Criminal Minds SB fic. O_O

[le_russe_satan]

Title: The Times of Welsh Dragons, Beethoven and Jailbirds.
Pairing: Mick/Prophet
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine

The times of Welsh Dragons, Beethoven and Jailbirds.

Sometimes they went straight from case to case, grateful no end if they could get a proper night's sleep in between, and then sometimes they had days and days of downtime, which meant good things for society and paperwork, but was quite undeniably boring. It was during a third stretch like that, about three months into the existence of their team, that Prophet found Mick on his doorstep with beer and takeaway. To Prophet's knowledge none of the team members spent any time together during the down time, but then maybe they were not quite comfortable with each other yet, maybe Mick was just the first one to take the bull by the horns.

First time.

'I brought beer,' Mick stepped or more accurately slinked past Prophet into the living room, dropped the takeaway bag on the table and grinned, 'Also, fish and chips. I tell you, my dear fellow, it is simply ridiculous how difficult it is to come by decent fish and chips this side of the ocean.'
Prophet stared and mentally shook himself.

'I thought you were Welsh, not English,' he finally said in response to Mick's altered pattern of speech.

'Like you Americans know the difference.' Mick's response was somewhat muffled by the sound of paper being unwrapped and beer bottles clinking as he set his offerings out on the coffee-table.

'Well, I know the legend of the Welsh dragon.' The time Prophet spent in prison was not as bad as people assumed. Certainly, the loss of freedom and reputation was crushing at first, but he didn't get molested and threatened all that much (most prisoners hated pedophiles too and 'sympathized' with Prophet's actions) and the worst thing about being there, after the initial shock passed, was sheer boredom. He read a lot.

'How many times do I have to tell people that Wikipedia is not the definitive answer to all your research needs?' Mike smirked at Prophet and the dropped himself on the couch. 'Food's served, come here, don't be shy.' And Prophet did, because he did have to remind this upstart Britisher, who exactly came out on top when their nations conflicted. And right after he did that, he was going to ask how the hell did Mick know his address.

Fourth time.

Mick sprawled on the couch clearly underestimating the amount of space Prophet needed to sit in a position even remotely approaching comfortable. Prophet felt Mick's foot prodding his thigh but ignored it.

'I'm drunk,' Mick announced in that special serious tone of voice that drunk people assume when they want to seem sober.

'I know,' Prophet sighed and grabbed Mick's ankle without looking away from the TV screen: the prodding was starting to get painful.

'It's going to show tomorrow. I'll need an excuse,' Mick stilled for a moment and then the 'free' foot went into action, resuming the prodding.

'Uh-huh.'

'Knowing Gina, she's gonna assume I was with a girl. Not that a gentleman should kiss and tell, but I can always drop a name, let Gina think she knows me. It's fun to tease her.'

Prophet almost winced. One day teasing Gina was going to get Mick into trouble.

'So, Jonathan,' Mick's foot practically dug into Prophet's thigh at this point, demanding attention, wanting Prophet to finally look at him. Which Prophet did, since for some odd reason he could never resist Mick when he called him by his real name, 'What should I call you?'

'What?' Prophet bit out, startled.

'Well, I just said that I'll drop a name, a girl's name, when Gina assumes tomorrow that I spent a night with a girl. But, we know that I am spending my night getting drunk on your couch, so the girl in question is you, therefore you get to help me choose your new name.'

Prophet stared. Then he stared some more.

'Are you calling me a girl?' not the best comeback in history certainly, but it was hard to grab onto anything in particular in Mick's rambling sentence.

'Noooo,' drawled Mick, suddenly moving until he ended up standing on his knees, looking down on Prophet, 'Gina will be calling you a girl. So you need a girl's name. Ha! I know, how about Elise? You always play that Beethoven piece in your car. Really, with you Americans it is always How to seem cultured 101? isn't it?'

'Mick, shut up,' Prophet sighed out in exasperation, 'Call me anything you want, just don't make me deal with the maze that is your drunk brain.' And don't pick on Beethoven, he was about to add, but that could open up another avenue for Mick's addled conversation to take.

Mick grinned at him from above, slumping a little forward as if he was going to lean down and kiss Prophet:
'That's a deal, Jonathan.' At this point Mick did finally succumb to gravity, wrapped himself round Prophet like the proverbial octopus and fell asleep in minutes.

The time that led to the ninth time.

Of course, that wasn't the end of the whole Elise business. In fact Prophet was a little terrified that it would turn into a meme and spawn lolcats given half a chance (he was really bored in prison).
'You seem to be having a lot of rough nights, Mick,' Gina's comment provoked a small smile even from Beth, because frankly, Mike did look like he just rolled out of bed after a two-hours sleep. Which was true, but Prophet wasn't sharing that information with the team.

'Elise's been keeping me up. Quite a demanding woman. In a good way, if you know what I mean,' Mick leered, leaning towards Gina slightly.

'Are you gonna tell us anything about her? You guys are starting to sound serious. You haven't mentioned another girl for a few months,' Gina's grin was still sly, but there was a hint of seriousness to her tone: whether she knew it or not Gina was really becoming a bit like an older protective sister to Mick.
'A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. But...she has really nice eyes.' Mick glanced at Prophet. 'Brown.'
'Awww, Mick.' None of them noticed Prophet trying not to grind his teeth too loudly.

The ninth time.

'Stop being an ass, Mick.'
'It's arse.'
'What?!'
'Well, I prefer the British version. Arse sounds so much better than ass. So much more arse-y.' Mick was still standing in Prophet's doorway, which was the only indicator that he found Prophet's greeting in anyway different from all the previous times.

'Fine. How about I call you jackass? Do you have any objections to that? I mean, it was mildly amusing when you decided to use 'Elise' as a codeword for “I spent the night sprawled on Prophet's couch watching horrendously bad movies”, but you are starting to sound like you are developing a relationship with this non-existent woman. It's freaking me out.' Prophet hoped desperately that he was still sounding mature and manly.

'So you are telling me that I should stop calling you a girl?' Mike did the shit-eating grin really well. 'Or are you jealous of her?' Really well. Which perhaps explained why Prophet countered with:
'Maybe I am.'

 

Prophet did not exactly expect a cry of “Thank God” from Mick, but he certainly enjoyed what came after.