Spencer drunk was equally pitiful and absolutely hilarious.

Already lanky and clumsy enough as is, being buzzed had him tripping over every minuscule bump in the floor, running into nearly every person and object in the bar. A complete and total lightweight. Took him half of the shots to be nearly twice as wasted as the rest of them were. He was practically incorrigible after a few shots.

He didn’t like drinking — hated it actually. Crowds and parties too. Last thing he wanted to do was dumb-ify himself when he was nearly certain his intelligence was the only he had going for him. But with a bit of peer pressure and a couple of chanting from the other agents, he had downed his first shot.

It was hardly any time before he was stumbling and slurring his words, always on a tangent about something but he was incoherent now. Once he started saying the wrong shit to the wrong people, Hotch was steering him out of the bar, hailing him a taxi ride, to which Spencer gave your address, some part of his subconscious reminding him an empty place was all that waited for him if he went back home.

Too drunk to properly tip, he overpaid the cab driver as he tripped out the car. He knocked on your time several times, always following the same rhythm, a dead giveaway to who’d be outside your door.

He nearly toppled over as the door opened, having been leaning against it for support. He quickly balanced himself on the door frame, giving his signature awkward pursed-lipped smile.

“Did you know alcohol reaches the brain through the bloodstream in just five to six minutes, affecting neuro- neurotransmitters and brain activity?” he stated. “It’s also involved in about 40% of all fatal car crashes.. Thank god for taxis,” he huffed, tilting his head and leaning against your door frame.