"Drink with me now and forget all about the pressure of days; Do what I say, and I'll make you okay, and drive them away: the images stuck in your head." - Elliot Smith

"C'mon, kid. Don't tell me you're scared of a little alcohol."

"You know, statistically speaking, over three million deaths are attributed to alcohol consumption each year. That's about 5.9 percent of all deaths recorded, and 7.6 percent of them are male. As age decreases, the likelihood of - "

"Reid." Derek Morgan lays a powerful hand on the frail shoulder of his younger colleague. "Shut up and take the shot."

"The shot...right…" Spencer trails off, running his long, bony fingers through his sandy brown hair nervously. It isn't uncommon for him to spew out a novella of useless facts in normal conversation, but it is routine for Derek to be highly uninterested in them.

"'Atta boy!" Derek thumps Spencer on the back as he downs the shot of tequila that was placed in front of him over twenty minutes ago. He purses his lips and squeezes his hazel eyes shut as the liquid runs down the back of his throat. Derek smirks at him.

"Have you ever had a drink?" He asks the 24 year old. Considering that Reid graduated high school at the ripe age of 12, Morgan wouldn't be all that surprised if this was his first adult beverage.

"W - what? Of course I've had a drink," Reid stutters, raising his eyebrows unconvincingly at his partner.

"Sure you have." Morgan laughs, flicking a swirl of Spencer's hair that had fallen across his sweaty forehead. Spencer attempts to swat him away, but freezes when the tiny hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end.

"What is it?" Morgan asks, concerned by Spencer's sudden shift in attitude. In their line of work, caution is key.

"Nothing," Spencer mutters, just loud enough for Morgan to hear in the crowded bar. "I just feel like someone is watching us."

Carefully, so as not to draw attention to the two of them, Morgan turns his stool around and scans the crowd. Some people are dancing, some struggling to keep their balance while not spilling the bottles in their hand, and others are playing pool over in the corner. Between the soft yellow glow of the lighting and the smoke that lingers in the air, he spots two pairs of eyes staring at them.

"I think you have some admirers, Doc."

"What?" Spencer turns and squints in the same direction as his partner, meeting the eyes of two tall, tan women in exceptionally short dresses, staring at the bar longingly.

"Whatever, man. They're looking at you." Spencer turns back around and flags down a bartender, taking another shot and smiling to himself.

Morgan has never had a problem catching the attention of every female in a room. He's a little over six feet tall, has a charmingly deep voice, glistening dark skin, and carved abs that are visible from underneath his tee shirt when he turns the right way. Spencer on the other hand, though about the same height, is lanky, quite pale, and often speaks with a nervous tone. The pair are total opposites in nature, but each possess their own attractive qualities and complement one another well as a team.

"And here they come," Morgan breathes, flashing his best smile. Not only is he a big hit with the ladies, but he knows it too, and isn't afraid to boast his confidence.

"That thing real?" The tallest of the two women ask, no sooner than they are in earshot.

"As real as you are, sweet thing," Morgan replies, casually patting the gun holster on his hip.

Next to him, Spencer struggles to maintain his content expression. Morgan slyly kicks him in the shin, making it all the more difficult for Spencer not to laugh at him.

"Well then," the girl says, batting her eyes seductively, "what do you say we get out of here and I'll show you how real I really am."

Spencer rolls his eyes, having grown used to this type of conversation around Derek. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that his co-worker practiced these lines in front of a mirror every night. Morgan glances at Spencer from the corner of his eyes, and then back to the woman standing in front of him.

"As good as that sounds - and trust me, it sounds really good - I'm gonna have to take a rain check tonight. I need to get my boy back home."

Spencer drops his eyes down to the bar, tracing a crack in the wood with his index finger as he becomes increasingly self-conscious with the heat from four eyes burning into the back of his neck. Some might take it as a kind gesture, with the idea that Morgan is just looking after him, but Spencer knows better. He knows that Morgan is poking fun at his low alcohol tolerance, and is implying that he is drunk after just two shots, which is entirely untrue.

"Taking care of your friend...how sexy." The girl whispers into Derek's ear before sauntering off. It is no surprise to either men when she stops in front of a guy just two seats down from where they are sitting.

"What's that?" Morgan asks, not catching whatever it was that Spencer mumbled under his breath.

"I said that you wouldn't have slept with either of those girls, regardless of my presence or lack thereof." The younger man avoids eye contact with Derek, but a smirk plays at his chapped lips.

"Alright, boy genius. Which mathematical equation did you use to get that answer?" It is typical for Morgan to poke fun at Spencer, but it isn't usually the other way around. Spencer has a hard enough time catching on to someone else's joke, let alone creating one of his own. Morgan wonders if this behavior has anything to do with the two measly shots that Spencer had taken. The thought makes him laugh.

"If you really wanted to impress those girls, you wouldn't have told them that your gun is real. Instead, you would have just implied that it's real by letting them know you're an agent of the FBI. Men with police, military, or other positions of power are eight times more likely to get a date than those who aren't. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out, Morgan. You just used me as an excuse to get out of it."

There is a brief moment of silence between the two, in which Morgan blinks quietly at his partner, giving his brain a sufficient amount of time to process the words in which Spencer delivers at an alarmingly fast rate. Eventually, Morgan smiles, never unimpressed with the way that Spencer processes the world around him.

"Is that so?" He asks, as if taunting Spencer to go on.

"Absolutely," the other man replies, a smile of his own tugging at his lips, though he still doesn't meet Derek's eyes.

"Lack of confidence," Morgan thinks to himself. He can't blame Spencer for it though, given their colossal difference in body size and structure. He would never intentionally hurt Spencer, but if he wanted to, it wouldn't take hardly any effort on his part.

"Alright. Fine. You caught me. Now let's see you do it better, pretty boy." Morgan starts scanning the bar for someone to fit the profile that he'd conjured in his head. Among the sea of intoxicated men and the women trying way too hard to get their attention, he spots a blonde bartender at the other end of the counter, tending to an older gentleman in a red cowboy hat.

"Bingo," he whispers.

"Let's make a deal," Morgan says provocatively, now looking his colleague dead in the eyes.

"I'm not a gambling man," Spencer retorts, mirroring the same stern look right back at Derek, almost challenging him to continue.

"Of course not," Morgan replies calmly in an attempt to prove how well he knows Spencer, thereby earning his trust on the matter. Just as he suspected, the tactic works.

"Go on." Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for whatever bogus instructions Morgan has in mind.

"See that girl over there?" Spencer nods, following the tip of Derek's finger to a skinny, curly-haired blonde pouring a glass of beer behind the bar. "All you have to do is go over there and impress her."

Spencer looks between the girl and Derek, not quite understanding the simplicity of the dare. "What's in it for me?" He questions, leaning back in his stool and looking at Morgan inquisitively.

Typically, a challenger of such a ridiculous bet would offer to buy his fellow man a drink, but Spencer is far from a typical man and Morgan is aware of this.

"I'll watch Star Wars with you," he finally concludes, realizing how ridiculous this would sound if he were talking to anyone other than Spencer.

"All of them?" Reid counters, not allowing his demeanor to falter in the slightest. To an onlooker, it might appear that the two were discussing a serious matter rather than a high school dare being carried out by one FBI agent to another.

"Every last one," Morgan reassures him. He isn't very concerned with the outcome, given Reid's past experience with women. He is generally nervous, awkward, and scares them away with statistics on how they will die. Thankfully, there will be no Hans Solo in Derek's future.

"How will you know if I've impressed her or not? Emotional reactions aren't always displayed psychically, especially in an environment such as this one."

Morgan sighs. "You ask a lot of questions, kid. Just get over there and make something happen."

"Deal," Reid finally agrees, standing up and removing the holster from his belt.

"What are you doing?" Morgan asks, surprised when Reid places his gun on the bar in front of him. It's against regulation to abandon your weapon in the field, off-duty or not. Reid isn't one to break the rules.

"Proving that not everyone needs a gun and a badge to impress the ladies, Agent Morgan." Reid pats Morgan on the back and then disappears into the crowd of drunken patrons, appearing very much out of place on the dance floor.

"Touche." Morgan smirks, taking a sip of scotch as Spencer emerges back into his line of sight, directly in front of the blonde bartender.

He watches closely, guilted with shock as her body language changes just seconds after Spencer engages with her. She relaxes instantly, leaning into him and whispering something into his ear. As she pulls back, Morgan can't help but smile when he notices Spencer's tie wrapped around her delicate hands. She pulls him down into a stool and rests her elbow on the bar, plucking a cherry from a nearby drink and sucking on it seductively.

Accepting defeat and not particularly interested in watching the show, Morgan grabs Reid's pistol and holster, stuffs it into the small of his back, and ventures out onto the dance floor, leaving the other agent to his own devices. It doesn't take long before Morgan is swarmed by a group of women, and he enjoys every second of it.

"Alright, alright!" Morgan groans, finally lifting the white feather pillow from his face and leaning over to answer the phone. It is the sixth time that it's rang in the last five minutes, and he resists the urge to throw it over the side of his hotel room balcony.

"Morgan," he mumbles into the phone, rubbing his temple with the tips of his fingers as if it will make the headache go away.

"Wakey, wakey," a cheerful, feminine voice responds on the other end of the line. "I called your cell three times and you didn't pick up. We're boarding the jet back to Quantico in five."

"Thanks, JJ. I'll be right down." Morgan hangs up the phone with a satisfying click before stumbling out of bed and grabbing his jeans from off the floor. As he is putting them on, something thumps onto the carpet. He reaches down and picks up his cell phone, which must have went dead at some point the previous night. Having no time to charge it, he just stuffs it back into his pocket, grabs his go-bag, and heads out the door.

"It is about time." A flamboyant, attractive blonde saunters up to him as soon as he steps into the hotel lobby. "I thought I was going to have to issue a missing person's report."

"Oh please," Morgan jokes at Jennifer Jareau, the liaison for his particular FBI unit, "if someone took me, they'd bring me back in a heartbeat."

"I wouldn't doubt it," a dark-haired woman laughs next to JJ - Emily Prentiss, the newest agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

"You have your laugh, Prentiss. I saw you at the bar last night." Morgan raises his eyebrows at Emily, who throws her hands up in defeat.

"You caught me. I really do have a life outside of the BAU."

"Morning." Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss all turn to see their boss and lead profiler, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, hovering behind them with a black duffel in one hand. As usual, he is wearing a suit and tie and lacking any hint of human emotion. The team often jokes about Hotch never smiling, but there is an unspoken understanding as to why he doesn't. Behind him, SSA David Rossi stands with a similar bag, choosing to observe rather than engage.

"Where's Reid?" Morgan turns back to JJ, who shrugs at him. "I need to return his gun."

"Why do you have Reid's gun?" Hotch questions. Given his monotonous voice, the team can't tell if he's just being curious or preparing to scold Morgan and Reid. Not being one to lie to a superior, Morgan answers as best he can.

"We went to the bar last night. I dared him to go up to some girl and he left me his gun. Said something about not needing one to impress the ladies. And then...well...let's just say whatever happened after that was replaced with this massive headache."

"Reid? Going up to a girl? In a bar? Derek Morgan, you are magic." Even Hotch and Rossi can't help but smirk at JJ's words, which prompts the entire team to snicker a bit.

"He may have had a few drinks," Morgan admits.

"A few?" Prentiss presses, almost sarcastically.

"Okay, he had two shots of tequila. C'mon. The kid weighs 120 sopping wet. He's a lightweight."

Hotch mumbles something into the communication device strapped to his wrist, cutting the conversation short. "Jet's ready," he announces to the group. "Morgan, I'll get your bag. Go back up and get Reid."

"Why do I have to - " Morgan starts. He isn't particularly fond of elevators, nor does he want to climb 19 flights of stairs with a fresh hangover.

"Because you're the one that got him drunk. Now go." Morgan sighs as Hotch picks his bag off the floor. The rest of the team silently mocks him as they head towards the revolving door of the hotel lobby. He rolls his eyes in their general direction, and heads back up the stairs.

"Reid? Reid?" Morgan pounds on his colleague's door, who happened to get the room right next to his own. When knocking and yelling doesn't work, he reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone, only to find a black screen. "Dammit."

Pulling out the card to his own room, Morgan unlocks it and steps inside. The two rooms aren't adjoined, but they are arranged the same, meaning the top of Reid's bed should be positioned just on the other side of the wall. Morgan taps it lightly, so as not to knock an expensive-looking painting of rolling green hills dotted with horses off the wall. "Reid?" He tries again. No response.

"C'mon, kid. We gotta go." Morgan's tone of voice shifts slightly, just enough to hint at his growing concern. In all of the years they'd worked together in the BAU, Spencer had never been late - not to a roundtable meeting, a case briefing, and especially not to a plane ride. He takes a steady breath, reminding himself that Reid is probably just suffering the wrath of his first alcoholic beverage. As he closes his eyes and slows his breath, he hears something.

Morgan leans in closer to the wall, flattening his ear against the cool drywall. Now holding his breath completely, he concentrates on the room just a few inches away. There is a steady beeping - an alarm clock.

Being in the FBI, especially in a special unit of the FBI, Morgan spends a lot of time with his fellow agents. They work late hours at the office, travel all over the country, and sometimes even share hotel rooms when it comes down to it. They work together, eat together, and sleep together. Morgan recalls the times that Reid dozed off on the jet or in the SUV, and how easily it had been to wake him. There's no way he could sleep through the sound of a persistent alarm.

As the panic rises further into his chest, Morgan does what he's been trained to do in situations such as this one. Any normal person would go down to the front desk and ask for a key, but no normal person gets inside the head of serial killers for a living. Morgan steps back into the hallway and draws his gun, steadily aiming it at the door in front of him. With a dead phone, he is unable to call for backup. His only option is to go in alone.

Morgan backs up a few steps and lunges his leg into the door as hard as he can. Only someone who does this on a regular basis would have the skill and psychical power to kick open a 3-inch thick metal door. Derek Morgan makes it look easy.

He keeps his gun aimed in front of him, sweeping the room quickly and checking the bathroom as well. When he is clear of danger, the real fear starts to set in. The room is practically untouched, with a neatly made bed and no signs of any occupants other than the alarm buzzing and Reid's go-bag perched in a chair near the balcony door. Morgan makes his way to it, almost feeling bad for snooping in his teammate's things.

He unzips the bag slowly and rummages through its contents. There is a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a stick of deodorant, but no indication as to where Reid might have gone. His credentials and cell phone are nowhere to be found, and there are no notes scrawled in his skinny, slanted handwriting.

"Something isn't right here," Morgan says to himself. "Reid doesn't just get up and leave. Not like this."

The sound of metal against wood startles Morgan, and he instinctively raises his gun again. The door handle rattles violently, there is the sound of heavy footsteps, and then a crash. Morgan puts his finger on the trigger and waits.