Author's Note: They're now moving into week 4 of her diagnosis and as the cancer treatments continue, they'll begin to take their toll. Because that's what cancer treatments do. Not that we're going to be stuck down in the heavy and morose for the rest of the journey, it's just an FYI that you'll have more reminders generally that she is sick. And the focus of this one particularly, is that she is sick.

This is picking up on the Monday after we left them on the couch with Jack.

Story Title Prompt Set #10 - Romance Authors (February 2011)

Author: Gerard Daniel Houarner

Title Challenge: I Love You and There is Nothing You Can Do About It

Mid-January: Monday Night

All In

Hotch let his eyes fall shut for a moment . . . but just a moment.

Any longer and he was afraid of falling asleep.

And although it was after two am, and he was exhausted . . . his eyes popped open again . . . it was vital that he stay rather awake than go to sleep.

Vital for Emily.

Right now she was curled against his chest, sleeping the fitful sleep of someone whose body had begun to betray her. Today the issue hadn't been her headaches though, it had been that the radiation had started to catch up with her. All day she'd been exhausted . . . and all night she'd been both exhausted and nauseous. She hadn't thrown up yet . . . which as a side point might have made her feel better . . . but she'd still been feeling too sick to actually lie down. So she'd just go in and sit on the edge of the tub for a while, and then she'd move back to sit on the foot of the bed again.

Back and forth for over an hour.

It took him that long to finally convince her to try . . . again . . . to just rest.

That was the point where she'd looked like she was going to collapse from exhaustion. And fortunately she hadn't fought him on his suggestion . . . he had a feeling that she was too tired to even try . . . instead she just gave in with a sigh. Then she'd slipped off her flannel pants, and with another rub of her stomach, finally climbed back into bed with him.

So with her in her oversized pink Hello Kitty nightshirt . . . which was for some reason making him very sad tonight . . . Hotch had dropped the battlefield tactics book he'd been pretending to read, and slid down onto his pillow so she could curl against his chest.

She'd cried herself to sleep.

That was just over an hour ago.

It hadn't been a good sleep though. She'd kept moaning and fidgeting, and he knew that even in the netherworlds . . . she still felt like shit. And he was pretty sure that the only reason that she wasn't back to hovering between the bathroom and the bedroom, was the physical exhaustion that had overtaken her.

At the moment that was the clear winner in this little game of tug of war.

But he knew from the moaning that sleep wasn't going to last long. The nausea . . . which her current dose of medication had less control over the more her treatments continued . . . was going to win that night.

Which was why he had to stay up.

She was going to need him to take care of her.

In the meantime though . . . he gave his eyes another moment's respite . . . he just kept lightly rubbing her back like he would do for Jack when he was a baby. Hotch was trying to make sure that Emily stayed asleep as long as she could.

But even with his efforts, that only lasted another ten minutes. That's when he suddenly felt her whole body tense up.

"Oh shit."

The words came right as she rolled over, bolting out of bed . . . her hand was covering her mouth.

Although Hotch was only a split second behind her, Emily was already halfway through the bathroom door by the time his feet hit the carpet.

He caught up just as she began to retch into the toilet.

So again, as he had when she was sleeping, he did what he could to help. Though in this instance all he could really do was just hold her hair and rub her back as he prayed for the thousandth time that he had the ability to take this disease from her.

That they could trade.

Because if he could . . . his eyes began to burn as he felt her body shaking . . . he would take it from her in an instant. But that was more foolishness. Because even for all that they shared . . . more in their short time than he ever had with Haley in all their years . . . he couldn't share this burden. This one was hers alone to carry.

And this one was a bitch.

Every time she seemed to be done and she'd start to lean back gasping for air . . . it would come on again. Of course by third time that happened there was nothing left in her system, so she was stuck with nearly ten minutes of dry heaves that he knew were killing her stomach. But then finally after almost a minute of calm while she tried to catch her ragged breath, Emily lifted her hand slightly.

"Okay."

The word was raspy and tear filled, and he was quick to drop the lid and flush the toilet for the fourth time. Then he shifted around, sliding one arm behind her back, and another under her legs. A second later he'd scooped her up from the hard ceramic.

"Aaron," Emily tried a token, weak, effort of protest, "I can walk."

Fortunately he just ignored it, because she really couldn't walk. She was exhausted and her legs felt rubbery from all the time stuck on the floor. So she just let him carry her over to the vanity.

After Hotch had placed Emily down on the black slate . . . kicking himself even as he did it for not thinking to put a towel down first . . . it had to be cold . . . he paused for a moment to look down at her.

What he saw made his heart ache.

Her eyes were glassy, her skin was ashen, and there were sweaty tendrils of hair stuck to her face.

She looked awful.

But more than that . . . his jaw clenched . . . she looked sick.

"You still doing okay?" He asked softly as his hands fell down to run along her bare thighs.

By okay, he was just looking to find out if she was going to throw up again in the next five minutes.

Emily nodded slowly, "yeah," she rubbed her stomach, "for now."

Christ, did she hope that 'for now' would last for the rest of the night. She really didn't think that she had the energy to go through that again.

"All right," Hotch slid his hands up to slip his fingers under her pink nightshirt, "then let's get this off of you."

Not only had she basically sweated through it, but at some point she'd gotten a small spattering of vomit on it. And he was careful to keep that section away from her skin . . . and her nose . . . as she lifted her arms for him to tug it off.

After he'd folded it in half . . . tucking the dirty part in the center . . . he tossed it in the general direction of the laundry hamper.

As it hit the floor, he made a mental note to rinse it out after Emily fell back to sleep. Though it did have a bit of sick on it, it was still salvageable. Besides that though, he just didn't want to throw it away.

It was one of her favorites.

As he turned back, Hotch noticed that in the five seconds that minor task had taken, Emily's nipples had peaked while the rest of her upper body had broken out into goosebumps.

She caught cold so easily.

And not having any other clothes to put on her . . . the bedroom suddenly seemed far away . . . he hurriedly yanked off his own t-shirt.

"Here sweetheart," he whispered, his eyes crinkling faintly as he moved to slip it over her head, "all warmed up and everything."

As she twisted to pull on the white cotton, he made another mental note . . . this time to start tucking a spare t-shirt in the bottom drawer of the vanity. They had three more months of treatment. And though it killed him to think about so many more days and nights like this one . . . nights where she suffered so much . . . he knew that he needed to be practical.

And practically speaking, this would not be the only time that Emily threw up on her clothes.

"Thanks honey," Emily murmured as Hotch helped her slide her arms into the sleeves of his clean, thankfully, warm, t-shirt. Then, just as she was about to ask him to pass her the mouthwash, she saw him move over to start filling a cup for her.

Her eyes began to sting.

First picking her up from the floor, then the t-shirt switch, and now this. He was just so damn . . . she bit her lip . . . sweet. But she was trying so hard not to cry again . . . trying so hard to suck it up . . . that she couldn't allow herself to pause for more than a second to consider just how wonderful he was.

Just how lucky, she was.

So before her emotions got the better of her, she hurriedly blinked the tears away. And when he turned back with the mouthwash in hand, she gave him a faint . . . exhausted . . . smile as she took the small paper cup from his hand.

"Thanks hon," she whispered for a second time, this time punctuating it with a squeeze to his fingers. But he just shook off the gratitude with a hush as he kissed her forehead.

Once Emily had successfully rinsed out her mouth (twice), without any additional throwing up in the process, Hotch held up her purple . . . pre-toothpasted . . . toothbrush.

"Want to give this a shot?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

A bit of mouthwash was one thing, jamming a plastic stick in your mouth when your gag reflex was as sensitive as hers was at the moment, was something else.

"Um," Emily looked down worriedly at the purple brush, "I don't know." Then she shook her head, "no, maybe I'll wait a little bit."

Yes, she did REALLY want to brush her teeth . . . the Listerine had gotten the gross taste off her tongue, but her mouth still didn't really feel 'clean' . . . but she was more afraid of making herself throw up again.

She just really didn't have the energy for it.

"No problem," Hotch turned to put the brush back into the cup, "we'll just put it back for now."

That's kind of what he'd expected. So he moved on to the next thing on his list.

Cleaning her up.

After he'd wet a washcloth with warm water, he turned and began wiping down Emily's forehead . . . and then her still flushed cheeks . . . and finally her sweaty neck.

Her hair was sticking to it.

It wasn't until he had moved to rewet the cloth . . . he was thinking a quick overall sponge bath might help . . . that he felt Emily's hand fall onto his arm.

"Aaron," Emily whispered as she weakly squeezed Hotch's wrist, "you have to work tomorrow. You should go back to bed. I'll be fine," she cleared over the lump forming in her throat, "really. I'll be along in a little bit."

'After I have a good cry,' she thought sadly as her watery gaze dropped to the tile floor. She just couldn't handle him being so perfect right now.

It was destroying her control.

Hotch looked down at Emily in astonishment . . . did she actually just say what he'd thought she'd just said?!

"Sweetheart," he dropped the facecloth on the counter as he turned to her in disbelief. "I'm not leaving you in here by yourself. I'm never going to leave you when you're sick. Ever. It's just not happening. So you need to put that thought out of your mind. It's a waste of oxygen to say it out loud, and it's a waste of energy to even think it."

Emily slowly lifted her head, and when their eyes caught, Hotch saw the tears in her voice had begun to trickle run down her cheeks. She looked so sad that Hotch's own eyes began to burn.

He reached out and pulled her to his chest.

"Emily," he whispered in her ear, "I'm here for everything, not just the fun stuff. All in remember?" He rubbed his hand down her back, "well, that's all in, all the time, got it?"

He understood how hard it was for her to wrap her brain around that, because it had been just as hard for him last month when she'd been so insistent on taking care of him. Being physically dependent on another person was new for them. But she was sick, really sick, and this was only going to get a lot worse before it started to get better. So she needed to get her head straight on this point now.

Fighting him was pointless.

Emily sniffled against his chest, "yeah," she bit her lip, "I got it."

It was quiet for a minute, and then Emily sniffled again right before she moved her head slightly to mumble into Hotch's neck.

"I don't deserve you."

At that, Hotch pulled away. His heart was filled with sadness.

Then he shook his head.

"Emily," he murmured back as his palm cupped her cheek, "how can you even think such a thing? You were my salvation. Our job was taking everything from me. I was allowing it to take everything from me. Haley, Jack, my old friends, my ability to find any joy in life. I was choosing to immerse myself twenty-four hours a day in a world of pedophiles and rapists and serial killers," his jaw twitched as his hand fell down to her hip, "even saying it now it sounds ridiculous, that I would choose that life over a real one. But I did . . ." his brow darkened, "for months. My world was going to shit."

"But then," his eyes suddenly brightened, "one day I asked you to get a cup of coffee with me. And then on another day you asked me to go to lunch with you. And bit by bit, you began pulling me out of that darkness," his voice caught, "sweetheart, you literally gave me my life back."

Seeing the tears were now sliding freely down Emily's face, Hotch gave her a watery smile.

"So every time you feel down, you just remember that. You remember everything I just said, because I'm never leaving you." Then he leaned forward to brush his lips against her ear. "You're my best girl."

Emily slapped her hand over her mouth to try to choke down the sob that came bubbling up.

But she wasn't very successful.

So as it slipped out . . . in an ugly, unladylike snort . . . she decided to just go with it. What was so great about emotional control anyway?

That was for suckers!

So as another sob came rushing up, she threw her arms around Hotch's neck as she shimmied forward so she could she could hook her legs around his waist.

Their bodies were then pressed completely together.

"I don't care what Dave says!" She sobbed in his ear, "You TOTALLY kicked his ass at the range last week!"

There was no way that she could ever top that absolutely amazing speech . . . she squeezed him as tightly as she could to her body . . . because it was absolutely untoppable.

So she wasn't even going to try.

Hotch burst out laughing at Emily's response . . . and that right there was exactly why she was his girl!

"Thank you sweetheart," he said with a snort as he buried his face in her neck, "that's the nicest thing that you've ever said to me!"

"Yeah, well," she sniffled against his shoulder, "ditto."

He huffed softly.

"I love you too."

Then he leaned back to kiss her forehead.

"So," he picked up the washcloth to begin washing her face again, "let's try this again. If you think that you're feeling well enough, we can go back to bed. But if your stomach's still bothering you," he turned to rinse out the cloth again, "then I'll go get a blanket and we can set up camp in here for a while."

At this point he'd rather given up the idea of getting any sleep himself . . . he had operated on less than three hours and survived . . . so all he was worried about was whether or not Emily got enough rest. Which . . . by the clock on the wall . . . meant that he wanted her to lie down for at least another four hours.

They were definitely going in late tomorrow.

"Um," Emily nervously bit her lip as she looked between Hotch and the bedroom, "I um . . ."

For a moment she hesitated . . . she didn't want to tell him that she was afraid to go back to bed again. Though her stomach did seem to have settled down . . . again, for the moment anyway . . . there was no telling when the nausea would come back again. And she'd just barely made it to the toilet last time.

That's how she'd ended up with vomit on her shirt.

But she couldn't imagine asking Hotch to sleep on the bathroom floor with her either. Though she understood now that asking him to go to bed without her was a pointless request, she was serious about him needing his rest.

He had to work in a few hours.

She needed to make a decision though. And just as she was about to open her mouth . . . she was going to tell him that she could try the bed . . . he patted her leg.

"Wait, I have a door number three. Stay here."

Then he turned and headed back into the bedroom. After stopping by the dresser to pull out a fresh t-shirt, he went over and grabbed their pillows and blankets from on top of the mattress.

After that he walked back around to the foot of the bed and placed everything on the small bench. Then he remade their bed on the floor . . . starting with the comforter as the bottom layer, before working his way back up to the pillows.

Okay then . . . Hotch looked through the open doorway to Emily watching him from the sink . . . that was their door number three.

"It's just six feet sweetheart," he said with a little smile as he walked back over the threshold, "half the distance from the bed." He stopped in front of her, his hands again falling to her thighs as his eyebrow quirked up faintly, "is six feet okay?"

Emily looked between Hotch and the little nest he'd made for them by the door. Her eyes started to water again.

"Uh huh," she whispered while leaning forward to rest her ear over his heart.

"Six feet is perfect."

A/N 2: The first version of this (though it contained the same skeleton as this one) was overall a bit more 'morose.' The ending was definitely heavier. But here I switched things around a smidge, carried the scene out a tiny bit further, and ended up with a more 'romantic' ending than the more dramatic one that I had the first time around. And that's why I like rewriting this, and that's why I keep all prior versions under lock and key ;) I think my instincts overall are better now so I'm trying to write a 'better' version of the story without actually violating any of the basic elements of the tale that people enjoyed the first time around. It's a tricky business! :)

The next chapter, they're going on a little date. Their version of one anyway :)

Thanks for reading!