Notes: I was poking through my stuff, reread the summary for Pantsed, and thought to myself, 'Self, that's a summary that could have been taken in a completely different direction.' So...yeah. Yay for obligatory hetero freakout stories? Also, how does ffnet not have hetero freakout as it's own genre? Seriously, they need to get on that.

Derek wakes slowly, his head feeling like it's about to explode, and groans as he tries to pull the covers up over his face to block out the light. He tries, but he doesn't succeed, because there's something heavy and warm weighing his arm down. He stills, realizing for the first time that wherever he is doesn't smell like home. When he cracks open his eyes, manfully holding back a grimace, it doesn't look like home either. He frowns, blinking some of the spots from in front of his eyes, and squints down at the lump draped over him. Mostly he can just see the top of a head, resting on his sternum, crowned with light brown, wavy hair that's tickling his chin.

When he inhales, he can smell the smoke and sweat from the club, but underneath it, there's something familiar and comforting. It's relaxing, which makes Derek notice just how tense he had been. As the tension eases out of his body, his bedmate shifts and...Oh, God, is that stubble that just rubbed against his chest?

All his original tension is back and it brought friends. Derek wriggles to the side, trying to get out from under the guy on top of him without actually having to touch him. His movement disturbs the other man, who taps his fingers clumsily against Derek's chest and mumbles sleepily, "Go back t' sleep. 'S too early t' mmmnn..."

The sentence trails off into incoherency, but Derek's gone still. He knows those fingers. He knows that voice.

Oh, fuck.

Wait! Wait, does he still have clothes on?

Fuck.

He fucked Reid.

And that's when Derek falls off of the bed and onto the floor, the first fractured memories of last night flashing in front of his eyes.

bass pulsing, walking sex in fuck me heels rubbing against him, Reid sitting at a table with Garcia while silently watching him and mouth fucking the straw in his drink

Derek presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and groans. When he looks up, a bleary eyed Reid is peeking over the edge of the bed, looking more concerned and less surprised than Derek would have thought.

"Morgan? You alright?" Derek gapes at Reid, his mouth working, but no noise coming out. Reid just looks back, his expression getting more uncertain the longer the silence stretches. "Morgan? Derek?"

Derek swallows dryly, tastes bile in the back of his throat, and unsteadily stumbles to his feet, snatching a folded blanket from the floor near the end of the-very rumpled-bed to wrap around his waist. He sways on his feet, the flecks of white swimming in front of his eyes again. Reid's still staring at him, barely covered by the comforter, and Derek shakes his head, not sure if he's answering the question or trying to get the visual to go away. All it really does is make him gag a little. "I don't know what happened last night, kid, but I'm about to throw up, and I'd rather not make things more awkward by doing it on your bed."

Derek winces at his choice of words, but Reid doesn't seem to notice. Now he's the one giving Derek a poleaxed look. After a stunned second, he silently points in the direction of a door just visible through the open bedroom door. Derek nods in thanks and escapes into the small, tiled room to empty his stomach of whatever is still left in it.

stumbling into the club bathroom, Reid at the sink, too tall to comfortably rest his head on his shoulder, but easy enough to slip his arms around his trim waist and nose apart his hair to get at the back of his neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his hands sliding toward Reid's waistband

After he's done throwing up, Derek rinses out his mouth and leans his forehead against the mirror. This is really, really, really not good. He can't even begin to think about how this is going to change things. It's going to be bad and uncomfortable and people are going to notice, because 'no profiling each other' aside, he works with a group of people who are paid to notice things that you'd rather keep secret. The bathroom is small and cluttered and mildewy, but Derek's more than a little tempted to lock the door and have all his mail forwarded to it for the foreseeable future. But that's hardly an option, so instead he hesitantly eases back into the hallway, nearly tripping over his own wadded up t-shirt.

Reid pressed hard between the wall and his body, long fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, teasing the skin underneath, frantic, wet ohgodmoremoremore kisses, Reid's mouth tasting sweet and tangy and intoxicating

He tugs it on as he makes his way back to the bedroom. Reid's out of bed, but he's still only covered by the comforter, held loosely around his waist, his eyes wide and confused behind his coke bottle glasses. "Morgan?"

Derek blinks, because he's tired and hungover and he's fairly certain that he shouldn't be as distracted as he is by Reid standing awkwardly by an invitingly empty bed, naked under a blanket that's already showing way too much of his slim, pale, marked body, biting his lips

swollen and red and stretched around his-

together. Derek blinks again. There is no way he is going to finish that thought. He looks around the room, feeling foolish and exposed in just his t-shirt and a blanket. "I need my clothes," he says, not quite able to keep the helpless tone out of his voice.

Reid watches him a moment longer, almost as if he's waiting for something, then his expression closes off and he moves past Derek to get to the hallway, his bare arm just barely brushing Derek's. Derek squeezes his eyes closed, trying to ignore the feel of skin on skin.

a too soft mattress against his back, Reid-head falling back and back arched and moanscrieswantyouneedyougodyeslikethat slipping easily from between slack lips-moving above him, tight and hot and heavy, he's sinking and falling and flying, his fingers tangled in Reid's hair, pulling the genius-he really is amazing at everything-down for a kiss that does nothing to stop the noise, only muffle it a little

His boxers are in the hallway, further from the bedroom than his shirt had been, and he pulls them on as he walks, dropping the blanket on the back of an oversized armchair. The living room is completely torn apart. Couch cushions and books and magazines are everywhere and a lamp has been tipped over.

tripping over a cord, landing with a thump, Reid warm and laughing underneath him, pulling him closer

Reid's in the corner of the room, looking around but not making any move to help. The comforter is slowly creeping up to cover more of his body, which is making Derek feel all sorts of conflicting things that he'd rather not examine too closely. He toes at the mess and wonders where the best place to start looking would be. He also wonders whether Reid expects him to stick around long enough to help clean up. He might if the kid asks, but he really hopes that he won't.

"Morgan?"

Derek bites back a groan and runs a hand over his head. "Not really in the mood to talk, kid."

"But, about last night, I think you should know-"

"Look, I just want to find my fucking pants so I can fucking leave!" Derek snaps. He's too busy scanning the room to notice Reid's flinch, but he looks up when the younger man turns and disappears behind a corner into the entranceway. "Kid?"

Reid's walking back his way within seconds, his comforter adjusted so that it's over one shoulder and under the other, most of his body modestly enswathed from the neck down, and in his free hand are Derek's pants. "If you mean these, they didn't make it as far as the living room."

Derek can't read Reid's voice or expression, which might bother him if he wasn't so incredibly happy to have his pants back. He takes them, barely noticing the way that Reid holds them out-only the tips of his thumb and index finger touching the fabric, arm extended all the way to keep distance at a maximum.

"Now you can fucking leave." Reid's voice sounds distant and clinical, which Derek knows means he's at least a little stung and trying to cover it up. Derek suddenly feels like a complete ass. If he's freaking out like this, what must the kid be feeling?

"Look, kid," he begins, trailing off when he realizes that he doesn't really know what to say. What does someone say when they've just woken up after having gay sex with one of their best friends/coworkers, especially when said someone is straight and has always operated under the impression that said friend/coworker is as well? Derek clears his throat and decides to wing it. "Last night was...well, we were drunk. Really, really drunk. It was an accident and, if I remember correctly, mostly my fault. I'm sorry. You have no idea how much. It was an accident, right? So it didn't mean anything. And since it didn't mean anything, there's no reason why we can't just keep things the way they always have been and pretend it never happened, right?"

Huh. Apparently you say almost the exact same thing to a friend/coworker as you would to a random one night stand. Reid's still just looking at him-The kid's starting to turn green and were his eyes that red before? Huh, his hangover must finally be catching up with him-but at least he doesn't look like he's about to have a meltdown or freak out, so Derek counts the talk as a success.

Spencer stands and stares at his closed front door for a long time after Morgan leaves. His head is pounding, but more from the sharp tightness of suppressed tears behind his eyes and his rapidly whirling thoughts than anything else. Morgan hadn't called him pretty boy or Reid or Spencer or anything but kid since they'd woken up. He had said that they could forget it, could just pretend like it had never happened. That it didn't mean anything because they'd both been drunk.

Only...

Only Spencer hadn't had anything other than ginger ale and water the night before.

All the mistakes I've ever made in my life have been when I've been drunk. I haven't made hardly any mistakes sober, ever, ever. ~ Tracey Emin

This fic proves that I can't write anything but present tense when I write for Criminal Minds. I tried writing this about five different ways in past tense and it fought me all the way. Present tense? Relative piece of cake.

Self-betaed, as always, and it's late, not as always, so if there are any glaring errors, please point them out.

I'm gonna go ahead and apologize for the number of times I said fuck in this fic. I went back through after I wrote it and saw them all and had a 'boy, wouldn't my mother be proud' moment. :/ I'm normally not big on profanity when other words will work, but in this case, I don't know, it just seems like something that would be running through Derek's mind a lot.

Disclaimer: Not mine!

ETA: Over on LJ, there was a little concern about exactly how drunk Derek was and whether he was capable of giving consent. I'm aware that there's a lot of potential for gray areas here, but I just want to clarify that, while drunk, he was still lucid and sober enough to say no and stop what was happening if he'd wanted to, which will be reflected in the follow up. If I write one. I'm still torn on that.