#suspect behaviour

You were brough on as a late addition to cooper's team following Beth's death. You'd read about the case online, it sounded brutal. Cooper had to kill a manipulated and broken young man, or have his beloved team member killed.

It had taken a tole on him, a tole on everyone.

Beth despite being cold at times brought everyone together, they loved her like a family and now, well, its never easy when a family looses someone. Grief isn't a gun shot, its a slow burning fire that whenever someone blows on it you don't know if they are going to put it out, or make it burn brighter.

Unlike the rest of the team, Cooper didn't chose you, the director of the FBI selected you instead, which meant you didn't exactly start off on the right foot with the rest of the team.

But you were warm and understood their hesitation, but above all you were a damn good profiler.

Soon their coldness towards you melted away, you weren't trying to replace Beth, you were just there to help the team in whatever way you could. then somewhere along the way you were part of the team, and you couldn't imagine it any other way.

However, there was one slight tension that never quite left.

You were Scottish.

Mick was welsh.

Usually, this would have united you, simply due to your shared hatred of the English, however, that wasn't exactly the case.

when you and mick started getting closer he finally made a comment on your accent and you nearly threw a chair at him.

"I'm sorry love, but there is now way you're Scottish."

"excuse me?"

"I mean you just sound more English, no offence."

"says the 'Welsh' man who has a borderline RP accent? Usually I'd make sheep jokes but that's a bit difficult when it sound like you're going to have dinner with the queen."

"in what world do I not sound Welsh?"

"in what world do I not sound Scottish?"

somehow the bickering of the pair of you caught the rest of the teams attention, crouding round you both as if a show was about to begin.

you had heard the whispers circulate once you started to settle that you and mick had a 'thing'. it wasn't true of course, no matter how much you wanted it to be. you and Mick were friends, who had weirdly similar life stories and seemed to understand each other more than anyone, but you were just friends.

F. R. I. E. N. D. S.

It doesn't matter that you stayed round his for a week when your power went off. It doesn't matter that after a case he come round yours as he is a hopeless cook and you always 'accidently' make your portion sizes too big. It doesn't matter that you kissed when drunk once. It doesn't matter that you kissed when drunk twice. It doesn't matter that you kissed when drunk th-

none of that matter because you are jsut friends.

"can you two just kiss and make up?" Prophet sighed, "you're both British isn't that enough?"

he clearly did not expect the rage that that statement would elicit.

Rule number 1 about Scottish people, never insinuate that they are English. Rule 2, don't say that they are British.

"no self respecting Scott would ever say that they are British!" you practically shouted in the face of prophet making him back away, before you turned on your heels, pointing an accusatory finger at Mick, "the fact that you tell people that your British just means your probably not actually Welsh."

"American girls love British men, if I say I'm Welsh they probably have no idea what I'm talking about. I'd rather have them in my bed than explain my nationality tot hem."

"that's vile."

"that's the game."

"that's enough of that," cooper voice cut through the argument, "we have a case."

"this isn't over, Rawson."

"wouldn't dream of it ending, love."

★・・・・・・★

You entered into this weird game that just never seemed to end. now whenever accents inevitably got brough up everyone on the team simply rolled their eyes and ignored the never ending arguing of the two of you.

Prophet even thought it was funny to start playing a 'guess the accent' quiz on YouTube. everyone on the team had enough, but it was more than obvious that you had a Scottish accent and mick has a Welsh one.

it was damning evidence - but you didn't care, you wanted to win. win what exactly? you weren't exactly sure.

on thing you were sure about was you knew far too much about Wales, you looked up far too many obscure and weird facts to 'test' mick because a 'true Welsh man would know this about his country'. naturally he did the same about Scotland, which lead to a particularly heated debate about Greyfriars Bobby.

The arguments became almost routine.

Sometimes they started because someone on the television had an accent. Sometimes because Mick insisted Edinburgh wasn't that Scottish. Once, memorably, because he'd claimed Irn-Bru tasted "a bit overrated."

The team had long since stopped trying to referee. Prophet would simply sigh and leave the room. Cooper would continue reading his files as though the pair of you weren't threatening each other's ancestry over coffee. Garcia found the whole thing hilarious over video calls, and Gina...

Gina just watched.

t wasn't until a quiet afternoon, while the rest of the team were either buried in paperwork or grabbing coffee, that she cornered you in the break room.

"Can I ask you something?" Gina said, leaning against the counter with the sort of smile that usually meant she already knew the answer.

You looked up from the kettle. "Depends how personal it is."

"well, I guess I'll keep my mouth shut..."

"hey come on, I'm just messing with you," you laughed, "what's up?"

"oh nothing," she smiled poring coffee into her mug, "just you know," Gina began, stirring sugar into her coffee, "most people don't spend six months picking fights over accents."

"They're not fights."

"Mm-hm."

"They're... spirited discussions."

She laughed.

"I've worked with profilers long enough to know when someone's looking for an excuse to spend time with somebody."

You snorted. "We're friends."

Gina hummed into her mug.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Gina."

"I just don't think I've ever seen two friends who argue that much just to keep a conversation going."

"friends can have on going arguments, it's called an inside joke, I'm pretty sure you have them this side of the Atlantic."

"He waits for you before briefing starts."

"...Coincidence."

"He drinks tea now."

"...Lots of people drink tea."

"He hated tea before you joined the team."

You opened your mouth.

.. and then closed it again, you had nothing to say. you didn't know that.

"He eats dinner at your apartment three nights a week."

"Because he'll burn water if I leave him unsupervised." you muttered

"Honey..." Gina laughed softly. "He's thirty-four, not twelve."

you simply rolled your eyes. unfortunately for Gina Mick cooks like a 13-year-old boy who has never used a stove before. he once called you to help him follow a recipe to make pesto pasta.... he used store bought pesto, what was there to help with?

then it hit you.

all the times he'd ask for your help on simple things, every time he'd fumble something just so you could help, none of that could be on purpose right?

Mick was a proud man he doesn't like asking people for help, except you of course. but he always said that you didn't count. he said that before the first time he kissed you 'this one doesn't count love,' and that phrase has been ringing in your ears ever since.

"We're just close." you muttered, feeling the weight of Gina's stare, god you hated profilers.

Gina tilted her head.

"Has he kissed all his close friends?"

Heat rushed straight to your face.

"...That happened twice." you whispered

"Three times." she offhandedly corrected, before showing you a slight smile.

You just stared.

"...People know about that?"

"we know far too much."

you shook your head with a laugh, you had work to do, and your tea wasn't going to brew itself, "you're wrong Gina, I'm sorry to burst your bubble,"

"whatever helps you sleep at night." she laughed as she turned away from you.

one thing was for sure, you couldn't see Mick today, or rather you couldn't be alone with Mick today. Gina was wrong there was and will be nothing between the two of you, no matter how good he is at kissing or how good he looks, there is categorically nothing but friendship and the mild war of accents between you and mick. nothing more.

★・・・・・・★

You made it exactly forty-three minutes.

Forty-three blissful, Mick-free minutes before he wandered into the bullpen with two coffees balanced in one hand.

"Tea," he corrected himself when he spotted you looking up from your paperwork. "Forgot Americans drink coffee like it's intravenous."

He placed the cup beside your keyboard without asking.

"...Thanks."

He frowned.

"No insult?"

"What?"

"You usually tell me I've brewed it wrong before you've even tasted it."

"I've decided to be the bigger person."

Mick narrowed his eyes.

"...You're ill."

"I'm perfectly healthy."

"You've called me English at least twice by now."

"I've decided to stop."

"...Right."

The silence stretched.

He looked almost... disappointed.

But that didn't matter, it didn't count, it was probably all in your head anyways, right?

you been given another case, you would think at least one psychopath would enjoy a weekend off, but apparently not. you were maing your way to the jet like usual, as Mick automatically fell into step beside you.

He always did.

You'd never noticed before.

Or maybe you'd just never questioned it.

still his presence, his closeness, felt like an intrusion. it all felt like too much. he didn't even know what he was doing to you. maybe he wasn't doing anything; maybe it was just Gina's words getting to you and there is nothing to read into at all. Maybe...

but your line of work doesn't allow for 'maybe's, you have to be certain otherwise people could get hurt, that's why you quicken your pace to match Gina's to make some unriveting small talk. you didn't look back, but you swore you could hear Micks footsteps stop for just a second.

It was later in the day and you were hunched over a map desperately trying to make sense of the sporadic nature of 5 abductions, trying to figure out a geo-profile when you were nearly sure that there was no coloration of the hunting grounds. you didn't hear the door open to the board room, it was only when you felt a warm and familiar hand rest on your shoulder that you related that someone had came in.

well not just somone.

"alight?" Mick said squeezing your shoulder as an attempt to get you to look up at him.

"What?" you huffed, eyes still locked on the map.

"You've barely insulted Wales all day."

"I've been busy, mick" you said vaguely gesturing to the map and several crossed out and scrunched up pieces of paper.

"You called me 'Mick.'"

"That's your name."

"Usually it's 'sheep shagger.'"

You couldn't help laughing.

"There she is."

he smiled as you looked at him for the first time.

He smiled when you finally looked at him properly.

It was unfair, really.

The stubble that always seemed to sit perfectly along his jaw despite spending half his life on planes. The tired blue eyes that somehow still held that irritating glint whenever he looked at you. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms—as they always were—and somewhere along the years you'd learnt every scar scattered across his skin without ever meaning to.

Gina's words echoed in the back of your mind.

He's looking for an excuse to spend time with somebody.

You hated that you couldn't stop thinking about them.

"Seriously." His voice softened. "What's happened?"

"Nothing." you shook your head looking away.

Mick's eyes were glued on you, "You're lying."

"I'm a profiler."

"So am I."

The room fell silent again.

Neither of you looked away.

You'd stared into the eyes of serial killers without flinching. Sat across from men who'd confessed to things that would haunt your nightmares for years to come.

Yet somehow you couldn't hold Mick Rawson's gaze for more than a few seconds.

You looked back down at the map, tracing roads that you weren't really seeing.

He didn't move.

He was waiting.

Of course he was.

He always waited.

"Why do you always ask me for help?"

Mick usually composed face falterd for a second, "...What?"

"With cooking. Technology. Flat-pack furniture. Directions. Everything."

"...Because you're good at those things?"

"No."

"...No?"

"You don't ask anyone else."

He just stares at you for a long moment before a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"...Gina got to you, didn't she?"

You frowned.

Got to you?

Of course.

That had to be it.

Gina had planted an idea in your head and now you were reading far too much into perfectly ordinary things.

You should've known better.

You were a profiler, for God's sake.

Gina was wrong.

There wasn't some hidden meaning behind every dinner, every stupid argument, every kiss that "didn't count."

You'd let yourself overthink it.

God, Gina was never going to let you hear the end of this.

"She didn't get to me." you insisted, refusing to meet his eyes.

"No?"

"No." you answered firmly, as though saying it with enough conviction would somehow make it true.

"Then why are you suddenly questioning why I ask you to make me dinner?"

"I don't make you dinner." you corrected, pointing your pen at him as though presenting evidence in court. "you just happen to be there."

he tiled his head with a slight chuckle, "You accidentally cook enough for two."

"…That's different."

He laughed properly this time, and you felt your stomach do flips; you hated it. Almost as much as you loved making him laugh.

"Is it?" he asked.

You open your mouth to argue—

A knock at the boardroom door interrupted you both.

Prophet poked his head inside.

"sorry to interrupt you love birds," he joked unaware of the tense atmosphere in the room "Cooper wants everyone in the conference room. Garcia found something."

The moment shattered almost instantly.

you both let out an awkward laugh, the job really had such a way with timings.

"Duty calls." you joked.

Mick didn't move immediately.

His eyes searched yours for another second before he nodded.

"Yeah."

He stepped aside, letting you pass.

Just as you reached the doorway, he spoke again.

"This conversation isn't over."

You glanced back over your shoulder.

"Thought you liked leaving things unresolved."

A crooked grin spread across his face.

"Only the accent argument."

you smiled to yourself, remembering when this all started,

"This isn't over, Rawson."

"Wouldn't dream of it ending, love."

★・・・・・・★