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Emma groaned as she came to, not bothering to hoist herself off the cold kitchen floor. A warm hand rested on her shoulder, cautious and hesitant.
“Emma?” There was concern in Paul’s voice, though she didn’t miss the note of relief as she met his eye. “Are you… y’know, you?”
“Think so,” she grunted. “You okay?” It had become a habit of Emma’s to check on his well-being, even if she didn’t remember hurting him.
Paul nodded. “I’m okay. Thank you, sweetheart. Need some help?”
She let out a sigh. “Sure.”
With gentleness usually reserved for handling something easily breakable, Paul guided Emma to her feet, taking both of her hands. Ordinarily she’d point out how tightly Paul was gripping them, and how bad of an idea that likely was. She didn’t have the energy to do that this time.
“Today is really not your day, huh?” he asked, tone shockingly light.
Emma exhaled in slight laughter. “No fucking kidding.”
Her eyes fell on a nearby puddle of blue shit, which had escaped her mouth mere minutes ago and kickstarted her most recent episode.
“Get a fire ready, I’ll meet you outside.”
Paul frowned. “Emma, you’re sick. You should lay down.”
“That’s not happening until this gets cleaned up.”
“Then let me do it.”
She snorted. “Not a fucking chance.”
This was far from their first time debating this, just like it wasn’t Emma’s first time vomiting up the dangerous substance. Paul was always so quick to help however he could. As much as Emma appreciated that, she wasn’t willing to risk him meeting the same fate as her. She would rather die again than let Paul get Infected, in any capacity.
“I’ll go lay down when we’re done. I’m not just gonna let this shit sit there and eat through our floor.”
“I don’t think it works like that, Em.”
“Still. I can’t do this right now, Paul. Just wait for me at the firepit. I’ll be out soon.”
“Okay…” Even though he relented, the anxiety in Paul’s expression didn’t. Still, he took the matches from their designated drawer and headed toward the back door.
Emma got to work disposing of the blue shit, using paper towels to gather the mess and putting them in a garbage bag. This must have been the hundredth time she’d had to do this, and it felt like second nature. Her unstable stomach didn’t agree with all the motion it required, though, growling at her in protest. Emma ignored her body’s empty threat. As long as her stomach was empty, there was no threat of her spilling more blue shit from her mouth.
Once everything was in the bag, she carried the contaminated container to the backyard. Just as she’d requested, Paul had started a fire in the designated pit. They had built it together, the first time something like this had happened.
Emma fell into the routine of burning each paper towel, watching the blue shit combust in flames that matched its hue. The first time, she’d doubted the substance’s flammability, with how wet it was; then again, she supposed she knew very little about the otherworldly slime. Emma was just thankful it could no longer hurt anyone—more specifically, Paul.
Her partner hadn’t said anything since she’d come outside. That was normal, though; Paul was often content to quietly observe as Emma took care of these things.
As she burned the bag, the final step of the process, Paul clapped his hands together to break the silence.
“Okay. Let’s get you back inside.”
“Are we not gonna put out the fire first?”
“Oh! Right. Almost forgot.” Paul promptly poured a bucket of water over the flames, doing so slowly—he’d learned long ago not to rush things. It didn’t take long to kill the blaze, leaving only soaked ashes. “I’ll take care of the rest later. You’re my top priority right now.”
“When am I not?” Emma couldn’t keep from teasing.
“Never,” he replied honestly. “But, y’know, I’m a hell of a lot more worried about you right now.”
Again, when aren’t you worried about me? She decided against asking for a second time. “I know.”
“Good. You’re gonna go lie down now.”
Much like the fire that had destroyed the blue shit, Emma’s desire to argue had been extinguished. “Okay.”
Paul took her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers. Without meaning to, Emma leaned against him, seeking his warmth as much as she sought the inherent comfort being close to Paul brought her. He didn’t acknowledge this, not verbally—which Emma appreciated—but Paul did press a kiss to her temple. She had to fight a smile.
They went back inside, neither one speaking as they slowly made their way to their room. Emma suspected that PEIP had purposefully given them a house with only one bedroom to force them closer together—which was stupid of them to do, really, but she appreciated the sentiment. It wasn’t like they knew about the state she was in. If they had, she never would have been able to reunite with Paul in the first place.
And then he wouldn’t be at risk of getting fucking killed all the time. That familiar guilt, the reminder that Paul’s life was always in danger as long as Emma was there… it gnawed at her stomach in a way she was far too used to.
When they reached their destination, Paul gently dislodged himself from Emma’s grip. He pulled back the comforter of the previously made bed, and Emma cringed to herself. Paul was so particular about things looking a certain way, and he put a lot of time into achieving that. For that reason, Emma hadn’t gotten back into bed this morning when she’d realised she wasn’t feeling well. She hadn’t said as much, so Paul didn’t know how she felt about it, but that didn’t stop her from feeling guilty.
However, said guilt didn’t outweigh the looming exhaustion that was starting to take over her body the way the Hive had, so Emma said nothing as she crawled into bed. Paul covered her with the comforter, but it did nothing to warm her up. The two of them had quickly discovered that, because Emma no longer produced her own body heat, blankets and warm clothing didn’t do anything for her. She needed warmth from an outside source—to name a few, a heating unit, fire, the sun, or the body heat from a living human. Emma greatly preferred the latter, but she wasn’t about to ask for that from Paul. If she knew him—and she knew she did—Emma knew he had plenty of things to keep him busy for the rest of the day. I’ll be fine on my own, she insisted to herself.
“Can I bring you something to eat?” Paul asked her.
“Prob’ly a bad idea,” replied Emma, ignoring how hungry she was. “That’s kinda how all this shit started. I don’t think I can keep anything down.” That was almost always true, actually, but it was especially the case now.
“Right. Just, y’know, let me know if you change your mind, okay?”
“Mhm.”
“Is there anything else I can get for you?”
Emma shook her head, then instantly regretted it as she was hit by a fresh wave of nausea. Paul watched with concern as she took a deep breath to centre herself again.
“I’m fine,” Emma told him, both in response to his question as well as a general reassurance of her well-being.
“No, you’re not.”
“You know what I mean. I’m good. I don’t need anything. And I’m not gonna throw up again. I don’t think.” Paul opened his mouth, but she answered his question before he could ask. “And yes, I will tell you if that changes.”
This made him smile a little. “Okay. Thank you.”
Paul darted toward the door, picking up the small plastic wastebasket and placing it beside the bed. Emma thought about reminding him that she wasn’t helpless, before remembering how quickly things had happened earlier. She didn’t want to have to burn their bedclothes.
Then, Paul crossed to his side of the bed and climb under the covers. Before Emma could react, he nestled against her, flooding her with the warmth she’d pretended she didn’t know she needed. He pressed a kiss to the back of her head, and his chin rested on top of Emma’s head.
“Wh-What’re you doing?” Emma asked. “Don’t you… Don’t you have shit to do?”
“Not right now. Nothing’s more important than you.”
She could feel her heart starting to beat, a sensation that was rather rare given the whole being dead thing. “Paul, I… You know you don’t have to. You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I know,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Never said I did. I want to, though.”
“Oh. Uh… okay.” Emma let herself relax. “… Thanks.”
He kissed her head again. “You know I don’t mind.”
“I know. But I think you’d mind if I puked all over you.”
This made Paul laugh, but Emma was distracted by her own wording. She couldn’t forget the song, the lyrics forced out of her by the Hive that day.
“Let me puke in your mouth, Paul!”
Ridiculous as it was, the request that wasn’t really a request was as much a part of that scene as everything else.
“Emma?” Paul’s soft voice prompted.
“Huh? Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I told you, I’m not gonna throw up again.”
“I know. That’s not what I’m worried about. You just got quiet all of a sudden.”
She nudged him with her shoulder, unwilling to move much more than that. “I need you to stop knowing me so well.”
“No, I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Sorry.” Paul didn’t sound sorry at all. She chuckled, thinking she’d sufficiently distracted him.
“Still. You’re thinking about that day, aren’t you?”
Damn.
“Again, with the mind-reading. That’s fucking scary.” Emma laughed again, but Paul still wasn’t letting her bury it.
“Emma. You’re avoiding the question.”
She sighed. “We don’t need to have this argument again.”
“It’s not an argument.”
“It wasn’t until you said that.”
“You know what I mean. We don’t have to talk about it, I’m not gonna make you.”
“Thanks.”
“But…”
“Paul—”
“Let me finish.”
“Okay, okay, go ahead.”
“But.” He started combing his fingers through Emma’s hair. She was almost annoyed at how calming the sensation was. “I’m never gonna blame you. I’m never gonna be upset with you for something you didn’t do.”
Emma opened her mouth.
“And I know you think I should.”
She shut it again.
“But I don’t. And that’s not gonna change. I think you know that.”
He was right. Regardless of what she knew was true, regardless of what she’d almost done, there was no world in which Paul would believe Emma was at fault. They’d gone in circles with the topic enough times for her to know that.
“… Yeah. I know. We can… We can drop it for now.”
“Okay. Good.” Paul’s hand left her hair, instead slipping between Emma’s torso and one of her arms in order to hold her closer to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t wanna stress you out. That’ll probably just make you sicker.”
“Does it work like that?”
“I‘unno. I’m not a doctor. But hey, better safe than sorry, right?”
“Mhm.”
Emma’s eyelids were beginning to droop, and her blinks were growing longer and slower. Her exhaustion had caught up to her at last.
“Gonna take a nap?” Paul’s question was asked softly, as if trying not to disturb her.
“How th’ fuck ‘d’you know that?”
“I just did,” he chuckled. “Get some sleep, Em. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“J’s’ got up ‘n hour ago,” Emma mumbled.
“No shame in goin’ back to sleep. You’re sick, and you’ve already had a shitty morning. You need all the rest you can get.”
She saw no point in fighting. “M’kay.”
“Have a good sleep, sweetheart. I love you.”
Emma knew she didn’t have to say it back. Paul knew what he meant to her, maybe even better than she did.
But she still felt like he had to hear it from the source.
“Love you too.”