Set sometime around season 5 or early season 6 . . . no Doyle, no Maeve.

She wasn't sure when it had started. One day he was just Reid, the genius kid on the team. Energetic, interesting, but too young to think about as anything more than a junior colleague. Then somehow one day she turned around and he was a *man*. Not the type of man who she'd really been attracted to before, but the more she looked the more attractive he became. She began noticing things about him that she never had before, like the elegance of his hands wrapped around a coffee cup. Or the way he wet his lips when he was nervous. Even the dark circles under his eyes when they were on a long case started to look good to her. She'd always enjoyed listening to his high-speed explanations of the crazy facts that he had memorized, but now they actually turned her on. How weird was that?

It had reached the point of distraction. She could barely look at him any more without imagining him in bed with her. It didn't help that she hadn't been properly laid in ages, and that she was in the middle of a woman's supposedly "peak" sexual years. (I really need to get a boyfriend,) she thought. (As if anyone would put up with this schedule.)

Afraid of showing her attraction, she did her best not to look at Reid too much. She felt like she couldn't trust herself to look without staring. And possibly drooling. (You really are pathetic, Emily,) she thought to herself. (Cute young thing like him, why should he look at you that way? And it's a good thing he doesn't, we have to work together.)

Unbeknownst to her, Reid was nursing silent hurt at her rejection. He was used to admiring girls from afar, and had put her in the "amazing but out of my league" category as soon as he had met her. But that couldn't stop him from thinking about her. How could help it, when they saw each other every day? He didn't know how he'd ended up surrounded by beautiful women in a job like this, but she was definitely the star to him. Even when he tried to think of someone else in his lonely bed, his mind always came back to her. He counted himself lucky that at least they were friends. Or at least, he thought they were until she started avoiding him. He tried to think of anything that he could have done wrong, any reason for the change, but came up empty.

The team was noticing too, and assumed the same that Reid did—that something had made her angry. They assumed it would blow over, but it didn't seem to be getting better.

One night they were stuck in a hotel after a case, waiting for weather to clear so they could fly back to DC.. At 10 pm when it didn't seem to show any sign of improving, Hotch told the team they'd stay the night and try again in the morning. Morgan suggested a drink at the hotel bar. Hotch and Rossi declined, but JJ, Reid, and Prentiss agreed. It had been a rough case.

By midnight they had all had a couple and were feeling better, or at least drunker. Morgan and JJ watched as Emily made conversation, jokes even, yet studiously avoided interacting with Reid. For his part, Spencer was feeling resentful and was starting to show it as the drinks had their effect. Grouchy Reid was not good company. Finally JJ yawned and excused herself. Morgan looked at his friends, as confused as Reid about what had gone wrong between them. "I'm going to turn in too," he said, noticing Emily starting to get up as he left the table. "No, no. I don't know what's going on here, but I think you two need to talk." He left, hoping maybe they would work out their differences, whatever they were.

Emily stared at her drink, suddenly alone with the object of her fantasies but with nothing she could do about it. (I feel like I'm in high school again. I guess I haven't been as subtle as I thought. Then again, we are profilers.) She downed what was left and held up her class to the bartender to show she wanted another. (Is that wise? You've already had twice as much as the others, just trying to stay relaxed while he's sitting next to you.)

Meanwhile, Spencer watched her, still racking his brain to figure out what he could have possibly done wrong. "Why aren't you speaking to me?" he finally asked.

"What do you mean? I'm talking to you right now."

"No you're not. You're talking to the table. You talk to everyone lately, except me. You can't even look at me."

"That's not true." Even as she denied it, she knew it was.

"What did I do? Why are you mad at me? Whatever I did or said, I'm sorry. But I'd really like to know what it was so I don't do it again." Spencer's tone was pleading. It brought her eyes to his, which hadn't happened in a long time. For a moment she let herself stare into them, seeing the hurt there before dropping her gaze again.

(As if this wasn't bad enough, now I've hurt his feelings. Now what?)

"It's not you. You didn't do anything wrong. It's me." (Really Emily? That sounded like a breakup speech. You're going to have to be more convincing than that.)

"I don't understand."

"I'm sorry, I'm just really . . . distracted lately."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I just . . . I can't look at you because I get distracted."

"How am I distracting?"

"You really don't know, do you? I listen to you. I like listening to you. But I can't watch you talk because I end up watching your lips, and I can't look at your lips without thinking about how they would taste."

Spencer was speechless. It was the last thing he had expected to hear. Emily hadn't meant to say it, but once she started it was as if the floodgates had opened, so in his silence she continued babbling.

"And I can't look at your hands . . . those long fingers, without imagining them on my skin." She allowed herself a brief glance over at his hands on the table as she admitted this, but missed Spencer gaping at her as she continued to look anywhere but at his face. "Even when your back is turned I'm not safe. I see those narrow hips, and wonder how they would feel between my legs . . ." Emily looked over at him in time to see Spencer frozen in place, stunned. (Oh my god,) she thought. (What the hell am I doing? I have to get out of here.)

"I'm sorry, I'm drunker than I realized. Forget it, I don't know what I'm saying. Goodnight." She stood up hurriedly, stumbling slightly as she rushed from the room.

Too late, Spencer reached for her hand. "Wait . . . " But she was already gone.

(Wow.) In all of Spencer's fantasies of her, never once had he imagined that she would ever fantasize about him. Much less that she might actually admit it. He breathed deeply, trying to calm his arousal before standing up. He had an errand to run.

(Oh god, oh god, oh god . . . ) Emily felt sick. Somehow, she managed to make it all the way into her own room and bathroom before throwing up. (Oh god, how could I actually say those things out loud? I'm drunk. Obviously. I'll say it was the alcohol talking . . . will he even believe that?) She felt a little better after emptying her stomach, but still dizzy, and overheated. And of course humiliated. She sat there on the floor beside the toilet, replaying the scene in her mind. (That look on his face . . . he's not interested. Not even a little bit.) She turned the shower on and adjusted the water to cool before disrobing and stepping in, rinsing her mouth over and over as the water streamed down her skin. She just wished she could wash away what she'd said.