Through it all, he stayed right by her side.

The ambulance ride where, driving at full speed with sirens blaring, the paramedics infused her with plasma to replace the blood she'd lost and placed her on a morphine drip to reduce the pain, as they told him, "Don't worry, the bullet missed her heart. She'll be in and out of surgery in no time." The seemingly-endless ambulance ride where he gripped her hand and whispered in her ear, "I didn't mean it. I love you. I'm here for you. Please be OK. You have to be OK. You have to be." The ambulance ride where he kept torturing himself by going over and over and over those last, cruel words he'd said to her on his way out of the hotel room.

After surgery, donning an itchy blue protective outfit and surgical mask to prevent Emily from developing a post-operative infection, he sat vigil for hours upon hours, shaking off the suggestions from his colleagues about getting some rest. He didn't want to rest. He wanted to be the first sight that Emily saw when the anesthesia and painkillers wore off and she finally opened her eyes.

Every second seemed to last an eternity. All he could do was grip her limp hand in his and talk to her about how much he loved her, about all the reasons he loved her, about how sorry he was that he'd left her there, vulnerable, in that hotel room, with such bitter, vicious parting words. About how those words were a lie. All he could do was stroke her arm with his long fingers and watch the nurses come in to periodically change the bandages on her left shoulder, writing down her vital signs in their tan clinical charts and ignoring his pleas for information, dispassionately instructing him to speak to the doctor if he had any questions.

After so many hours awake, Spencer found himself beginning to nod off, despite the coffee he'd been chugging like water and the orange tablet of Adderall given to him by JJ, who warned, "if anyone asks, you did not get this from me." He began to drift into dreamland, a pleasant dream where he and Emily were getting married that quickly turned nightmarish: someone from the crowd had fired at Emily and she just kept looking at him with this strange expression as the blood seeped out everywhere, asking in a slurred voice, "Spencer? Spencer?"

His eyes flew open. It wasn't a dream. Not the last part, anyway. Emily was awake and saying his name. "Emily!" he cried out, leaning over the metal railing to embrace her, before he felt her wince.

"Sorry, it just hurts when you hold me too tight. You'd think I'd been shot or something," she dead-panned, smirking slightly.

"I just want you to know ... what I said ... I didn't mean it, not a word of it ... and ..."

Emily held up her hand, silencing him. "You were upset. I get it. I hurt you. And you know what I thought when that bullet ripped through me?"

"What?" he asked, cringing at the visual.

"I thought: if I live through this, I'm never going to tell another lie again. So here we go. I'm in love with you, Spencer. In the beginning, I used your sexual inexperience against you, thinking it would make you fall in love with me. I didn't believe you when you said you were already in love with me. I didn't understand how it could be possible, since you've seen me at my very worst and since we'd never even kissed before. I thought that maybe it was a fleeting crush. A crush I wanted to turn into love by doing the only thing I knew how to do - by using sex. But in the hotel room? That wasn't manipulation at all. That was love. A real, true expression of love."

They both turned their heads when they heard a cough, the doctor making his presence known. "Ms. Prentiss?"

"Agent Prentiss," she corrected him, with a flash of her white teeth to remind him that she wasn't just another gunshot victim with excellent health insurance but an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"I apologize. Agent Prentiss, you're almost ready to be released, provided you have someone to take care of you. You will need to change the bandages at least twice a day to avoid developing sepsis, and I'm going to write you a prescription for Dilaudid that you can take if the pain becomes agonizing."

"Not Dilaudid," she interjected. "Can you prescribe anything weaker?"

Spencer knew it was for his benefit that she'd turned down the prescription and he shook his head in disagreement. "It's OK. I don't want your medication. I just want you to be comfortable."

"And who will be taking care of you, Ms. - I mean, Agent Prentiss?" the doctor inquired.

"I will," Spencer said, standing up to look the doctor in the eye.

"And you are ... ?"

"Agent Spencer Reid. Or Doctor Reid, if you prefer. I'm her ... I'm her boyfriend."

Several days later, at the luxury hotel, after all of the BAU members had come and gone, like a small parade entering their room at all hours of the day and night, they were eventually called back to Washington, D.C. to work on another case. Hotch agreed with the doctor that someone should stay with Emily for a few days until she was cleared for travel and, given Spencer's remedial medical training, this rendered him the best choice. He nodded seriously at the news, suppressing the grin that threatened to dominate his face and reveal his elation.

It was their first chance to be truly alone with each other since the morning of the shooting.

Spencer sat on a chair beside her, tending to Emily's bandages, while she teasingly remarked, "so you want to be my boyfriend, huh?"

"If you want me to," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady and casual, not wanting to betray the soaring hope in his heart.

"Remind me to update my Facebook status," she purred, reaching out to stroke his cheek from the bed. "So, doctor, what's our prognosis?"

"Statistically speaking, it looks like we're going to be OK," he answered with a smile. "Confounding variables include mistrust and dishonesty, but if you remove those from the equation, the results appear overwhelmingly positive."

"Come over here and hold me, you nerd," she laughed, tossing her black hair.

Carefully, so as not to place pressure on her injury, he crawled over her and, when she raised her torso and snuggled into his chest, he wrapped one arm around her, asking in a concerned voice, "Does that hurt at all?"

"Nope."

"Because your last dose of Dilaudid will be wearing off soon, and I just don't ..."

"Spencer ... Spencer. Stop it. Seriously. I'm fine." She gazed up at him with doe eyes. "Besides, haven't I always been very good about telling you exactly what I want?"

His throat went dry. "So ... What - what do you want?" he coughed out.

"I told you already. On the day I was shot. Remember?" She began to trace light circles over his cotton pajamas with her finger.

I want to feel you inside of me.

Yes, he remembered, all right.

"B-but you could get hurt! I mean, it's only been a few days. What if you're not ready ..."

She cut him off, gently kissing his cheek. "Listen, if you're not ready, I understand. If you're afraid of getting hurt, I understand. And I'll wait for you. I'll wait for you as long as you need me to."

He swallowed hard. "Remember when ... the night before the shooting ... when you ... you put your mouth on me and it ... it was over so quickly and ..."

"Look, Spencer," she sighed impatiently, "we've been in this hotel room now for ... what? Four days?"

He nodded.

"OK, so that's four days of never knowing when Garcia might show up in the middle of the night with a surprise bouquet of flowers or when Hotch might abruptly enter the room at some ungodly hour in the morning, handing me his cell phone because Jack wants to tell me hello before going to school or when Morgan might walk in with a stack of DVDs he picked up after lunch ... That's four days of you sleeping on the couch. Four days of you taking two-minute showers because of your insane worry that something might happen to me while I was out of your sight. Four days of you helping me into the bathtub and then averting your eyes until you'd pulled the curtain so you couldn't see me, waiting until I'd finished towel-drying myself and putting on fresh pajamas before you permitted yourself to look at me."

He didn't like her characterization of his behavior. He didn't like it one bit. "And if I hadn't taken those measures?" he retorted defensively. "And if we hadn't been able to control ourselves? And if someone had walked in? And if ..."

"Shhhhh," Emily whispered, stroking his hand. "All I'm saying is that it's been four days of unbearable sexual tension, four days of going insane with lust, and four days of absolutely no release. The one time I did try to masturbate was the time JJ knocked on the door and told me that Henry wanted me to sing him a lullaby because he couldn't fall asleep."

"The one time I tried was the time Rossi spent the entire day cooking and showed up with two porters to help him carry all that homemade Italian food into the fridge," Spencer admitted with a reluctant smile.

"So I thought ... maybe ... we could just start off with touching each other. And then we could see where it goes from there," Emily murmured against his neck, her lips vibrating there alluringly. "Because, let's face it, neither of us are going to last very long right now. And I don't want our first time to be some kind of quickie sexual release thing. I want it to be about love, not about need. So maybe if we exhaust the hell out ourselves first, we'll be able to make love."

Ever since Emily had initiated this conversation, he'd felt himself growing harder against his pajama bottoms, his perpetual semi-erection now throbbing painfully, copiously lubricated with pre-come.

"I think someone wants to come out and play," Emily observed, her voice a throaty whisper, as she began to grind her pelvis against his. "What do you think?"

He had lost the ability to speak, capable only of nodding vigorously.

"It's kind of hot in here, wouldn't you say? I think we should get out of these pajamas." Before he could respond, she was already pulling off her T-shirt, revealing her exquisite breasts - and the bandage on her shoulder that caused him to avert his eyes with guilt - while she wiggled out of her panties and pajama bottoms. When he finally looked up again, he could see the damp, matted pubic hair sticking to her pussy.

She was careful when undressing him, unbuttoning his long-sleeved shirt and helping him shake it off, making sure to pull on the elastic of his pajama bottoms and briefs so they wouldn't inadvertently brush against his cock, so engorged by now it was pointed directly toward his face, streams of pre-come raining down from the tip like teardrops.

"You're so hard," she murmured into his ear. "So hard."

Again, like a deaf-mute, he could only manage to nod in response.

Emily ran her hand slowly up and down his length and her feather-light touch felt like heaven. She massaged his balls, squeezing them gently, and eliciting a deep groan. "I won't tease you anymore. Even though I want to," she promised, leaning forward to kiss him.

Paralyzed with desire, overwhelmed by his fast-approaching orgasm, he was unable to meet her hot tongue in his mouth, the noises from deep within him spilling out as she began to suck on his tongue, rapidly moving her hand up and down against his shaft, jerking him off with abandon. When he felt his balls draw up, she took her mouth away and stared at his cock, tightening her grip and squeezing it several times while urging him, "Oh, yes, baby. Come for me, baby."

And come he did. He raised his hips in the air and somehow, every tight squeeze of her hand matched another exquisite throb of release - and another and another and yet another - as he felt each splash of come hit his torso, his face, even his hair, until there was only a trickle left, one last final throb before her hand slowed down, milking out every last drop of orgasmic release.

"Oh my god," she sighed, snuggling against his chest and kissing his jawline, "that was so fucking hot."

Breathing labored, he glanced over at her and insisted, "Now ... Your turn."

She didn't engage in her typical delaying tactics, didn't implore him to kiss her or suck on her breasts, didn't even offer to guide him through the process of masturbating her. She just laid down on her back, spread her legs, and moaned, "Touch me."

He wasn't sure quite how to do it and he definitely didn't want to have to ask, and then suddenly he remembered with complete clarity how she'd touched herself in front of him and, confidence boosted, reached between her legs and began to draw slow, tight circles around the hood of her clit.

"Right there ... Oh god yes, right there ... but faster, Spencer ... Do it faster ..." she begged, her eyes half-closed.

His long finger was moving against her at rocket-speed when he remembered something she'd said that night - about how she had to fantasize when touching herself - and wondered if the same was true when someone else was touching her. Either way, the thought of talking dirty to her while masturbating her like this excited the hell out of him.

"Do you like me fucking your clit with my finger?" he growled.

Her dark eyes flew open. Eyes filled with need, with desire. "Oh god yes."

"Then say it."

"I like ... unnnnhhh ... you ... you fucking my clit ... mmmmnnnnhhhh ... with your finger," she moaned, her breathing becoming increasingly labored.

"You're so sexy, Emily. You make me want to get on top of you and put my cock inside of you. Can you feel how hard it is for you?" He pressed against her thigh with the erection that had quickly recovered from his powerful orgasm only minutes earlier.

"I want that, too," she half-sobbed, her hands grasping the comforter and her pelvis rising in the air, a sure sign that she was close.

"I want to be inside of you, thrusting against you ... I want to come inside of you ... I want to fill you up with my hot come ..."

That was all it took. He could feel her convulsing beneath him before she cried out, "I'm coming!" as her body shook like an epileptic and pieces of languages he didn't understand escaped her throat. It was her who had to push his hand away, gasping, "too much ..." while she closed her eyes, as though trying to hold onto the feeling of bliss for as long as possible, and turned toward him to snuggle into his chest.

Ignoring his rock-hard penis, he put his arm around her again and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her earlobes, and her mouth, murmuring soothingly, "I love you. I love you so very much."

"You knew exactly how to touch me and you knew just what to say to bring me over the edge," she marveled. "And you knew ... You knew that afterward I'd feel emotional about it. That I'd need you to hold me and tell me you love me. Don't you see, Spencer? Don't you see how lucky I am to have you as a boyfriend?"

She took a moment to brush several brown strands of hair out of his eyes and admitted softly, "You're the only one I could ever imagine myself being so vulnerable with." He inhaled sharply, a harsh, ragged sound, trying to blink back the tears stinging his eyes. "That's why I love you, Spencer Reid."

Noticing the tears in his eyes, she started kissing him, pulling away to murmur against his lips, "Don't cry, baby. Don't cry. Just kiss me. Just keep kissing me."

They kissed hungrily, greedily: the kisses of a couple who have been wounded repeatedly and yet still managed to survive. Emily pulled back and said, "Let's try something. I'm going to breathe into your lungs and you return that breath into mine for as long as you can. OK?"

Diffusion hypoxia. He was familiar with the concept, although not the practice. "OK," he agreed hesitantly.

"Get on top of me first."

So he sat up and lowered himself down onto her, opening his mouth against hers as she breathed into his lungs and he breathed back into hers. Other than feeling light-headed, he felt inexplicably connected to her, and a surge of eroticism overtook him. Their mouths still locked together, they began grinding against one another simultaneously.

He could feel the underside of his cock hitting her clitoris, and when she wrapped her legs around him, he was suddenly inside of her.

It felt incredible, the sensation of being surrounded by her wet warmth, and yet he still struggled to disentangle his lips from hers, asking her for guidance with a mere "Emily?"

"I'm ready if you are," she responded, her eyes betraying her desire.

They moved together slowly, rhythmically, as easily and effortlessly as ballroom dancing. Emily offered the occasional suggestion ("try to aim upward when you thrust in and out") or instruction ("I want you to suck on my nipples as hard as you can") but, much to his surprise and delight, he wasn't bad at sex. He wasn't bad at it at all.

When he felt Emily's inner walls tighten around him, though, he knew he'd have to muster up all the resolve within him to wait for her to come first. He was moving against her rapidly now, her pelvis rising to meet him, and when she bit her lip and let out a low grunt, he knew she was close. And then, just when he didn't think he could hold out any longer, he felt it. A molten-hot gush of wetness pouring out from inside of her as her inner muscles squeezed him so tightly he could barely move. That feeling, that expression on her face, was enough to propel him over the edge, his cock pulsating as he shot streams of come into her, over and over again, until he collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily.

She cried out suddenly - a cry of pain - and immediately he rolled off of her, apologizing for putting his weight on her injured shoulder, struggling to sit up so he could bring her a tablet of Dilaudid, despite the dizzy post-orgasmic head rush that made his ears ring and the world turn black when he tried to stand.

"No, wait," Emily protested. "I'm fine. I don't want any medication. I just want to be close to you. Spencer, please."

It was the vulnerability in her voice that stopped him. So he laid back down on the bed and put his arms around her, kissing her and telling her that it was better than any of the fantasies he'd ever had about losing his virginity, soothingly stroking her bare back with his hand.

After a brief period of silence, Emily finally spoke. "Everything was ... so perfect. When I came, it wasn't even about orgasms or sex. It was like pure love just flowing out of me. Does that make sense?"

It did. Unlike their previous, frenzied encounters, this one didn't have the same desperate rush, the same uncontrollable need. It was intimate and it was beautiful and it was even spiritual, in a way, if Spencer could find it within himself to believe in such a thing.

There was only one problem left. One issue they'd failed to discuss in all their time together.

"Now how do we tell the rest of the team?"