The club’s music is far too loud for his liking, causing a slight ringing in his ear, the aftermath of a bomb detonating too close. Still, he barely even bats an eye, merely perched by the bar. It’s Morgan’s birthday and, well, where else would a man like him love to celebrate? Hotch isn’t even sure how he was convinced to attend. It’s no problem, regardless. He’s already made a plan to leave in about five minutes before a migraine begins to form and ruin the rest of his night. Just one more drink.

Everyone’s already mingling, most on the dancefloor as some techno song (Is it techno? He can’t tell. Usually Reid helps with his little “fun” facts.) plays in the background, still blaring loud enough to blast his other eardrum. Hotch is certain he’ll go deaf before he’s even turned fifty. He looks back, observing Morgan currently attempting... something between a backflip and mortal peril on the dancefloor, engaged in an interpretive dance battle against Prentiss (one that she’s horribly losing).

Hotch is certain he’s having a fever dream and makes a mental reminder to not look over his shoulder ever again.

He’s nursing a glass of scotch, not his usual, but the burn is enough to ease the sensation of discomfort churning in his stomach. He feels out of place—he must look out of place too. Older, unsmiling, barely dressed in anything fitting, sticking out like a sore thumb. Do the navy polo shirt and a pair of jeans count as casual? He doesn’t think so, considering the way Prentiss laughed at him once he came into view. Maybe he’s overthinking this. He surely needs to loosen up a little, bond a little more with his team after the last few cases had dragged them through the mud. Still, he would’ve preferred a bar over this. They’re not sophisticated, sure, but at least they aren’t an overstimulating nightmare. A part of him wonders how he hasn’t gone blind from the lights blasting from all the different directions.

With a sigh, he takes another sip of his liqueur. Four more minutes.