Author's Note: Good evening, everyone. The recipes are gonna become a permanent part of this story. When bad things happen to my friends and family, the first thing I want to do is cook (or bake, rather) and it's really fun to come up with flashbacks to Nona to go along with the dishes so the recipes stay. I'm pretty much certain that this is going to become a romance for our heroes but I really don't know how fast or slow things will go. It depends on the muses. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: "Honestly, it's not mine!"

Reid couldn't sleep.

Insomnia had become a part of his life at a very young age. An overactive brain and imagination, worries about his sick mother, worries about ways to supplement the chicken scrap checks the government sent, worries about high school classes in a mercilessly bullied 5th graders body…he was pretty much doomed to lack of sleep from the start. That's why his name was now synonymous with sugar laced coffee among his friends. And opiate abuse. Don't forget the opiate abuse. No one could forget, including himself. 45 days sober, a whole lifetime to go, and the urge for the Needle still flared up like sunburn…would it always be like that?

The laundry chute was the first of many convoluted places to hide his means of getting around, his means of spending money when it got really bad. He had made a game out of it, now. His eidetic memory prevented him from forgetting where he stashed his stuff but the creativity had become a source of good entertainment, better than daytime soaps and vacuuming, anyway.

He was particularly proud of the one sneaker in the bread box, his keys in the pickle jar, his wallet on the library chandelier, and the other sneaker on the satellite dish combo. Of course, a sudden storm had almost ruined the sneaker but it was nothing hot water and the basement clothesline couldn't fix…

Reid couldn't sleep. He had another 2 weeks left of leave so burning the long past midnight oil was out. He had already finished the 3 papers he had been juggling before laying down and he wasn't hungry or thirsty so heading to the kitchen was out. The house was locked up tightly with the alarm on and he wasn't cold. His blue flannel pajama, mismatched fuzzy socks, and his old reliable electric blanket (Las Vegas could get seriously cold, as well as California…) saw to that. Briefly, he contemplated turning on the TV but it was pushing 3AM and he knew that nothing but infomercials, sitcom reruns, and porn would be on. Mostly porn, actually.

Even though he was 25, he never could truly understand the appeal of pornography or the aggressive pursuit of women to make his own pornography with. He was far from asexual (his brain may be a 50 year old's but his libido…) but he preferred to try and actually talk to women instead of just seeing them as warm bodies to fill a night. Now, he wasn't a virgin (he had left his virginity on his 23 year old Hindu TA's kitchen floor when he was 16, thank you very much, Morgan…) but Spencer really couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. Sex was good and all but if he wanted to get off, he had both his hands (he was ambidextrous) and the memories of reading the Kama Sutra for the aforementioned Hindu class to accomplish that goal…

Plus, the only woman you want touching you is Emily., his subconscious deadpanned, making him blush at the honesty.

After everything with Elle, JJ, and even Lila, Spencer had quietly vowed not to let a woman, especially one he worked with, get under his skin ever again. Distance, his crippling shyness or another one of his delightful eccentricities led to inevitable failure and he absolutely hated to fail at anything. Plus, the deep pitying looks and the teasing from people (mainly Morgan...) who knew was just not worth the hassle of it all. After Elle's departure, he had decided to remain alone for the foreseeable future in the name of operating within his limitations and the preservation of the remaining, very preciously thinning shreds of his dignity and pride.

Of course, right after he had made that vow, Emily Elizabeth Prentiss entered the BAU stage right. Smart, funny, stubborn, empathetic, gentle, fierce Emily Elizabeth Prentiss…and he was right back on the unrequited-never-gonna-happen-you've-gotta-be-kidding-right, kid feelings hell train.

Shit.

In retrospect, his abrasiveness towards Emily (before and during the Needle) was more directed towards his heart and hormones for making him feel for her. She listened to him, even when he was in encyclopedia mode, she made sure to engage him in non-work related conversation and banter, and she had more than enough balls to face him head on, even at his bitchiest. Here was a woman that he could match wits with, here was a woman who could take him on and win, here was a woman…here was a woman he could fall in love with for the rest of his life. And it scared him. And when he failed at things or was scared to a point, he got mad and when he got mad, he got mean.

And when he got high, he got meaner, lashing out at any perceived threat or slight.

He was grateful for the New Orleans case. New Orleans helped him see that his mind was already starting to buckle under the pressure of maintaining his (not so) hidden addiction and that it was time to choose. The Needle or his sanity? The Needle or his physical health? The Needle or his career? The Needle or his friends turned family?

The Needle or Emily? Emily definitely deserved better than an addict…

Another thing he had to accept about his heart is when it set its crosshairs on a woman, only outright rejection or abandonment could undo it. His heart would tell his mind to do things for that woman, things she may like but take him far beyond his comfort zone, whether it was talking about an admittedly ugly painting and kissing fully clothed in a pool or drinking scotch in a shitty hotel room (before having half drunken sex in said shitty hotel room) or going to a football game on a freezing Sunday morning instead of watching the documentary on rise of Rome he had been trying to watch for months…or putting down the Needle sooner rather than later and plunging headfirst into the horror of Detox alone and cold turkey.

Well…at least this time, the actions he had taken had been worth it, even without any chance of a romance…

Are you sure there's no chance? You said it yourself, Emily's different than the other women you found yourself falling for. She gets you and even when she doesn't get you, she wants to. She reached out to you time and time again, even when you were a dick and doesn't hold that over your head, now. She's made herself head cheerleader on Team Sober Up, Genius. She helped you clean your vomit up and she takes time out of her life to cook for you. Not to mention the fact that she has stuff here in your house, without losing a bet…

None of that meant anything. Not really. She was just concerned for him and the fact that they were becoming close instead of being close from the get-go provided for with enough objectivity to be hands-on in his recovery. Any non platonic feelings were a one way street and that's how they would remain…

Right?

With a soft groan of defeat, Reid pulled the blankets over his head, determined to wrest a few hours of sleep out of Morpheus' clutches or die trying.