A/N: Okay so … this started as a prompt on tumblr from the phenomenal Whump-Town on Monday, and I couldn't get it out of my head, but I was way deep in Chapter 32 of We See No End. But somehow this wrote itself fairly quickly, so here it is. Aaron/Emily obviously, in the days after Lauren as everything is about to fall apart. It's sadsville in this one, yet I wrote most of this while A Christmas Story played in the background, which wasn't an entirely terrible way to spend a Sunday if I do say so myself.

Meet You On The Other Side

Yes I understand that every life must end

As we sit aloneI know someday we must go

It's been only nine days since they'd found her in Boston of all places, bleeding out on the cold ground of the dark, abandoned warehouse, a wooden stake impaled in her abdomen with blood seeping out of her and the stench of burning flesh in the air. And while he hadn't been the one to find her, he'd seen it with his own two eyes. It's an image he would spend the rest of his life trying to forget.

Nine days since he watched her code on the table in the middle of that fucking emergency room - one of the few moments in his life he can actually remember feeling true fear. The alarms and constant beeping of the machines had been horrifying, a nauseating juxtaposition of the practiced ease of which the doctors moved around her, stabilizing her, rambling off medical jargon as she flatlines in the ER, not once, but twice. It takes almost everything he had in him not to vomit on the floor right there, and it's only when he heard the staccato rhythm of the EEG monitor, indicating she's alive, did he even take a breath. He isn't sure he took another until after she's out the damn operating room.

None of this was ever supposed to happen. He blames himself, partly because he never saw it coming, and partly because he'd been too preoccupied with everything else going on around all of them to even notice something was horribly wrong with Emily. JJ's sudden departure, Ashley's arrival - a slew of cases, each one more demanding than the last, the exhaustion that comes along with the daily demands of their jobs, the never ending paperwork - all of it.

Not to mention, what had happened between the two of them, shortly after JJ had left. They hadn't even been together that long, if together was even the right word to use. They'd only just started leaving things in each other's apartments - tooth brushes, sweatpants, a few miscellaneous toiletries. A lump rises in his throat when he remembers the fact that she'd left a well-worn Yale sweatshirt on his bed just the other day before all hell broke loose. He hasn't been home since. It'll be there waiting upon his return, a mocking reminder of everything he never saw coming.

In those nine days, things went from bad to worse, if that was even possible. Once Emily had been stabilized, with things still touch and go, Hotch had been the one to make the call to the Bureau. He explained, with a hint of reserve in his tone, just what had happened in Boston, and despite the fact that Emily still wasn't out of the woods, they had bigger problems - Ian Doyle's escape being number one. And of course, the bureau hadn't been happy. They'd been furious. Just at whom, he isn't quite sure, but he takes the brunt of it anyway. There was of course, the tongue-lashing that came thanks to his unawareness of it all - the fact that Emily essentially went rogue to take down Doyle, after she'd stayed silent about the entire thing for the last several days. They hadn't been happy at all. And regardless of all of that, all the things she never told him - or any of them - he isn't' angry with her. Not now. Not like this. Not when this is how it'll end.

The decision to put her under protection, with a whole new identity, hadn't been entirely his own, and he'd only had about fifteen minutes on the phone before he had to figure out a way to break the fake news to the team. The team. Luckily, JJ had spared him that task, more composed than he ever could be. Their grief had been genuine as he knew it would have been, and his own heart broke for them in those moments as they tried to make sense of a situation that, in his opinion, may never make sense.

He's lost in his own thoughts on a hard, plastic hospital chair when he hears Emily's scream.

Within seconds he's standing in the doorframe of her hospital room, pushing past the heavily armed guards who have stood vigil 24/7 since she'd arrived there just a few days ago. What shocks him is what he sees just a moment later. In fact, it nearly knocks the air right out of his lungs. Emily is in the middle of the room, her face a pale, ashen grey, her forehead soaked with sweat, her hair hanging limply in her eyes. She's leaning on a nurse to her right just a little too heavily, her left hand clutching an IV pole. She's shaking her head, her lower lip caught between her teeth, biting so hard she's started to draw blood.

What in fresh hell is going on?

"I can't," she chokes, her voice strained and even from where he's standing he can see she's shaking; her shoulders are trembling with effort. There's no denying the tears that are running down her face, the unbearable pain she's undoubtedly feeling. "Please don't make me." It comes out as a hoarse whisper this time. "I just can't."

"Emily, you need to take a few steps. It's the only way you'll regain your strength." There's a nurse to her right, supporting Emily more than she should be. "Just a few more to the bathroom, and then we'll try again later."

Emily only glares at her, blinking back a few more tears as she struggles to move even a few inches.

"What do you think you're doing?" Hotch barks angrily, and he instantly regrets it when Emily turns her head too quickly, causing her to whimper in pain.

"Agent Hotchner," one of the tall, balding doctors he's gotten to know somewhat well over the course of the last week - Dr. Howell - steps in between them quickly, holding up his hands. "I'm going to have to ask you to step outside with me, please."

"I'm not going anywhere, Doctor." He doesn't bother to turn around.

"Agent Hotchner," he says, this time a little more forcefully, exhaustion evident in his face. Hotch isn't sure he's ever seen the man not look completely drained.

Glancing between the doctor and Emily, Hotch hesitates, but only because of the mild embarrassment he sees on her face. And he's not surprised, if he's being completely honest. Her current state is the complete opposite of how she's always been - the strong one of the team, the one who willingly puts herself in the most dangerous situations, who gets shot at and barely flinches, the one who gets abused at the hands of a religious fanatic while undercover and merely says, I can take it. The one who sustained a severe concussion transporting an unsub and was back at it mere hours later. It's all too much; he has to look away.

He obliges and follows Dr. Howell into the hallway.

"What the hell is going on in there?" He demands once they're out of her room. Hotch swallows hard, his fists tightening reflexively at the image seared in his mind.

"The Bureau has been pretty clear they want her discharged as soon as possible. They've been very persistent the last couple of days that we ensure her care is progressing and we aren't delaying her progress by keeping her immobile unnecessarily." He rubs his neck, shifts from foot to foot, looking as if he has more to say but decides against it. Hotch notices Dr. Howell doesn't use Emily's name, in case there are any wandering ears that may be privy to the conversation.

"She's recovering from major surgery and a life-threatening injury, not taking a few days of vacation!" He can barely contain the anger in his voice. "You think she's strong enough to walk out of here? She can barely sit up unassisted!" He can't help but raise his voice, and glancing over his shoulder back into the room, the look on Emily's face tells him everything he needs to know.

She heard the entire exchange.

"I'll have to ask you to leave the premises, Agent Hotchner," Dr. Howell says, this time his tone is a bit more forceful. "I'm under strict orders from the Bureau to discharge her as soon as possible. As I'm sure you're aware, they're concerned about how much this is costing them."

"It shouldn't matter." He has to fight to keep his voice even and low enough that no one around them can hear.

"I don't make the rules, Agent. I do what I'm told, in the best interest of my patients."

"Is that so? It sounds like quite the opposite. In fact, it sounds like you're making a mistake," Hotch's mouth presses into a thin line and he spins on his heel, turning back to Emily's room, only to find things worse than he'd left them, much to his chagrin.

"Agent Jareau, you need to take a step back," says the nurse still at Emily's side, clearly frustrated with JJ. "It's important for Agent Prentiss to get out of bed and move around to expedite the healing process."

"She's in pain. Look at her," JJ snaps, her blue eyes darkening with anger. "I hardly think this is helping," she says with disdain. "I think she's had enough for today." Coming to stand beside Hotch, the two of them watch helplessly for another minute as Emily struggles to move even a little bit. She hardly seems to notice their presence at this point.

As she takes another half-step, Emily cries out in pain, her knuckles wrapped so tightly around the IV pole they've turned white. "I feel sick," she mutters, lifting her hand to brush some of the matted hair out of her eyes. "Please, I need to lay down."

"Just a few more steps, Agent Prentiss," the nurse says once more, doing her best to keep Emily upright. It appears to be a losing battle.

"I can't watch this anymore, Hotch." JJ turns around, arms wrapped around herself, stalking towards the door and slipping past him. "I can't stay in here. I'll call the fucking bureau myself and tell them this is utterly insane."

"Hotch, don't let her do that-" Emily has all but stopped moving, she's leaning on the IV stand at this point, at such an angle it looks as though she's about to rip the tubing right out of her arm. "This is my fault." And then before anyone even realizes what's happening, she's doubled over, vomiting right onto the floor.

Before he can even think twice, Hotch pushes the nurse aside, sidesteps the vomit, and reaches for Emily, lifting her into his arms as gently as he can given the extent of her injuries. His heart twists when she cries out but she sinks into him, resting her head on his chest without as much as a complaint. She's lost so much weight already, he thinks as he carries her carefully back to the bed a mere ten feet away, holding her gently, rocking her in his arms. It's completely against every rule they'd set just before all of the shit hit the fan. He has a million questions for her yet he isn't entirely sure he wants the answers.

"Agent Hotchner, what are you doing?" The nurse is staring at them both incredulously, then glancing at Dr. Howell nervously.

"This stops now," Hotch growls at them both, not unaware of the way Emily sags against him with exhaustion. "If you even think about trying this again before she's ready, we'll have a problem." His tone is harsh and she flinches in his arms - she knows that tone well - she's heard it many times over the years. "Is that clear?" He doesn't bother to wait for the doctor's response.

"Hotch," she mutters, her body still trembling. "You didn't have to do that. You're not in charge here, you know," she mumbles, a touch of amusement in her voice that's still laced with pain.

"Relax," he murmurs into her ear, brushing her hair away from her eyes with more tenderness than he expected. "You're alright. It's over," he adds soothingly, even if he isn't sure just what the hell to even say. None of this is over, none of this is even remotely alright, and it may never be. It's the first time he's held her - touched her, even - since all of this. His eyes burn; he presses his lips to her forehead, not even bothering to care that Emily's nurse is still in the room.

"We need to replace that IV line," the nurse says timidly, taking a step in their direction. Only then does he see the IV tubing was in fact ripped right out of her hand, leaving a huge, angry bruise in its place, already a nasty shade of black and blue. "That was her morphine drip."

"Then do it," Hotch says, not letting go of Emily. He continues to rock her in his arms until she's barely able to keep her eyes open. The morphine has started to take effect, and as her eyes flutter open once more, he murmurs, "Sleep. I'll be right here." He doesn't have much time left with her - that much he knows - he might never have another moment like this ever again.

"I know." She gives his hand the lightest squeeze. "You always will be."

How would he ever do this without her?