Unfortunately for him, Spencer Reid had no chance to find his wife due to the team being called out on a case. Thoughts of her plagued his mind at night while he was trying to sleep, during downtime when they could do nothing but wait, especially whenever he saw a particularly attractive woman (he hoped that even drunk, he had standards enough not to marry the first woman he saw). Morgan always wanted to say something when Reid's eyes took on that faraway, glazed look; he knew exactly what his friend was thinking. The young doctor couldn't get the woman off his mind, even though all he knew of her was her name . Atrin L. Borta.

Back at his lonely apartment - when did it ever feel so desolate? - he would stare at the name in the file Garcia had compiled, wishing he could remember the colour of her hair, if her eyes sparkled when she would look at him, the scent of her skin. Anything to make her seem more human than the eleven letters beside his own moniker. His eidetic memory did nothing to serve him, and his hopes were consistently dashed with each day and night that passed. He would finally crawl beneath the dark blue duvet on his bed after hours of poring over the name, racking his brain for any sign that he had met and married a real person. Every morning, he awakened to an empty room, empty arms, and the same plain empty air around him. The crème walls, once so familiar, had become dull and routine; and that's exactly what his life was becoming - a habitual pattern of activities. He was beginning to feel like he was a prisoner of himself. Of his own existence. Only one way would it cease.

::::

"Reid? Is something wrong?"

Spencer paced his living room, wearing a circle around his glass-top coffee table. "No. But, um, Garcie, we need to talk. Can you, um…can you come over?"

Without question, the Technical Analyst appeared outside his door within the half-hour. On her face was a worried expression she tried not to let show, and in her arms was, unsurprisingly, her 'baby.' She hardly ever went anywhere without that small laptop. She perched awkwardly on the black leather couch and gazed around the small apartment. Her brightly-coloured clothes appeared so out of place in the neutrals of the furniture and walls. Oh, frack, she thought to herself as she felt her IQ drop once she caught sight of the bookshelves lining the wall furthest from her. Knowing Reid, the books were non-fiction - and most likely not in English.

"What's up, my sweet Genius?"

"Do you remember when - Actually, I should start of asking you to please keep this a secret, even under extreme duress and harsh interrogation?" Once she nodded her assent, he continued, "Do you remember when Morgan asked you to pull marriage licenses in Las Vegas for the seventeenth of last month?"

"Yep, sure do. It took me three days to get all of them gathered up. Yeesh, that city needs to clean up their records methods. I'm sorry; go on."

"Well…he asked as an unknowing favour for me."

::::

By the time he had told her everything, Penelope Garcia looked as if she was channelling a Venus fly trap with the way her jaw hung to the floor. The clock above the desk in the corner read quarter of eleven, but all exhaustion was gone from her body. She was in utter shock. Since when had the resident youngster had such a rebellious, wild streak in him? It was so not…Reid to do something so rash. She cleared her throat, leaned forward, and coughed slightly once more.

"So…let me get this straight. You did something so not you, a.k.a., drinking until you blacked out, got married, and now want me to find your wife?"

"Please? I just…it's basically killing me to not know on whose hand I slipped a wedding band. Marriage isn't something I ever thought about taking lightly, and I'm not about to start now all because it was a drunken wedding."

"Alright. On one condition: when I find her for you, and I will find her, I have to meet the new Mrs. Reid first. Got it?"

"Anything. Thank you so much."

And for the first time in what felt like years, he slept peacefully that night.

!:!:!:!:!

Atrin stared down at the photo paper-clipped to the inside cover of the folder and grimaced. That was the man with whom she'd exchanged vows? No offence to the guy, but he didn't exactly look her age - or her type, for that matter. When she began reading the typed information, it was all she could do to stifle her gasp. She had married an FBI agent! She hardly protested when Mistie pulled the file away and allowed herself the privilege of absorbing the man's life details.

"Well, at least we have an address, Ay."

"I don't care! God! What the Hell was I thinking, marrying that…that…him?"

Mistie rolled her eyes. "There's nothing wrong with him. Quit being superficial. I'm sure there was something about him that made you feel marrying him was a brilliant idea."

"There wasn't anything about him. It was the alcohol!"

With that, her best friend rose to her feet and started singing "Blame It" by Jamie Foxx as she walked away toward the bathroom. Atrin could hear the song even while the shower ran, while Mistie blow-dried her hair, while she put on makeup, and even when she headed out the door. She knew then, that this was something Mistie would never let her live down. She reread the address before shoving the file into the trash bin under the counter. Maybe if she didn't think about it, then it would all just go away.

Little did she know, but Atrin Leanne Borta was far from relieving herself of the memories.