The beginning of the end is when Paul gets sick. Emma does too, of course - they can't figure out where exactly it's come from, but it must have been Nick. Maybe something that Emma's already had, in the time between Paul being taken and her, or something she's been vaccinated against that he hasn't. Whatever the reason, he gets it worse than her. He gets it bad.
It's the fifth day since he started coughing, two days since his fever started to rise, and his eyes are glossy as he tries to climb out of bed. Emma pushes him back down carefully. "Stay." She hums, putting a damp flannel to his forehead as he mumbles.
"Don't wanna," He slurs. "Char, please."
"It's Emma, baby. You're not well."
He shakes his head. "I want to go home."
Emma swallows the lump in his throat. "We can try a bath." She says, almost to herself. "Let's run a cold bath, that'll bring this fever down." She makes to stand but Paul grabs her arm, hard. "Paul-" She starts.
"Don't let him." He groans with sudden clarity.
"What? Nick?"
Paul coughs. "Bury me here." He throws an arm out unsteadily. Then: "I want to go home."
"You're not going to die." Emma says firmly, angrily. "You're fine, Paul." But he isn't. He won't eat and he throws up what he drinks, and his temperature won't come down. Last night he'd seized and she'd been sure he wasn't going to wake up.
"B-Bill..." He manages before his eyes flutter closed.
Emma swears to herself and moves to the bath. She hasn't finished running it when she hears six beeps and spins around to face the door.
"Jesus." Nick scoffs, staring at the bed. "He doesn't look great."
"He's still ill." Emma says, eyes lowered.
"No sh*t." Nick shakes his head in disgust. "You need to wash those sheets."
"He'll just be sick again." She says pointedly. "There's no point cleaning him up yet."
Nick dumps a shopping bag on the table, starts removing items.
"Did you get medicine?" Emma asks, craning her neck to see.
"What, so you can overdose and off yourselves?" Nick laughs, and Emma sees red.
"He needs help!" She yells, then flinches back on instinct when Nick steps towards her.
"Then help him." He says, swiping the empty bag up in one hand and turning to leave. He's raising his hand to enter the code when Paul gasps, drawing their attention. He's seizing again, eyes rolling as he shakes. Emma rushes to his side but doesn't touch him, just kneels and murmurs.
"It's okay, baby." She starts to cry. "I'm here, it's okay." When he finally stops, she's too preoccupied to even notice Nick leave. She's too devastated to move.
...
It isn't until the next day that, with Paul still unconscious and Emma desperately wiping his forehead and loosening his clothes, Nick returns. He has a knife, which has never happened before. He gestures at her with it.
"Stand against the wall. Turn around." She doesn't move. "Do it now. This is going to work if you're not going to listen to me."
Trembling, she smooths Paul's hair back, kisses him on the forehead, and follows Nick's orders. If she's being honest with herself, she's already said goodbye. "Don't bury him." She gets out between sobs as she hears him moving blankets off the bed. "Leave him somewhere his family can find him, so he can go home."
"I'm not burying him, Christ." Nick grunts, to her surprise.
"H-he just wants to be back where he belongs." She stammers, back still turned. "You owe us this, you've taken s-so much from him." The silence that follows makes her think she might be able to receive a blow, but instead nothing happens for a long time.
"Kid ain't dead yet." Nick grumbles, then groans in sync with the bed springs. "Would you get a grip?" Then there's six beeps, and the door slams shut.
Emma turns quicker than lightning but there's nobody there. Paul is gone. She is alone for the first time in years, and she slumps against the wall like a puppet whose strings have been cut. She cries freely now, screams when she realises she'll never see Paul again, one way or another. Nick will dump him somewhere and run, and she'll be left here forever, until she too dies. Or he'll come back here and kill her before he runs. No loose ends. But why not just do it now? Why make her spend any more time in this godforsaken box by herself? The room spins as she thinks of Paul, all those days and weeks he was alone here, before she arrived. She thinks of him crying too, lying on the bed with nobody to talk to, scared out of his mind until he nearly lost it, and she curls up in the corner furthest from the door, and stays there until she passes out.
...
An air splitting crack is what finally wakes her from her stupor. Louder than anything she's heard in years, its enough to give her a near heart attack. She's been running on empty for... however long it's been. There was food in the fridge to last her over a week - she figures since it was Sunday before, and now she only has to feed one instead of two, she won't run out for a while. Even so, she's barely eaten. Hasn't bathed, sleeping only fitfully. If she's going to die anyway, what's the point?
There is another bang before she has time to react to the first, and this time her gaze flies towards the door, but its not there anymore - its being pulled back, creaking and wailing, and honest to God sunlight is streaming in through the gap. Its such a shock to her already drained system that for a minute all she can think is that there were no beeps; but she still manages to press herself away when a figure emerges through the archway. She stands up but its too bright and too loud, whirring and windy and glaringly new, and she has to turn herself back towards the corner and slide back down to the floor, eyes screwed shut.
There are footsteps, and a voice calls out - not Nick, not Paul, someone else! When Emma tries again to pry herself away from the wall, shielding her eyes, she sees a woman. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun and her eyes are sharp and her mouth is turned down at the corners as she surveys the room. She might be the most beautiful sight Emma has seen in six years.
"Emma Perkins?" The lady raises her voice and she pushes herself back into the wall again. Shakes her head even though the answer is yes. "It's alright." The voice says, and then again like she didn't hear the first time. Of course she did, how could she not? It's all she can hear and she wants it to stop but-
"Paul?" She blurts out in a fractured voice. She has to know where he is, if they found him; she can't bear to leave if he isn't there when she gets out. She jumps suddenly and almost knocks herself out on the shelf above her head when a shrieking sound pierces the air. A siren, says a voice inside her head. It means trouble.
It means help. A quieter voice says.
The woman is closer now, actually in the room. "He's safe." She says. "Still in the hospital, but trust me, he wanted to come back for you. He's the reason we knew you were here."
"Nick?" At the hospital? Safe? Emma thinks she can only speak in names right now, can't even begin to articulate the joy she feels at Paul being safe.
"What's that, Emma?"
"The man who- who-" She stalls, gags on the word, but the lady understands.
"He's in custody. He can't get to you."
Emma, standing now, begins to nod. She starts and doesn't stop until the tears come, like she's forced them out through the motion alone.
"I'm sorry it took us so long to find you. Do you need medical attention?" The woman hasn't come closer, thank goodness, opting instead to hover by the foot of the bed.
"No." Emma whispers. "I- I think I'd like to leave now."
"That's ok, Emma." The woman says, the wonderful, real woman with stern eyes and a wedding band glinting on her finger and a couple of grey hairs criss-crossing her head.
All at once, Emma remembers the world, and she runs to it.
...
Paul doesn't know how there's anything left in his stomach by now, but just to prove him wrong his traitorous body heaves again and he groans into the toilet bowl. It's the wrong colour, of course (the one in the room was that shade of olive that Emma always hated), so every time he pulls away he has to reorientate himself, remember where he is and why that's bad. He left her, he can't believe he left her. He shouldn't be here, Nick's going to be furious-
Except Nick's gone, dragged away four days ago the moment Paul roused himself enough to grab a passing nurse by the arm (and god had the touch burned after all those years of just Emma and Nick) and whisper for help. Just his name had been enough in the end, and the lady (her hair had been so fiery orange it had almost hurt him to look at) had called security, although if looks could kill she wouldn't have needed them.
He'd fought to go with Sergeant McNamara and the others when they'd told him this morning that they'd tracked down the shed, but he could barely stand and, along with his still persisting fever, wasn't fooling anyone. The nurse had pulled him onto a chair (since he's been awake enough he won't touch the bed with a six foot pole) and sat a respectful distance away as she consoled him.
"They'll find her, Paul." She'd said, and her name had come to him. He'd said it to her in disbelief as he'd finally slipped away - everyone knows everyone in Hatchetfield, it'd just taken a while for him to place Becky Barnes, tree climber extraordinaire, ten years older.
She shushes him again now, as he pushes himself up off the bathroom floor. "Okay." He says like a mantra under his breath. "Okay, okay."
"You should sit down, Paul, you're not well." Becky scolds him (if it can be called that). Understatement of the century - he can't believe he's still alive, even if it turns out all he needed were antibiotics and real hospital care. But he doesn't pay her any mind - instead a door slams down the corridor and he flinches so violently he nearly falls down again. But he keeps his balance when he hears it.
"Paul?" Someone is shouting.
Emma. His breath catches.
"Paul?" Again, closer, and he stumbles to the door just as it swings open. "Oh my god!" She laughs breathlessly. Her eyes are red. "Christ. F*ck. Oh god."
He flings himself towards her and she catches him like she always has.
"You're okay." He breathes, one hand coming up to the back of her neck and tangling in her hair. She rests a hand on his face in return, but that isn't close enough so she rests her head on his chest instead, listens to the drum of his heartbeat.
"Okay." She repeats, voice wavering.
"We're-" He starts but he can't say it. It doesn't feel real. People are busying around them - one of them drapes a blanket around Emma's shoulders but she shrugs it off and wraps it around him instead. He's still shivery and aching all over, so he lets her.
"You need to sit down." She says softly.
"Not the bed."
"No." She agrees, and pushes past Becky and Schaffer and all the rest to a wheelchair propped in the corner. He falls back into it and she crouches in front of him, both hands in his.
"Miss Perkins," Becky says, a faint smile on her face. "Would we be able to check you over? We can have you feeling better in no time."
Emma's about to argue, but Paul gives her a nod. "Can it wait?" She persists. "Until after Paul..." She couldn't bear to get better if he's still ill.
"Paul's being treated. He had a rough couple of days, but he's definitely on the mend now." Becky smiles.
"We can have a look at you both together, miss? If that'd put your mind at ease." A young looking doctor perks up behind them. Of course, Emma thinks, there's resources enough now for both of them. No more taking turns. She feels a hand tightening around hers, a white knuckle grip.
"Together?" Paul breathes, white as a sheet.
"Together." She squeezes back, and turns around to face the world.