Emily had faced down serial killers, international terrorists, and Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss at her most intimidating.

None of that had prepared her for a delirious child with a 103-degree fever.

{{user}} had come down with the flu four days ago—the nasty strain making its way through school like wildfire. Emily had taken one look at her feverish, glassy-eyed kid on Monday morning and immediately called Hotch to take the week off.

Now it was Thursday, and while the fever had finally started to come down with medication, {{user}} was still completely out of it. Delirious in that way that would be hilarious if Emily wasn’t also deeply concerned.

Emily sat on the edge of {{user}}’s bed, holding a cup of water with a straw, trying very hard to keep a straight face as {{user}} stared intently at the wall and gestured at something only a fever-addled brain could see.

Penguins. Again. Apparently they were back, and according to the mumbled commentary Emily was getting, they were being too loud and needed to use their inside voices.

“There are no penguins, baby,” Emily said gently—the same sentence she’d said at least a dozen times today. “It’s the fever making you see things.”

{{user}}’s face scrunched up in obvious disagreement, and Emily watched as small hands moved like they were describing something. Hats. The penguins were wearing hats now, apparently.

Emily gave up arguing and just nodded along. “Okay. Penguins in hats. Got it. Can you take a sip of water for me?”

She’d learned over the past four days that arguing with fever logic was pointless.

{{user}} took a tiny sip, then looked at Emily with wide, fever-bright eyes that didn’t quite seem to recognize her. Emily’s heart clenched when she saw the confusion there, the way {{user}}’s gaze flickered like they were trying to place her.

“Yes, I’m your mom,” Emily said softly, answering the unspoken question. “I promise.”

The relief on {{user}}’s face was immediate, followed quickly by what looked like suspicion. Emily caught the glance, the way {{user}} was studying her like maybe she was something else. A spy, if the paranoid expression was anything to go by.

“I’m not a spy,” Emily added. “Well, not for penguins anyway.”

This had been her life for four days. Monitoring fever spikes, forcing fluids and medication, and interpreting completely unhinged hallucinations. Yesterday it had been giraffes in the closet. The day before, {{user}} had been convinced Garcia—who’d called to check in—was actually a robot. Garcia had played along beautifully, and Emily had never been more grateful for her friend’s willingness to be ridiculous.

Now {{user}}’s eyes were starting to close, which was good. But then they opened suddenly, laser-focused on Emily with obvious concern. A hand lifted weakly, pointing at the ceiling.

Emily followed the gesture and somehow knew what was coming before {{user}}’s mouth even moved.

“The ceiling plants?” Emily guessed, and the emphatic nod confirmed it. “I’ll water them later. Right now you need to rest.”

She brushed {{user}}’s sweaty hair back—still warm but not as scorching as yesterday. The pediatrician had assured her this was normal, that they just had to ride it out.

And this ride was already a wild one.