Sunday morning, Reid woke up on the couch. That was not unusual. The faint smell of bleach next to his head, on the other hand, suggested something was definitely wrong. As he slowly pried his eyes open, several things occurred to him: the smell was an unused barf bucket made from the bathroom bin and a splash of bleach; four daiquiris was at least one too many, if not four too many; sitting up was a questionable idea at best; and there was a new piece of furniture he had yet to decide exactly where to place. The lack of wheels on the chair in its unmodified state meant that decision would require actual thought before he tried to move it, so he could avoid moving it more than once.

Coffee, first, he decided. Then maybe a text to Garcia, equal parts thanks and invective for the night before. He was in no shape for a telephone conversation with this hangover. Maybe there was a good reason for a cel phone, after all. But, he was definitely pouring out the bucket before the smell of bleach permeated anything he cared about. The single-cup coffee maker he kept joking about started to sound like something he should have made an investment in, before the preceding night, as he considered the distance between himself and the kitchen, which was all the way around the end of the coffee table -- a good two feet away.

Okay, text Garcia first. Then coffee. Phone was... on the table. Within easy reach. Good.

'I'm alive. I may regret that.' He hit send and made himself sit up, a dull groan echoing through the room as he took stock of his body.

As he considered the distance to the kitchen, a knock sounded at the door, which was even further and involved more opportunities for tripping on the furniture. This was the last thing he needed, but he made himself get up to at least check. The walls seemed to move like a carnival funhouse, and Reid wondered if he was still drunk. Use the camera, he reminded himself, and slid the phone he was still holding across the door until he could see through the peep hole on the screen. Another package? On a Sunday? He took a photo and texted it to Garcia as he opened the door, trusting her to know what to do with it if anything went wrong.

"Hey, sorry, I was sleeping." Reid squinted at the man writing out an attempted delivery slip against the side of a much smaller box than last time.

"I hope it's worth getting up for," the delivery man answered, handing him the box and heading off down the hall.

Reid locked the door and headed back in, toward the kitchen. Coffee. He'd meant to get coffee.

As the coffee maker burbled behind him, he carefully sliced open the box -- an Amazon box again -- to find, under a layer of packing peanuts, a single-cup coffee maker. He tore through the box until he found the packing slip.

'Coffee to help you get out of the chair,' the gift note read.

He texted Garcia again, still unwilling to hear more than he had to, this time with a photo of himself holding the new coffee maker. 'Who delivers on Sundays???'

The phone rang a moment later.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you first thing in the morning," he apologised to Garcia, instead of a greeting.

"It's two in the afternoon, Reid. You sure you're all right?"

"I'm sitting on the kitchen floor. I may still be drunk," he admitted.

"I thought that might happen after you told that girl on the dance floor that you wouldn't give her your number because your boyfriend wouldn't approve." Garcia chuckled. "You still want me to do a lookup on this guy's face?"

"No, no. It's fine. It's an actual package, and I know where it came from. Just didn't think anywhere delivered on Sundays." Reid rubbed his face and squinted up at the coffee maker before deciding the light from the window behind it wasn't helping. "... Wait, I said what? To who?"

"I didn't catch her name, but she was definitely interested in doing some much dirtier dancing with you."

"So I told her I was gay and in a relationship. That sounds like something that would make sense after a few drinks." He paused. "I don't dance. What--?"

"After the third daiquiri, Spence honey, you dance like no one ever told you not to. You looked like a backup dancer in an eighties hip-hop video. Except whiter. And taller. And with less booty shorts. But, I'll tell you if you were doing that in booty shorts, even claiming to be gay would not have gotten the girls off you."

Reid groaned pitifully, feeling the echoes of his own drunken confidence of the night before. "You have pictures, don't you." It wasn't a question. "And you've already sent them to JJ and Prentiss."

"I definitely have pictures, but I took them for you. Just in case you didn't remember any of that." Garcia laughed. "But, if you want, I can send them to JJ and Prentiss..."

"Do. Not." Reid sighed. "Tell me I kept my shirt on. I'm assuming I did, because I woke up in it, and I'm pretty sure I would not have been able to figure out the buttons again after that much alcohol. I don't think I'm missing any buttons..."

"The closest to stripping you got was rolling up your sleeves," Garcia promised. "I'll send you the pictures to fill in the blanks."

"I'm going to spend the rest of this week lying on the floor paralysed with embarrassment, aren't I?" Reid groaned again, wishing the coffee were done. "How much did I manage to tell you about our friend?"

"The more you drank, the less you said. It was pretty amazing. So, probably only what you remember telling me." A long pause followed. "And the part about how you were thinking about going back and writhing against his crotch some more."

Reid paused, tasting the words, waiting for the flash and the hollow dread. It never came. "I did not say any such thing."

"Spoilsport. So you do remember, then."

"No, I can just make out parts of things when you're telling the truth. There's nothing there. It didn't happen." Reid managed to sound smug despite the lack of coffee, a monumental effort.

"You're good," Garcia conceded. "I'll send you the pictures. Call me if I need to remember anything else for you."

"Thanks. I think I'm just going to sit here and wallow in horror and self-reproach for a while."

"Make a cup of coffee and wallow in your amazing new chair. Might as well get some use out of it."

"I think I'll save that for when I have something I want to remember." Reid chuckled. "I'll let you get back to what you were doing."

He slid the phone up onto the counter behind him and ignored the buzz that let him know the first set of pictures had arrived. Coffee. Maybe some toast. And then another nap.

He was never getting that drunk again, no matter who was buying the drinks.