And like a hero who takes the stage when
We're on the edge of our seats saying it's too late
Well let me introduce you to grace
- MercyMe "Flawless"

The apartment was so quiet and still as Aaron padded from his bedroom to the kitchen, wads of Kleenex jammed up his nose. He felt like a zombie, his body barely moving like that of a living person. Every part of him felt stiff and sore, he was running a fever, his stomach was churning with every step. He was, by all intents and purposes, a complete disaster. It was Saturday afternoon, and he'd spent all of Friday night huddled around the toilet, losing everything he'd eaten for at least the last 10 years, by his calculations. This wasn't Jack's bug, he thought miserably as he crossed his small home. This is Hell.

After what seemed like months, he reached the kitchen and leaned against the counter exhausted. He put his head down and closed his eyes, remembering how Haley used to take care of him when he was sick. She was always so kind. He filled his water glass halfway and took a sip, the cool liquid stinging his inflamed throat. He winced as he took another sip. Jack had called him twice to check in the night before, and already once today, which made him feel awful. That poor boy had to grow up too fast, and Aaron hated knowing his son carried that burden. He was glad to know that Jack was out being a child this weekend instead of caring for his sick father, even if his sick father could have used the help. As he turned and began shuffling back to his bedroom, he heard a knock on his door. He cringed and stopped in his tracks.

"It's just me, Aaron," Rossi called through the door. Aaron sighed and moved slowly toward the door, unlocking the series of bolts he'd had for years now. Foyet may have been long gone, but his anxiety would never go away. He would never truly feel safe again.

"Hi, Dave, " he said rather pitifully, opening the door for his friend. Rossi looked Hotch up and down and his face fell. It was hard to see anyone sick, but to see a man of Hotch's usual stature and demeanor this way was almost too much.

"I've got to say, Aaron, you don't look too good…" Rossi started, entering the apartment with a few bags in his arms. Aaron closed the door behind him and raised an eyebrow.

"You're not such a looker yourself," he replied, moving toward the couch. He was getting dizzy and faint, his stomach doing flip flops. He'd not been on his feet this long in nearly a whole day and it was wearing on him.

"Have you taken your temperature today?" Rossi called as he unloaded his bags on the kitchen counter. Aaron shook his head, pulling a blanket around his shoulders and leaning back into the couch.

"No," he replied, closing his eyes. "And I hadn't planned to. Don't want to know."

"Too bad."

A few moments later, Rossi appeared holding a thermometer and asked Aaron to open his mouth wide. Reluctantly, Aaron agreed. When the thermometer beeped, Rossi looked at it and then back at Aaron concerned.

"103.3, Aaron. We need to cool you down." Rossi left the room for a moment, and came back to place a cool washcloth on his friend's forehead. It felt like heaven. "If your fever gets much higher, we are going to the hospital."

"I'm fine Dave," Aaron said softly, enjoying the cool wet cloth on his face. Small droplets of water fell over his closed eyes, catching in his thick eyelashes. "It's just the flu. People get the flu all the time."

"Hungry?" Dave asked, heading back toward the kitchen. Aaron's stomach lurched at the thought of food.

"No."

"When did you eat last?"

"I don't know."

Rossi looked at his friend, concern washing over him. "You don't know? Did you eat yesterday?"

"No."

"The day before?"

"Yes." Aaron replied curtly, his hand rubbing his stomach gingerly. Talk of food was not helping him. Silently he was willing Dave to stop asking, but his friend was only trying to help and he didn't want to be rude. As much as he didn't want any company this weekend, he was glad not to be dying alone…because he was sure that he was dying.

"How about I make you some tea, or a milkshake or a smoothie? Do you think you could drink something with some substance to it? How about my famous chicken soup?" Rossi asked, peering across the room at his friend and waving a mason jar filled with broth at him. Aaron swallowed hard.

"Don't think I'm ready for that yet," he said, his breathing becoming shallow as he fought the urge to run to the bathroom. He could taste the bile in his mouth, the burning rising to the back of his throat. "No food Dave."

"How about a popsicle? Might make your throat -" he began, but Aaron cut him off sharply.

"No," came Aaron's reply as he stood suddenly and rushed as quickly as he could to the bathroom. He barely made it before he was dry heaving into the sink, hunched over. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his body shook, goosebumps covered his arms. Nothing but hot bile came out, there was nothing left inside of him. Rossi followed him to the bathroom, but kept his distance, he was here to help but not to intrude.

"Hospital, Aaron. It's time."

Aaron slumped over the sink in defeat, resting his cheek against the cold marble of the counter. He didn't want to go, but he didn't have the energy to protest. He wasn't able to keep down even liquids, his fever was getting higher, and his throat was on fire. Maybe they could just put him out of his misery.

"I'll get your go bag – usual place?" Rossi asked, leaving his friend for a moment. "Should we call Jack?"

"No. Don't call him. I'll call Jason's mom later. " Aaron groaned, attempting to stand. He looked himself up and down, deciding that pajama bottoms and a t-shirt were perfectly acceptable attire to arrive at the ER in, and shrugged. Rossi brought him a pair of tennis shoes to slip on and hung a jacket around his shoulders. "Thanks, Dave."