It had been one of the hardest weeks of his life. In more ways than one.

At work, he was forced into a role of concerted, withdrawn professionalism: as the team examined evidence from their upcoming case in New York, trying to compile a profile while also trying to convince the territorial NYPD to let them assist in solving the string of race-based murders in NYC and the outer boroughs, he refused to interact with Emily on even the smallest level. He didn't look at her. He didn't speak to her. He didn't respond to her statistical questions about racially-motivated violence in the area until Hotch prompted him.

And at home, he seemed perpetually plagued by a throbbing erection that he also refused to acknowledge. The warm gush of the shower against his naked body, the soft sensation of his bedsheets rubbing against him as he tossed and turned in perpetual insomnia, the images of Emily masturbating in his bed that attacked his amygdala whenever he closed his eyes ... No, until (unless) he could wipe those memories from his brain, he was not going to give into his primitive, pathetic urges.

One week after their encounter and two days before the team was scheduled to fly to New York, Emily called in sick. Her uncharacteristic absence from work both perplexed and concerned everyone: Emily never missed a day of work. Never. Once she even came to work with the flu and kept emphatically protesting that she was fine until Hotch's suggestion that she go home turned into an order.

Inexplicably, he found himself covering for her. "You know, sir," he mused to his boss, "those bruises on her cheek were really much worse than they appeared on the surface. It's possible she was asked to have a MRI before returning to the field."

During a late lunch break, he sent her a text message.

Spencer Reid: I told Hotch you were prob. making sure Cyrus didn't fracture any bones in your face. Where are you?

A moment later, his BlackBerry vibrated with a response.

Emily Prentiss: Thx, cutie. Gonna leave a pkg for u w ur doorman about an hr before u get home
Emily Prentiss: Wait till u get upstairs to open it
Spencer Reid: ... ?
Emily Prentiss: U will see - thx again for the cover
Spencer Reid: No problem.

This was precisely why Spencer loathed text messages: not only because of the poor grammar and "net-speak" abbreviations, but because they didn't resemble the kind of actual conversation he would have had with her if they'd been talking on the phone or in person. Like, hey, Emily, did you wake up in some stranger's bed, too hungover and sore from fucking all night to make it into work?

All day, he waited anxiously for 6 p.m. when he could get in his car, drive home, and find out what kind of package Emily had planned to deliver to him. His limbs were restless, his mind unfocused, and even the cups of coffee he gulped down as though they were water didn't help him in sustaining his attention on the case.

His teammates apparently concluded that Spencer must merely be "gun shy" about returning to the field after his experience undercover at the cult compound, and he was more than willing to indulge this interpretation. He entirely lost count of the number of times he uttered the words "I'm fine" that day, something that would have annoyed him on a typical day - yet, of course, there was absolutely nothing typical about this day. Still, when Hotch promised to keep him in a behind-the-scenes role unless absolutely necessary once they arrived in New York on Monday, he was strangely relieved, knowing he wouldn't be required to have Emily's back in a conflict situation; after all, he did possess enough self-awareness to realize that his emotions were running far too high and that all objectivity had long been lost.

On the drive home, he allowed himself to indulge in a small fantasy that maybe Emily herself would be the package waiting for him in his lobby, that he would take her upstairs and make love to her, secretly knowing that if she'd broken two of her "rules," then she must have feelings for him, too.

But once he reached his apartment complex, he was almost disappointed to see the small cardboard package with his name and apartment number scrawled on the top in permanent marker.

"Dropped off for you about 45 minutes ago," said Ricky, one of the doormen. "A woman with black hair and brown eyes. Had a FBI badge. You expectin' something?"

Spencer nodded in response. Routine procedure was to immediately re-route all suspicious packages to the local police department, but Emily's forethought in flashing her credentials had stalled the doorman. He was grateful for that, since the contents of this mysterious delivery had transformed from mild curiosity into a near-frenzied obsession over the course of the day.

He must have hit the "up" button on the elevator at least five times before it finally appeared in the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone entering the building and briefly chatting with the doorman; ordinarily, he'd make sure to hold the doors for anyone who might be getting on, but today he pressed "close" repeatedly until the doors shut and he was headed to his floor, sweat breaking out across his forehead from anxiety and anticipation.

Once inside his apartment, he ripped the brown tape off the package with his hands, animalistic in his need to reach its contents. After unfolding the cardboard and peering inside, he dropped it on the kitchen table and stepped away with a ragged, shocked gasp.

Inside were four pairs of panties, each accompanied by a post-it note: the pink ones, "masturbated in these at approx. 10:45 am after fantasizing and denying myself pleasure since 8 am;" the white ones, "masturbated in these at approx. 12 pm after showering;" the red ones, "masturbated in these at approx. 2 pm after getting your text message;" and finally, the black ones, "masturbated in these at approx. 4 pm but clitoris so sore had to give myself a g-spot orgasm instead."

The idea of Emily kneeling on her bed with her fingers shoved deep inside her pussy, rocking back and forth until she exploded into the sticky black panties below nearly sent him over the edge without even having to touch himself.

Thoughts flew through his brain, but with the tangy, almost fruity scent wafting out of the box and into his nasal cavities, he could only focus on his desire: his desire to breathe in that smell and envision her masturbating, over and over again, throughout the day ... his desire to imagine his own nostrils merely inches from her dripping wet cunt as she touched herself ...

Without hesitation, he picked up each pair and inhaled deeply; the last one had a different, almost ammonia-like scent mixed in with the hardened white saccharine residue smeared on the cotton crotch of the other three. And it was still moist to the touch. This was the pair he clutched against his face with his left hand, burying himself in that strong smell, while he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants with his right, pulling down both the brown corduroys and his white briefs until they'd dropped just below his knees. There was no time to remove his shoes or disrobe completely: his cock was already pointing straight up at his face, pre-come drizzling from the tip. When he placed his hand on himself and breathed in her scent, allowing his tongue to dart out and taste the soft material against his lips, he only had to squeeze himself twice before he began spewing long strings of come across the table and onto the floor. After denying himself pleasure for so long, compounded by the additional stimulation of Emily's panties stuffed into his open mouth, he nearly blacked out from the sheer amount and force of each ejection. His mind was blank, save for a few images that only served to prolong his orgasm: watching Emily touch herself on his bed, imagining her coming just as instantly and as forcefully after waiting hours to masturbate, the liquid gushing out from inside of her as she finger-fucked herself ...

When he was finished, his vision had turned black and his ears were ringing. Light-headed, he stumbled to his bed and collapsed on it, waiting for his heart rate to drop back down below 140 beats per minute, waiting for his vision and hearing to gradually return so he could stand up and grab a glass of water for his parched mouth without fainting. The one sense he kept with him was the sense of her smell, her panties still pressed up against his nostrils.

He frantically rubbed himself to orgasm three more times that night, the same number of times that Emily had. And, like her, he'd discovered by the fourth time that his cock was so sore it was painful. So, laying down on the bed with her third pair of panties draped across his face, he just repetitively pressed two fingers against the sensitive area between his cock and his anus while slowly and gently stroking himself. It worked: even though it was a dry orgasm, his cock twitched and throbbed from a place much deeper within him, a place that propelled him into infinity, where nothing in the world existed except the endless pleasure pounding throughout his whole body.

Finally, limp and exhausted, he fell asleep, surrounded by Emily's panties, still breathing in her intoxicating scent and pretending (as he clutched the pillow next to him against his body) that she was really there with him, pretending that this was more than just some bizarre sex game, pretending that he could have more than just a visual and olfactory memory of her to hold onto.

Pretending, most of all, that she was in love with him, too.