Emily wins, and she notices the damp patch in your pants before anything else. She bites her lip to stifle the laugh, but it still escapes.
“Oh, baby,” she giggles. “Darling girl, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not funny,” you sniffle. But honestly, in this moment, she could either laugh or cry, and you’re actually grateful that she is laughing.
“It’s kinda funny,” she says from the doorway. “Go shower; I’ll get the bed prepared for you and your explosive ass.”
“Fuck off,” you whimper, and she giggles.
“Love you,” she calls out as she walks away.
When you step out of the shower, you are freezing. Emily takes your temperature and pouts again, wrapping her arms around you. “Poor baby, you have a temp.”
“Don’t, you’ll get sick,” you sniffle, and she strokes your hair.
“I think you have food poisoning,” she says. “I saw the gas station sushi containers in the trash. Can’t catch food poisoning, baby. Come on,” she says, kissing your head. “Bed.”
When she drags you to the bedroom, you notice what she’s done. She has covered your side of the bed in old towels and put a bucket by your nightstand. The same nightstand that is covered in bottles of water and lemonade. It makes your eyes fill with tears. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” you say as she hands you some underwear and warm pyjamas.
“Don’t be silly,” Emily says, tucking her hair behind her ear before crouching to slide the undies up your legs. “The bed is warm and comfortable.”
“But I might… poop on you,” you sniffle, and she laughs loudly, far louder than you expect.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been covered in your body fluids,” she smirks, making you blush. “Honey, it might not be romantic, but I don’t care. I’m in this for the long haul, shit and all,” she says as she strokes your cheek. She helps you into your pyjamas and guides you into bed. “Get some sleep, if you can. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
“Love you,” you mumble, stomach becoming unsettled again. Emily leaves right as you start throwing up into the bucket again.
Twenty-four hours later, the sickness seems to have subsided. You had a few more accidents in the night, almost as if you didn’t have control over your own body, but Emily didn’t care. She cleaned you off and made you feel safe, never judging.
You are lying in bed when she walks in the room, duvet tucked up to your neck. She is carrying a tray with a plate of dry toast and a honey tea, and she smiles at you. The smile that warms your whole body. “Ready to try eating?” she asks gently.
“I don’t know; I don’t want to be sick again,” you pout.
“I know, baby. But I’m not gonna let you starve just because you’re scared,” she says, sitting on the bed. “Sit up for me.”
You do as you’re told, sitting up and opening your mouth when she lifts a piece of toast. It is dry, not pleasant, but it feels good to have something in your stomach again. “Good girl,” she smiles innocently, like she doesn't know what she’s doing to you.
You have to rush to the bathroom immediately after finishing the toast, but you manage to keep it down. By dinner time, she is being very patient as you whine about how hungry you are. She lists off all the food in the house, and even offers you takeaway. But you fall asleep without eating anyway. And you sleep for nearly twelve hours uninterrupted. Emily checks your pulse a few times throughout the night, just in case.
By the forty-eight-hour mark, you just ache. Emily makes you chicken noodle soup, and it feels like the most amazing thing you’ve ever eaten. It warms you from the inside out, and you feel better than you have in days. “That was good, thank you.”
“No need to thank me, angel,” she says, stroking your cheek. “You feeling better?”
“Much better,” you nod, putting the bowl on the nightstand and snuggling close to her. “You didn’t have to take time off work for me, but I am grateful you were here to nurse me back to health.”
“Of course,” she says, running her fingers through her hair. “In sickness and in health, right?”
“We’re not married,” you laugh, and she tilts your chin so you’re looking up at her.
“No, but we could be, couldn’t we?” Emily smiles, running her thumb over your plump bottom lip.
“Yeah, cos nothing says marry me like cleaning up your girlfriend's shitty pants,” you scoff, and she smirks, shaking her head.
“I’m serious,” she says. “If these two days have taught me anything, it’s that I love you so much I’m willing to clean literal shit off you. I don’t think it gets much better than that, does it?”
“I’d clean shit off you, too, you know,” you smile, reaching for her cheek.
“Then marry me,” she smirks. “And we can grow old together and change each other’s shitty diapers in the nursing home.”
You laugh loudly, and Emily grins, leaning forward to kiss you softly. “I love you,” you whisper. “Thank you for looking after me.”
“Mhm, any excuse to take time off work,” she jokes. “The gang sends their love, by the way.”
“You can tell them you’re a very good nurse,” you grin, kissing her again. “You’d be a great mom, you know.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. While we’re asking wild questions, wanna have a baby with me?”
“I’d love to,” she grins, grabbing your face and rolling you over so she’s on top of you and kissing all over your face while you giggle loudly.
“Who’d have thought that shitting the bed would’ve led to a marriage and baby proposal from Emily Prentiss?” you say, pressing a tender kiss to the side of her mouth. “I guess I’m the luckiest gal in the world.”
“Yeah, I guess you are,” she winks, kissing you again.