Summary: Morgan holds up one of the beers, and Reid's eyes widen in an apparent combination of shock and wonder.
Author's Notes: Written third. By this time I thought I'd started to get a hang of this whole "only one page" thing, but this was more like a page and a half. I always enjoy writing drunk people—I don't personally hang out with them very often, but when I do… I really cherish it. And I hope you can see that here.
The tall glasses of beer feel like a good night in each hand. Morgan sips the froth as he ducks between groups and couples dancing in the crowded bar, dodging between a barstool and a woman who looks oddly like Garth Brooks in the dim light. He finds four of six fellow agents squashed into one booth. The ladies seem to be having a heated debate over the best 90's sitcom while Hotch looks on, at least four drinks in and flicking peanut shells at Prentiss whenever she starts to defend "Salute Your Shorts". Morgan had caught a glimpse of Rossi earlier that night, when the latter disappeared from a bar with a woman on each arm. The only one not accounted for at this point is—
"Hey, where's Reid?"
The other four all look up at his question, as if surprised to see him standing there with two glasses of booze dripping condensation between his fingers. JJ just grins at him, Prentiss asks "Who?" in a dumbfounded tone, Garcia looks from Derek to the drinks and shakes her head, muttering "Not fruity enough" and sipping her strawberry daiquiri. Hotch bounces a peanut shell off of Derek's furrowed brow with one well-aimed flick.
And then Reid, as if on cue, pops up from the next booth over with a half-empty pint in his hand.
"Derek!" he exclaims, excited. He points down into the seat, at the couple that he has apparently joined during Derek's absence. "I made some friends!"
A grin breaking over his face at the sight of Reid with New Years confetti still peppered in his hair from over an hour ago, Derek replies, "Yeah, I'm sure you did. Get out here before they kick you out here. I got you something."
He holds up one of the beers, and Reid's eyes widen in an apparent combination of shock and wonder.
"Ooh, is that for me? Lemme just—lemme finish this one first, Derek. One second…"
Morgan has to set both glasses down on the table to help Reid climb over the woman whose booth he had apparently invaded, and even with the help of two free hands they both almost wind up on the floor. If someone had told him a year ago that Reid is a hilarious, sloppy drunk, he would have laughed. Even if they're just sitting around at home together, flipping between Fox and MSNBC so that Reid can analyze the different "broadcast linguistic methods", Morgan can't usually get anything stronger than a glass of wine into Reid's hands. But not tonight. Reid, having finished off his own drink, snatches up one of the new beers and tips his head back to drink it down. He has to lean against Morgan's side to keep from toppling over. Morgan is only too happy to fulfill the role of support post.
"See that guy?" Reid begins, pointing at the man from the other booth while shoving his face so close to Morgan's that he gets a fresh wave of alcohol-breath every time Boy Genius opens his mouth. "He was wrong."
"Yeah, he—I told him, I was tellin' him, they never actually say 'beam me up, Scotty' in the original series. Not in the whole thing. Can you believe that, Derek?"
Unmoved, Morgan responds, "Really, Reid? I had no idea."
"Yeah. It's a common misseption," Reid answers matter-of-factly. He takes another sip of beer. Then he gasps. "Oh my God. Derek—where's my gun?"
"You left it at home. Last time you tried to shoot the pigeons outside."
Reid gives a snort of laughter, voice stifled with the brim of the glass up around his nose. "Hah, I remember that. You wanna dance?"
As a matter of fact he would, but the only thing more dangerous that a drunken Reid with a gun is a drunken Reid on the dance floor. The last thing they need is for him to wreck his bad knee while trying to bust a Gunther move. Knowing him, he'd try to pop it back into place and then spend the next six months in that leg contraption he wore after getting shot (Morgan can hear it now. "I'm a doctor, don't worry guys! I have the necessary 'quirements. "). When he explains as much to Reid, though, the alleged doctor just shakes his head and mutters "Thanks, mom" between gulps of beer.
Hotch slurs something about "shooting pigeons" and "more paperwork" into his pint. Reid squirms and makes a grab for the drinks that sit between Prentiss and JJ, but Morgan holds him fast. He ruffles Reid's hair and more confetti falls onto their adjacent shoulders. Reid is smiling at him in that way he seems to save only for him—that big, doofy grin that lets Morgan know that everything is right in the world. Given that they spend their not-so-free time trying to piece together the lives of serial killers, that little gesture means… well, just about everything.
"S'pretty good tonight, huh Derek?" says Reid with that look, that subconscious look.
Morgan laughs a little more, drinks a little more, pulls Reid in just a little bit closer.
"Yeah, Kid. You know it."