You make your way down the ICU corridor to her room a bit later than usual today. You slept in accidentally (and you are trying your best not to let the guilt overtake you, you really are) and then let Reid and Penelope talk you into brunch. The two have insisted on staying here with you until Emily is stable enough to be flown back to DC, which should be soon; there is already talk of discharging her from the ICU to a step-down unit today or tomorrow. She was extubated two days ago and has been breathing on her own ever since, and JJ, Hotch, and Rossi flew back yesterday after ensuring that she was progressing as expected. Reid and Penelope want to spend a few hours arranging her transport with the insurance company before joining you later in the afternoon. They are not fooling you. You know that the hospital will do this and that your friends will be spending the time teleconferencing with the rest of the team regarding their progress on finding the people responsible for your quarantine. You know they have already given the profile along with all new evidence regarding the deaths of Matthew Van Dyke, Elaine Wiggins, and Addie Saunders to the Milwaukee PD and will continue with their own private investigation until they track down the mysterious men in white suits. To be honest, you are happy to let them handle the investigation for a while, and you have to admit you are grateful to have some time alone with Emily. As harrowing as your time isolated together was, you find yourself craving that closeness with her now. You tell yourself it is a reaction to trauma that will fade once things begin to go back to normal, but a part of you doubts it is actually that simple.

A familiar face catches your attention, and you greet Allan, one of Emily's nurses, who is sitting at a desk outside a room a few doors down from the entrance. "Hey, man." You shake his hand. "Not with Em today?"

"Nah, not today. I hear she's doing great, though."

"Yeah, yeah." For some reason a painful lump forms in your throat and your eyes start to sting and it's not that you're getting choked up; it's just that you're under a lot of stress and you haven't gotten much sleep lately. You force your voice to come out steady and even and hope he doesn't notice. "I don't know how to ever thank you guys enough." It's true. Anything you say or do will just be words and gestures, but Emily is alive, and no word or gesture will ever, ever come close to equaling that.

Allan just shrugs you off. "Hey, man, I'm just glad to see she's getting better. You take care of her." He gives you a pat on the shoulder and you continue towards her room.

When you get to Emily's door, her nurse is just coming out to sit at her desk set up by the entryway. Celeste must already be in her early 60s, with a soft Grenadan accent that belies her brisk and no-nonsense attitude. You have come to learn that her nickname on the floor is, aptly, The General, and you always feel secure knowing that nothing in Emily's care will be overlooked under her shrewd supervision. She has the habit of calling everyone "Dear" and "Sweetheart" even while fixing you with her signature piercing and mildly disapproving glare over her glasses. You have seen that glare win her her way in even the strongest disagreements over her patient's care, and though you can't deny that it makes you quake just a little when directed toward you, you couldn't be more grateful for it.

"Hi, Dear." She greets you at Emily's door, studying you over her glasses.

"Hi, Celeste, Emily okay?"

"She's fine; you can go on in. She's just had a bolus of her pain medication, so she's kind of drowsy."

You have come to learn that "drowsy" is a multi-purpose term used to describe really any state between "pleasantly doped" to "fast asleep for the next four hours." The wide, goofy grin Emily gives you when you walk in indicates that right now it is definitely the former.

"Heeyyyy Morgan!" She greets you in a lazy slur. You can't help but return her grin. She really isn't supposed to be talking too much, but you have yet to get over what an immense relief it is to see her face, all of it, and have her speak to you in her now-familiar hoarse rasp.

"Hey, Prentiss, where's your oxygen?" You notice the discarded cannula on the pillow next to her and allow yourself to hope for the best, but only cautiously. You know she has a tendency to remove it and desaturate, and you tense automatically at the idea.

Your concerns are validated when she avoids eye contact. "I think C'leste told me I didn't need it." She purses her lips and turns her head to look at one of her IV pumps. Emily Prentiss may be a world-class profiler and compartmentalizer-extraordinaire, but pumped full of Dilaudid she is an absolutely lousy liar.

"No, I just got tired of fightin' wit' you on it," the woman says, unimpressed, studying the most recent print-out of her heart rhythm. "You'll feel it soon enough an' won't be so pleased anymore."

Unfortunately, you have not yet learned to be so nonchalant. You fumble in your haste to get it back on her, trying to distract her while you do. "So, Prentiss, your day good so far?"

"Mmm, I had another popsicle for breakfast," she says dreamily. "It was the best. Ever." You chuckle, knowing how obsessed she has become with the popsicles she has been given leave to eat after over a week taking nothing by mouth.

Emily's eyes light up as she remembers something else. "An' I walked to the chair and sat in it for hours."

This is such good news you have to restrain yourself from throwing your arms around her and squeezing. The last time Physiotherapy tried to get her to stand by the side of her bed her heart started to fibrillate and her blood pressure dropped so low she nearly passed out. You look to Celeste for verification, and she nods. "Mmhmm, she sat for 30 minutes then made it back. She did good."

"Good for you, Girl, that's exciting!" It really is. Emily giggles, thrilled someone agrees with her, and slaps the hand you hold up for her to high-five.

"It was!" She agrees. "Plus the physiotherapist is dreamy." She frowns. "Or maybe he's the respiratory therapist…"

"Aw, you're breaking my heart, Prentiss."

Emily's eyes snap to yours, widening in surprise. She looks genuinely contrite. "Sorry!"

"It's ok. Anything else?"

"Hmm, I got all my tubes out today."

You can still see several emerging from underneath the covers, not to mention the multiple lines that run from her back, from underneath her clavicle, and up the inside of her arm. You raise your eyebrows at her. "All of them?"

"C'leste, how many tubes did you take outta me today?"

"Three, Sweetheart."

You hide a smirk; it always amuses you to hear the term of endearment addressed to Prentiss. She herself appears utterly unconcerned.

"I got three tubes taken out today." Emily amends.

"That's good."

"Yeah…" She pauses. "Hurts though."

Your heart squeezes uncomfortably. "I know it does, Em."

"Hey." Emily's eyebrows knit together as if she is thinking very hard about something.

"Hey." You wait.

"Did you say you were gonna tie my hands to the bed?"

You are taken aback. You have said many things to her over the past 10 days, most of which you never thought she would hear or remember. Your mind shuffles through them until… oh. That long ago? It is a memory you don't want to dwell on for too long. You smile at her. "Yeah, I guess I did… You were being a bit of a pain." You nudge her gently. "Why?"

"Mmm," she grins lazily at you. "I mean, maybe if it wasn't a hospital bed… might not be so bad…"

Your mouth opens and you flounder for a while. Behind you, Celeste lets out an amused snort, and you are determined to regain the upper hand. "Prentiss," you finally manage. "I understand you are high out of your mind right now, but if you think I'm ever gonna let you live this one down, you've got one hell of a schooling comin' your way."

Emily looks ridiculously pleased with herself, and you can't help but grab her hand as she closes her eyes and appears to drift off, the smile on her face acting like a salve over the wound that the last 10 days has left on you both.

But there is another wound, one that has been there far longer than the memory of white Suits and a green light and a terrifying fever. It is the gaping hole that was left in you, in your team and, you suspect, in her as well by the death of your partner, and which never truly filled in even after her sudden return closed it over. You hate thinking of this whole ordeal as some sort of twisted form of redemption, but you can't help but think about how there is no secrecy among you this time. There is a sense of growing confidence and control over what you can all do to help, and there is an unspoken agreement that whatever happens, your friend will not be alone. You can also see Emily actually accepting the support and beginning to understand that love is more than protection, and family is more than self-sacrifice. In short, there is everything there wasn't last time, and you have to admit that with the violent opening of wounds both old and new, there has been some healing that has begun as well.

Emily has been quiet for quite a while, and you are ready to settle back and start reading for a bit while she sleeps, when a sharp intake of breath catches your attention.

"Derek?"

"Yeah?"

"You're dreamy too."

You laugh, squeeze your partner's hand. "Thanks, Princess."

So that's it for Biohazard! I want to thank once again everyone who has read and reviewed or otherwise enjoyed this story. It was a blast to write, and you guys made it practically write itself. The only bad thing about having such amazing reviewers is that with every chapter my anxiety kept growing and my attitude went from "Meh, I'll post and see if anyone's interested" to "Omg I must not disappoint my amazing readers!" So... thank you for that, seriously! I have to admit I'll miss my writing time on the couch on my days off, so who knows, maybe inspiration will strike again sometime soon.