"What's on your mind?"

Reid broke out of his reverie to find Ethan staring at him over the rim of his glass. Although he seemed patiently and politely inquisitive there was no mistaking the mischievous hunger that lay beneath the mask. Reid smiled. He knew Ethan too well. There was no use in him trying to hide the fact that he probably already knew what was on Spencer's mind.

"What commands the attention of a genius?"

"A case," Reid said, his tone signifying that he was unsure if he wanted to divulge. Ethan hmmed pensively. He got the message.

"Really? Here I was thinking that it was the drink in your hand that had you all starry-eyed."

"I barely took a sip,"

"Exactly. You've been staring at it for the past five minutes," Ethan paused and listened. Anthony Patterson was on the piano that night. Ethan did not trouble to hide the fact that he thought that the man played 'like an overenthusiastic piano student who only pounds out the notes because the silvers on his fingers are so damn heavy.' He took a sip but could barely savor the taste because the music that floated through his ears was such an unappetizing turn off. He stood up. "You know, I bet you didn't even here a word of what I was sayin'. Let me get you something different. Maybe that will put you in the mood." Ethan picked up his drink and walked away before Reid could protest. He came back ten minutes later with a noticeably angrier look on his face and a different glass in his hand.

"You okay, man?" Reid asked, accepting the drink that was handed to him.

"Not for long. There's only so much desecration that a beautiful work of art can take. Here's an Irish Whiskey with a hint of ginger ale, or vice versa, whichever fuels your fancy." Ethan cursed and promptly excused himself. Reid watched in surprise as he approached the piano man. The man's face fell with every word until, with a final gesture of disgust, he got up and stalked away. Ethan took his place and immediately began to play the same song, his pale hands dancing nimbly over the ivory keys. There was a temporary lull in the bar as people hushed their voices long enough to register this new kind of music. Most recognized it as a quintessential rendition of Phineas Newborn Jr and Roy Hayne's After Hours. Others merely recognized it as a very pretty song. Good old Ethan, Reid thought as he watched his friend dip lower and lower beneath the rim of the piano with eyes shut tight against the silent distractions of the bar. He crossed his legs and swirled the drink in his hand. It flashed a dizzying array of amber, red, and yellow shades as it reflected the spinning world around it. Reid stared into the glass, halfway hoping to find a single answer to all of his questions somewhere in the deceptively simple mixture of the piano's sound and the whirling colors…

"Take it easy, kid. You might just get drunk off of staring into that for too long," Reid jumped and cursed in frustration as the swirling colors leapt free from the glass and drenched his pants. He heard the man above him laugh and looked up at him in annoyance.

"Whoa, my bad. Try using this," He pulled a white cloth from his pocket and pressed it against his inner thigh, much to Reid's utter horror. But before he could completely comprehend the fact that the man had been bold enough to press his hand there the man had straightened up, the remnants of a suppressed smile still playing around his lips. Reid cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced over at Ethan. Unfortunately, his friend was still bent over the piano. He wouldn't be coming to his aid any time soon. Reid shifted his attention back to the man who was still standing over him and pursed his lips.

"Thanks," he muttered, avoiding eye contact. The man watched him for a while with black eyes that sparkled before he finally drew his gaze away.

"I, uh –" he smiled and gave a small laugh, "I actually came over here with the intent of being helpful. But I can see that I'm off to a bad start." Reid chanced looking up at him again and then quickly looked away. He didn't know why he had trouble meeting the man's gaze. He cleared his throat again but found that his voice just would not work.

"Wh-I don't know what you mean…" he finally managed. The man's smile widened. He pointed a ringed finger at the drink still in his hand.

"Irish whiskey with a hint of ginger ale? No, man, that does nothing for you," he picked up a glass from a passing waitress and handed it to him. "You might want to try this instead." Reid looked at the glass skeptically. He wasn't a big drinker yet the Irish Whiskey didn't sound like the most appetizing drink at the moment. Plus the man had a commanding air about him and although his smile was gentle and nonthreatening Reid felt uncontrollably compelled to taste the drink. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip. He tasted ginger and sugar cane with a finely balanced hint of the customary alcoholic fire that warmed his chest.

"It's good," he said in surprise after a few seconds had passed. "What is it?"

"You can't tell?" Reid stared into the glass. He saw liquid the color of light tea flecked with red dots and blurry clouds sloshing around the glass. His eyebrows came together in concentration and he opened his mouth. He had read seventeen essays that month on the analysis of alcohol and how its varying physical traits could affect one's psyche but he did not remember encountering one that looked like this. He sucked air in through his teeth.

"Is it some kind of rum?" he asked hesitantly. The man laughed and looked around.

"You don't really strike me as a wine aficionado. No, you look more like a student to me-"

"Actually, I graduated from college five years ago at the age of eighteen." The man stared at him in surprise.

"You some kind of genius?"

"I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read 20,000 words per minute while the average adult can only read 250 to 300 words a minute. So what I'm trying to say is…you tell me." The man laughed and Reid stared.

"Okay, so you have an IQ of – what is it, 187? – an eidetic memory, and you can read 20,000 words per minute yet you can't tell the difference between alcohol and very strong tea." Now it was Reid's turn to look surprise.

"But-"

"That burn you feel? Cayenne pepper. The bitterness? Fermentation. It's called Kombucha, ever come across it in those college textbooks of yours?" Suddenly Reid chuckled in embarrassment and the man stared. Reid hadn't realized that Ethan had stopped playing long ago and was giving the two of them a very strange look.

"Yeah, I had it a long time ago but I had completely forgotten about it."

"Riiiiight," There was a pause in which the two men simply stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the next move. Finally, the man raised his hand; his eyes alight with a mysterious mischievousness. "Derek Morgan," he said simply. Reid waved his hand and Morgan raised his eyebrow.

"Sorry, I don't shake,"

"Why not?" Morgan asked, feigning a look of offense, "my hands are clean."

"Actually they're not. Due to the frequency of hand-to-hand or hand-to-object contact most diseases and viruses are spread through that part of the body. You know, it's actually safer to kiss someone than shake their hands."

"...would you rather have me kiss you?"

"Yes – I mean no! Actually, what I'm saying i-" The man leaned down and kissed him softly on the corner of his lips.

"Stick with the tea, pretty boy," he whispered in his ear. He then straightened up, tipped his fedora, turned on his heel, and walked away.

"Looks like the Irish Whiskey was a good choice," Ethan said, coming up behind him and placing his hand on his seat. Reid jumped again but this time he managed to keep his drink in its container.

"I didn't know that you sold Kombucha."

"Most of the patrons here just aren't interested," Ethan paused and looked at him, "who was that man?"

"I was hoping that you'd be able to tell me…" Ethan shook his head.

"I've never seen him before. Listen," Ethan said suddenly, kneeling down next to him, "I know that the hotel is kind of far-"

"Ethan, it's only five minutes away-"

"-if you want to stay at my place…" Reid shook his head. By then he had managed to convince himself that the man simply was not real. He had appeared too suddenly and had disappeared too fast, almost as if he were a ghost or a very realistic illusion. Besides, this ghost-like man in a felt fedora had kissed him and, as his college 'acquaintances' were fond of saying, no living human being would ever kiss Spencer Reid.

Ethan watched him for a moment. It was obvious that the young genius's mind was somewhere else completely. He sighed and stood up. It never ceased to mystify him that Reid was so intelligent and yet so very stupid. I haven't tried Hallelujah in a while, he thought to himself as he made is way over to the piano. He ran his fingers softly over the cold surface, glanced at Reid sitting silently in his chair, and began to play.

Xxxxxx

Reid listened as Ethan began to play again. This time a wayward, haunting melody drifted through the room, sending a slight shiver through those who were more accustomed to the seductive songs that graced the bar. He wondered why Ethan had chosen such a melancholy song before he remembered that, as cool minded as he pretended to be, Ethan was subjected to whims and temptations just like everyone else, maybe even more so. By now the memory of Derek Morgan had all but completely faded from his mind until he reached into his pocket and found a damp cloth crumbled there. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was the cloth that Derek Morgan had given him, unmistakable due to the D.M. monogramed in calligraphy on one of the corners. Ghost didn't hand out tangible cloths.

Reid stuffed it back in his pocket but then promptly pulled it back out when he realized that he had absolutely no use for it. He leaned over to place it in the trash bin near his chair but could not bring himself to throw it away. It hovered a few inches above the silver rim, a bright white flag, before Reid pulled it back and stuffed it in his pocket again. It was still wet and leaked onto his legs but, despite everything, he felt no desire to get rid of it or its alcohol-drenched memories just yet.

Xxxxx

Morgan exited the building, pausing just long enough in the doorway so that the camera could catch his face. Once outside he stood still a moment to breathe in the cool night air before walking towards his car. He was surprisingly calm considering what he was about to do and even began to whistle his favorite song at the time Luck Be a Lady by Frank Sinatra. But his luck hadn't exactly been a lady that night, a fact that he wouldn't fully come to terms with for another few years.

He hopped in his car and revved the engine, relishing its angry purr as it sent vibrations through the soles of his Salvatore shoes and up his legs. He flipped through the stations indecisively but, unable to find anything, jammed the off button and pulled out of the driveway. Luckily for him the road was empty so, when he was sure that he had left the bar a good distance behind, he wrenched his steering wheel around and drove into a neglected grassy plane back the way he came except this time he approached the bar from the back. There he sat in his car, obscured by the shadows, and watched as the occasional waiter or waitress slipped out back to enjoy a cigarette or the lips of one another. Finally, after three hours of sitting still and watching, the number of people leaving the building decreased until only a few drunken patrons remained. They took their last sips and muttered their last curses before being ushered away by the staff who were eager to get home. He knew their shifts and habits very well due, in part, to the breathless murmurings of a disgruntled waitress who, upon his advice, had left the state soon after giving him the information. He knew that in fifteen minutes Patterson, a sallow man who usually lingered about after everyone had gone home, would lock up. And then…

He waited, took a sip of beer from the lukewarm bottle. He'd wait all night if he had to. Ten minutes past, then thirty, then forty-five until, after another hour had passed, he saw what he had been waiting for. A heavy man clad in an expensive Armani suit much like the one that Morgan was wearing walked into the back patio, followed by three men carrying suitcases. The heavy man seemed confident, almost obnoxiously so, and Morgan gathered that he was of the type that preferred to enjoy the spoils of his work as opposed to dealing with the necessities. The other men he knew by name and name only, which was how he liked it. He watched them enter the backdoor, casting furtive glances around them as they did. Funny that men so cocky should be afraid of the dark, he thought as he took another sip, It's not like there's a Derek Morgan hiding in it or anything. He smiled at his own joke. A yellow light turned on in the top room and Morgan watched as the three shadows passed before it – back and forth, back and forth like they were pacing. One man held something up (a stolen antique necklace, Morgan guessed) and the heavy man joined him in the window. He held the necklace to his face, shook his head, and dropped it on the ground. This went on for about an hour, keeping Morgan very entertained, before there was a sound of glass breaking and a man's cursing. The three men burst through the door with murderous looks on their faces as the heavy man followed close in their wake.

"I would have expected more from you," he yelled after them. His face was red, "I have never known Alan to reference such idiots until now."

"Watch it, cowboy," one of the men said slowly, turning to face the man, "there are 700 of us and only one of you. Which would you prefer: a large selection of men working with you or a large selection of weapons pointed at your ugly face? You've already pissed off twelve of us." That shut the man up. The man who had spoken made a gun with his thumb and forefinger and shot it at the man's face. The heavy man flinched and watched in embarrassment as the men began to laugh.

"See ya, cowboy." They walked away and melted into the darkness beyond the bar. For the longest time the man just stood still and watched them go. Finally he turned away and walked back into the club, slamming the door behind him. Morgan waited ten minutes before picking up his disposable cell phone and dialing his number.

"Who is this?"

"Terry Moore," he said into the phone with a small smile. He remembered Terry Moore. He remembered him very well. "I'm in the back."

"You brought the stuff?"

"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't."

"Right," there was no mistaking the self-satisfaction in the man's voice. Did he honestly think that he was responsible for Morgan's supposed success? "I'll be down, give me a second."
A few seconds later found the heavy man in the back patio again, a wide grin on his face. He shook Morgan's hand, a bit overenthusiastically.

"Eric," he said.

"Wow," he said, taking a step back, "I didn't expect you to be…you sounded so – you know – on the phone."

"I sounded so what on the phone?"

"White," the man whispered as if it were obvious. Morgan raised an eyebrow. "So where's the stuff?"

"In the museum where it can be kept safe from men like you," Eric stared at him in shock.

"It…it's not here?"

"Nope,"

"You didn't steal it?"

"Nope," Morgan looked up at the camera angled towards his face. The lens was pitch black as if some of the night had been siphoned into the tiny camera. He liked cameras.

"Then…then why are you here?" the man finally sputtered. Morgan slowly slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at Eric until the man became quite uncomfortable and had to look away.

"Kevin Hartley," Morgan said in a quiet voice. The man flinched. "Do you remember him?"

"I don't know who you're talking about,"

"You should. You strangled him to death. Or do you just strangle a lot of seventeen year old boys to death?"

"No, no! I don't – how did you –" Morgan took a step towards him, his eyes flashing. It was strange; with his hands in his pockets he seemed even more threatening. It was much more frightening not knowing what he planned on doing or when he planned on doing it. Eric swallowed and backed up until the tips of his fingers were pressed against the cold, unyielding wall.

"What would you say to him if he were here now?"

"I...I don't….look, stop – what are you…I didn't do anything!"

"Wrong answer," with that Morgan pulled his fine hands from his pocket and wrapped them around the man's neck.

xxxxxxx

Author's Note: You know, this story was born out my fangirl need to see a fedora-wearing verybadboy Morgan kiss Spencer Reid. This one may not be as long and complex as my other ReidxMorgan (I was wondering, what do you call their pairing anyway? Spencerek? Derencer? Reidorgan? Moreid – ooh, I like that one) but I am willing to give it a try! Tell me what you think!