They are in a windowless room in LAPD's headquarters. There have been previous occasions when they've found themselves like this, preparing for an operation, going over what they know, working the last kinks of a battle that, although important, is still far from the last they'll face before stopping this particular UNSUB.

They have been in this situation before, yes. This time, nonetheless, Morgan is feeling definitely uneasy.

"I don't like this," he says for what feels like the hundredth time. "Involving a civilian is not only unadvisable, it is -"

"None of us can do this," Prentiss interrupts, her eyes clearly conveying an unvoiced message: you don't call your boss stupid. "We don't have the skills, the LEOs don't have the skills; Mister Gray is our best choice."

Morgan glowers but keeps his mouth closed. He knows the young man is their best choice; that doesn't change what he feels about the whole mess.

"The good thing, my Chocolate Thunder, is that the bad guys will have to buy it," Garcia says from the monitor's screen. "I mean, who would believe that the one and only Matt Gray is the good guys' mole?"

And that's the thing. Even Morgan, who doesn't pay attention to male supermodels, knows who Matt Gray is. He has never understood the appeal, the kid is as thin as a twig and looks kind of sickly, in his opinion; but he's been a familiar face in every major city's billboards for the last three years, and there's that Super Bowl commercial too.

So yes, nobody denies the man is involved in LA's modeling scene. Nobody denies he'll be able to blend in today's reunion better than any undercover agent.

That doesn't mean he'll be able to save his own skin if things go down south.

"What I want to know is how Hotch met him," Prentiss says, her eyes fixed in the room's farthest corner, where their team leader is helping Gray test the subdural mic.

They are not supposed to profile each other, but Morgan knows that all of them have noticed the trust there's between those two. They are familiar with each other, something beyond passing acquaintances.

"Friend of a friend, he says." It is obvious that Rossi doesn't buy that explanation, either. Nonetheless, if there's one of them willing to trust Hotch in this that's Rossi, if only because he's known their leader the longest; so it doesn't surprise Morgan when the older agent squares his shoulders and looks at him fixedly.

We are going to do this, his gaze says, and it is going to work.

So Morgan takes a deep breath and wills himself to the right mindset. Yes, it is going to work. They are going to make it work.

They are the windowless back of a surveillance van, Hotch and he, along with a technician and the lead detective. The night is just starting, the really important part of the night, that is, and things are already going downhill.

"Shit shit shit," Morgan mutters under his breath, the boss' orders still echoing in his mind. They are not supposed to search Gray, that's why it was deemed safe to bug him in the first place.

"Hey kid," a male voice Morgan doesn't recognize says, "Didn't expect to see you here."

Hotch frowns at the detective, silently questioning, but the woman doesn't answer immediately, her focus entirely on the voices.

"Don't know why," Gray sounds normal, almost disinterested. "Vices aren't mutually exclusive."

"Ain't that right?"

"I know that man," the technician says, almost making Morgan miss the boss' next words.

"You know him?"

Shit shit shit.

"He's just another bored kid, rich enough to pay for any fun he feels like having, important enough to know he has too much to lose if he opens that pretty mouth of his."

"Yeah, no way to mistake him; that's Davon Strada, a local drug dealer."

Fuck no. Morgan glares at Hotch, who glares back and shakes his head, his message clear. They are in the middle of a difficult operation, looking for an UNSUB who's also part of the illegal trade scene.

Complains can wait.

"It seems we can go without the searching then, Mister Gray," the boss, Don Chenard, says, and suddenly the atmosphere inside the van gets a lot less oppressive.

If Morgan were a believer, he would thank god for little favors.

They are in a hotel room, one with two ceiling-to-floor windows. The curtains are closed, though, so Morgan can describe his location as windowless without it being a blatant lie.

After the scare at the beginning, things progressed as scripted. Gray and Chenard socially chatted for ten minutes, discussed business for fifteen minutes, then shook hands and went their ways with promises of future calls.

As said, everything as scripted.

What interests to Morgan is the other man, though, this Strada. The info Garcia has found about him is chilling. Chenard's company might be devoted to illegal trade, but the worst they've done as far Morgan can tell is cheat some import and export tariffs to the government.

Strada, on the other hand, has a few deaths under his name.

"What the hell was that?" he blurts as soon as Gray enters the room. To his surprise, the young man basically ignores him, simply raising his hand to signal for silence while motioning for Hotch to give him his cell phone.

Which Hotch does, despite Morgan's indignation.

"With Michael Han, please," Gray says. "Agent Aaron Hotchner from the FBI."

That's more than Morgan can accept. He turns to his team leader, asks "What the hell is going on?"

Hotch simply shakes his head.

"No, it's me," Gray says, pushing the speaker button. "I'm with Agents Hotchner and Morgan from the FBI. Agents, this is Agent Han from the FDA. Michael, they are investigating a case with a serial killer."

"Serial - Is this somewhat related to our case?"

Our case? Morgan mouths. To his surprise, Hotch rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Only indirectly. I saw Strada tonight, at the headquarters of a local trading company - an illegal one, of course."

"Of course," the voice over the phone says tiredly. "Please tell me they are not involved in human trafficking too."

Human trafficking?

"Agent Han, this is Agent Hotchner," Hotch introduces himself, his voice equally tired. "As for your question, no, we haven't identified anything signaling human trafficking. Of course, we didn't know there was a drug deal in the works either, so …"

"Yeah, well, Agent Hotchner, I can't say I'm glad to meet you." Han snorts and so does Hotch. Morgan doesn't join, busy as he is by the expedient fact of being utterly lost. "So, Gray? Trafficking?"

"Not of the human sort. As far as we know, that is. There's always a chance of someone running a secondary business, but none of the major players should be involved."

"Well, let's hope it stays that way. How do you want to proceed?"

"What about the two of you sharing information? The FBI isn't really interested in Chenard, the leader of the trafficking ring, but in one of their employees."

"Could it be Strada? Not that I'd think of him as anybody's employee."

The look in Gray's face is priceless, and for some reason it makes Morgan smile.

"Hey, Baby Girl," he says on his phone. "I need you to dig in Strada's background rather than on his file. Check if there's something that fits the profile."

"Prentiss could have done this," Morgan grumbles, his eyes fixed on the passing street signs.

The bastard simply shrugs and grins from the passenger seat.

"Yes she could, except I like my girls younger and my men older." He puts up a hand. "Not my own preference, but Gray's."

Morgan frowns, although he really can't be angry for long while driving a Ferrari.

"Rossi-"

"Not that old," the man interrupts with a sputter. "And this is LA, you know. He's a famous writer, somebody is bound to recognize him. Same with Hotchner, due to the press conference."

Morgan wants to ask the nature of this stranger's relationship with Hotch but doesn't, because all they say and hear is being recorded.

"So what's your real name?" he asks instead, his tone deceptively nonchalant. He still can't get that the kid is not only CIA but also an undercover agent. He looks nothing like what he'd expect, but well, that's the point, isn't it?

The smirk he gets in his peripheral vision is too smug for him to accept lightly.

"Seeing as I'm the rich and famous one and you'll be my trophy boy for the night, I guess some respect is in order. Call me Mister Gray. "

Morgan's knuckles go white, so hard he grips the steering wheel.

Playing gay doesn't bother Morgan, and neither does the fact everybody around them thinks the kid is his sugar daddy.

Now, the dancing …

Okay, he admits it, the guy is gorgeous, and Morgan might have left his mind wander to NSFW territory while they dance. They have to look convincing, and dancing is something that comes easily for him. The younger agent, on the other hand, is something of a contradiction. He moves fluidly, but only if his eyes are closed or he's focused elsewhere but Morgan. Whenever their eyes meet, and it has happened only a couple times in the last two hours, there's something like embarrassment lurking deep inside.

"I need …" the kid trails off, not that Morgan really hears him, thanks to the music. Still, they've talked about the night plan, and so he allows to be pulled across the dancing floor and up the stairs hiding in the back.

Strada himself opens the door, allowing them to see an exclusive room in an already exclusive club. Morgan thinks he recognizes at least two actresses and a socialite, and that even if he's never paid much attention to gossip magazines.

"Hey there," the dealer says, looking genuinely surprised even if they know he's been aware of Gray's presence on his club right from the beginning. "You finally decided to accept my offer."

This is the part that Morgan is more uncomfortable with. There are two guards by the door, three by the main entrance and at least seven more scattered in the building, all of them armed and big enough to make him feel small in comparison. Why would a man with so much power at his disposal choose to kill pretty young men with his bare hands is something they still can't explain fully, but it hits the UNSUB's profile perfectly.

It also means he's going to be the closest to backup the undercover agent is going to have, the rest of the team and LA's officers standing two doors too far away.

He tries to blend in, but given that most of the present are either getting stoned or making out so heavily that it should technically be called fucking, it is kind of difficult. It also is incredibly distracting, which he only realizes after tearing his attention from three sparsely clad girls licking each other and doing some obscenely lewd noises- he realizes Gray's unfocused gaze and slightly clumsy movements. There's a half empty glass by his side, and his lanky frame is so languidly relaxed that it can't be natural.

He also doesn't complain when Strada starts biting his jaw and neck, and simply allows for the man to arrange him like putty on the couch.

They still have no proof that Strada is their man, but still Morgan uses the code. "We should go home," he says in the mic, and means every word.

"It's only a mild sedative," the kid says, clutching a half empty cup of coffee. "It explains why no traces were found in the victims, if it flushes this rapidly from their bodies."

"You knew he had spiked your drink and yet you drank it," Morgan growls. He really doesn't understand.

"It is Friday. The UNSUB is obsessive and he always kills on Fridays. We'll be able to keep him longer under charges of drugging and assaulting a Federal agent, than on attempt to drug and assault same Federal agent."

Morgan glares. "It doesn't change the fact it was a terrible idea, pretty boy." The other agent shrugs, and his attention return to what's happening at the other side of the observation window.

They are finally in the plane, flying back home, when Hotch explains.

"What I don't get is why Jason went through the trouble of training him, and then didn't fight for him with the higher ups," Rossi says after a moment. It is a valid question, even if it hadn't occurred to Morgan himself.

"He was already working for the CIA, and they were more receptive to an underage trainee." It is clear in Hotch's tone that he doesn't approve. Having finally met the kid's real persona as they decompressed after the case, Morgan can see why.

"It is a shame," Prentiss adds. "Garcia has been digging out some of the cases the guy consulted on, and he's a really good profiler."

Morgan says nothing. He agrees with Prentiss, but after reading a few of the not-serial-killer cases the kid has been involved in, he can see why being a CIA agent and consulting for other Agencies uses best the young man's many talents.

What he regrets more, though, is that he never got to learn his real name.

It comes as a news alert on his inbox, male supermodel killed in car accident. For a moment he can't breathe, he can't understand more than a few chosen words from the article.

"Can I have your attention, please?" Hotch announces, and it is so unusual that it brings Morgan out of his daze. He makes himself look up at his team leader's direction, and-

The kid is standing right there, by Hotch side.

Sure, his hair is shorter, and he's wearing dark rimmed glasses and not-so-greatly coordinated clothes that include a long sleeved dress shirt, courdoys, tie, a cardigan and Converse tennis shoes. Still, there's no confusing him.

"Everybody, this is Agent Spencer Reid. He'll be working with us from now on."

Morgan can't help himself, he grins. The kid, Spencer, grins back, and this time Morgan knows he's heard the young man's real name. It fits him.