The gym isn't any more impressive on the inside than it was on the outside, but Mick can tell at a glance that it's more Coop's sort of place than FBI headquarters proper.
Truth be told, the gym is more Mick's sort of place than the building he's just spent the last five hours in, wading through paperwork he's not even fully convinced matters, not after what Coop's told him about the team he's putting together.
The gym is empty with the exception of two guys sparring at the far side of the building, though sparring might be a bit generous a description from what Mick can see. One guy is pretty much just throwing the other around, and the guy getting tossed seems to have absolutely no idea what he's doing, given the fact that he can't seem to even figure out how to fall properly.
He's going to get hurt if the guy throwing him around isn't careful, not that it's any of Mick's business.
Mick takes another look around. Sparring mats. Workout equipment. Locker rooms. The guy getting tossed around goes down again hard.
Stairs. Sam's office, and his new team's workspace, will be up those stairs, down the hall. Can't fault the guy for his determination: he's getting up again, even if it's a bit more slowly than he was before.
Mick heads up the stairs. Turns and makes his way down the hall. Sam's door, closed and probably locked, is on the right. Main work area is straight ahead.
It's not much to look it. A couple of desks and a few chairs at this point. Chalkboards on one of the walls. A bunch of filing cabinets that look like they've been around almost as long as the gym has-maybe longer. Coffee machine on a table in one corner. Really ugly looking couch in another. Table in the middle of the room.
"Con's showering off," A voice sounds behind Mick-probably one of the guys from downstairs. "You Rawson?"
"Yeah," Mick turns away from the room. "Mick," he offers a smile that isn't returned. "Coop around?"
"He was called out on a case yesterday morning. Asked me make sure you found the place." The agent can't quite hide his annoyance. "Said he'd call when he got a chance. Until then just hang tight."
"Sure," Mick agrees.
"Love to stay and chat, but I've got work of my own to do-can you handle the con?"
"Uh," Mick hesitates a moment, wondering if he's missing something. "Yes?"
"Don't think he'll try anything-I've been keeping him busy downstairs. Most likely pretty worn out by now. But if he does, don't hesitate to drop him."
"Okay," Mick's definitely missing something.
"The number for a nearby pizza place is by the phone, if you get hungry."
"Thanks."
And the guy's gone without so much as a name. Mick shrugs it off-he could ask the other guy later, probably, but he's not really worried about it.
He crosses the room, tosses his bag on the floor, and considers passing out on the couch-he's been up for at least the last twenty-eight hours, hasn't had a decent night's sleep in even longer.
"I wouldn't recommend it," a new voice interjects from behind, and he realizes he's been standing there just staring for at least a good couple of minutes. Mick is tired- he hasn't heard this guy approach either.
He turns. The second guy from downstairs-the one getting his ass handed to him when Mick arrived- is leaning on the wall near the open doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Dark, thinning hair that hasn't quite dried confirms the other man's claim that he'd just been showering. There's curiosity in his gaze as he looks Mick over-and more than a little bit of wariness.
"Mick Rawson," he offers as introduction. "Came here looking for Sam Cooper, but I was told he was out on a case."
The other man nods. "Old case from about a year ago. Leads dried up, and there were other cases that took precedence, but there was another body found yesterday. Agent Cooper thought he might be escalating."
"So he could be gone for a couple days," Mick guesses.
"At least. He said he'd call when he got a chance. Not sure there's much we can do from here-but until the paperwork's processed..." He shrugs.
"Great," Mick looks around at the sparsely furnished room once more, then at the couch. "So what, exactly, is it that you wouldn't recommend?"
The other man tilts his head toward the couch in question. "It's even less comfortable than it looks," he offers. "And even if you do manage to fall asleep on it, you're liable to wake up with a loose spring in your back."
"Sounds like you speak from experience," Mick says, reconsidering his options. "Pretty sure I could sleep on the floor at this point and not care, though. What'd you say your name was?" He asks, turning back when the man hesitates.
"Jonathan Simms," he says after a moment, and something about the way he says it seems a little off to Mick, but he also doesn't get the impression the man is lying either.
"You prefer Simms, or Jonathan?" he asks. "Or Jon?"
The other guy shrugs. "Doesn't really matter," he says, and since that feels a little odd too, Mick decides to press him on it.
"If there's something else you'd prefer-I've been calling Sam 'Coop' for years, and that's not likely to change anytime soon, even if he is technically my boss now."
Jonathan-or Simms-or whatever his name is looking a little tense, so Mick turns his attention back to the room to give him some space. "You claim a desk yet?"
"Not yet."
"You have a preference?"
"Nah."
Mick looks around, but the room is still as sparsely furnished as it was before. "Anything else do while we wait? Other than work out?"
The other guy-Simms-shrugs. "Not really."
Mick rubs his face with a hand. "How's the shower situation?" he asks. "Better than the couch, I hope."
He gets another shrug in response. "It's not bad."
Mick could probably use a shower. Maybe some food. "That other guy, he said something about a pizza place nearby-they deliver?"
"Sure. Number's by the phone." Simms nods in the direction of one of the desks.
"Thanks." He crosses the room, picks up the phone. Using his shoulder to hold it in place, he turns. "Pepperoni okay?" he asks. Simms looks surprised for about half a second, then ducks in head in agreement. "What do you want to drink? Water? Soda?"
"Water's fine."
Mick nods and turns his attention back to the phone. He can still feel the other man's eyes on him-Simms' attention has been pretty much zeroed in on Mick since he entered the room-and it's starting to put him on edge.
"Problem?" he asks, without looking over. The feeling of being watched lets up almost immediately. Mick finishes ordering and hangs up the phone to find that Simms has switched from staring at him to staring at a spot on the floor instead, though Mick is still very much in his peripheral.
"Gonna grab a shower," Mick decides, retrieving his bag from beside the couch. "Pizza should be about thirty minutes."
He has to pass the other man on the way out the door, and doesn't miss the way Simms tenses. He doesn't say anything though-maybe the guy just likes his personal space.
Whatever the reason, Mick's perfectly willing to ignore it, at least until he's gotten a chance to catch up on his sleep-or until he gets bored. There doesn't seem to be much to do around here, and while Mick's perfectly capable of doing nothing for hours at a time during a mission, he's been known to go a little stir-crazy when there's not enough to keep him occupied otherwise.
The locker room wasn't bad. Not great either, but Mick's seen worse. At least there was hot water. And clean towels. Anyway, Mick is feeling significantly more human as he steps back out into the main area.
Simms is talking to a guy near the entrance, a couple of pizza boxes in hand, a bag that most likely holds their drinks hanging off his arm. He's grinning at something the delivery guy's saying and looking considerably more relaxed than Mick's seen him so far.
Not all of the wariness returns as Mick joins them, though something in the mood shifts. Simms rolls his shoulders, smile fading slightly.
"Pizza's here," Simms says. "They threw in some breadsticks with the order, no charge."
"Thanks," Mick offers the delivery guy a grin. He gets a cheerful enough smile in return.
"Somebody ordered them for take-out and never picked them up," the delivery guy explains. "Figured Prophet might be getting tired of just pizza."
"Prophet?" Mick asks. Beside him Simms shifts, clearly uncomfortable, and the delivery guy shrugs.
"Anyway, have a great day," he says, a little awkwardly, moving toward the door.
"You too." Mick turns to Simms, eyebrow raised. "Prophet?"
"Old nickname," Simms offers, a hint of reluctance slipping into his tone.
"Old?" Mick grins. "He just called you that." Simms shrugs yet again, and Mick's starting to get a weird vibe about the whole thing. "If you don't like it, I can drop it. Just trying to figure out what to call you, mate."
Simms studies him intently for a moment. "Prophet's fine," he says after far too long spent deliberating given the question at hand.
"All right," Mick agrees. "Prophet it is. Hungry?"
They end up back upstairs, Mick at one desk, Prophet at another. Prophet's pretty much absconded with the breadsticks, but Mick doesn't really care. The pizza's good: hot and cheesy, with plenty of pepperoni.
His dinner companion (office companion?) isn't much of a conversationalist, but Mick isn't really concerned with that either. Not as tired as he currently is, though he's probably going to reconsider in about an hour or so when he starts getting bored.
"So you part of Coop's team?" Mick asks as he starts on a third slice, and okay, maybe he's already reconsidering. Prophet nods, but doesn't elaborate. "Any reason you're stuck here too and not out on that case with him?"
"Waiting on the paperwork to clear." Prophet tilts his head, debating a moment before adding, "He was already gone when I got in."
"That why that other guy was here? What was his name?"
"Agent Jacobs. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on me, but I guess when you got here he figured you could handle it." There's something ever-so-slightly defensive in Prophet's tone as he replies.
"Keeping an eye on you?" Mick spares a moment of consideration for the man sitting at the other desk. "He did say something about keeping you busy-exactly how long had he been throwing you around when I got here?"
"He got here a little after nine this morning," Prophet admits. "Switched off with the other guy-wasn't too happy about it."
"You stop for lunch?"
"Pizza guy showed up around noon."
"He spent the entire day throwing you around?" Guy's gotta be hurting, after all that. Sore at the very least. "Could've taken the time to teach you to fall. Surprised you didn't break anything, the way you were landing earlier."
"Don't really have much formal training," Prophet admits, eyes darkening slightly.
"Gonna have to fix that, if you plan on working with Coop." Mick points out. "Never mind the job, Coop has a thing for sparring as means of working through frustration." Alarm, quickly blanked, flashes briefly in those dark eyes. "He won't hurt you, though, not beyond some bruising-he's too skilled-and too much in control for that. Definitely need to know how to take a fall though."
Prophet looks apprehensive rather than reassured as he reaches for another breadstick.
"You getting any kind of hand-to-hand combat training?" Mick asks. "They teach classes at the Academy, right?"
"Probably."
"I could teach you a few things, if you like," Mick offers, and gets a wary side-glance in response that he doesn't really know what to do with.
"Sure."
Prophet doesn't sound particularly enthusiastic, though it might just be that he's already spent a good portion of his day getting tossed around.
"You know how to throw a punch?" Mick asks, shifting into position. The other man nods tersely. "Let's see what you can do."
Prophet attempts a swing that is halfhearted at best. Mick blocks it effortlessly, then pauses when the other man doesn't go in for another blow.
For a moment they simply stand there looking at each other. "Again?" Mick suggests. Prophet rolls his shoulders and throws another equally pathetic punch that Mick once again blocks without difficulty.
"Really?" Mick shakes his head. "Look, maybe start with your stance."
This goes well for all of several minutes, until Mick, fairly satisfied with Prophet's attempt at mimicking the way he stands, reaches out to guide his arm into a defensive position.
Prophet jerks backward, twisting his arm free with a speed-and force-that surprises Mick. Shoulders tense, fists clenched, now he looks ready for a fight, and while the way he's holding himself confirms his claim that he hasn't had much in the way of formal training, it does suggest that he's been in more than a few fights throughout the course of his life.
Mick takes a step back, spreading his hands in a gesture he really hopes comes off as non-threatening. "You okay?"
For a long moment neither of them moves. Mick's not sure exactly what just happened, or why, but the man in front of him clearly feels threatened, and he is clearly prepared to respond with violence if he feels it necessary.
Since Mick doesn't really want to get in a fight with one of his teammates on his first day, he's more than willing to wait.
Prophet blinks, then swallows, then takes a deep breath. Lowering his hands, he shifts into a more neutral stance, though the tension in his shoulders and the fact that his pupils are still full-blown make it obvious, at least to Mick, that the man is still very much on alert.
"Sorry," he says at last, voice rough. "I-"
"No harm done," Mick says, making an effort to sound unconcerned. "Not big on physical contact?" he asks, albeit cautiously-if he can figure out where things went wrong they have a better chance of not repeating it.
Prophet takes another deep breath, then brings one hand up to scrub at his face. "Just-caught me off guard." He pauses for another long minute, debating whether or not to elaborate, before letting out a long, resigned sigh. "Did Agent Cooper tell you anything about me?"
Mick shakes his head. "Not sure he even mentioned your name, but we only talked briefly, and that was over a week ago. He mentioned he had someone else in mind, and that it might take some work getting him on the team, but that was about it."
"So no, then." Prophet says, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to decide how to continue. "The obvious place to start is probably with the fact that I just got out of prison yesterday morning."
"Okay," Mick's intrigued, but not necessarily worried. "Can I ask what you did, or...?"
"You'd find out from somebody else soon enough anyway," Prophet says, shrugging. "I killed a guy."
"Oh." Maybe he's biased, given his own past, but Mick's still not overly worried. Or impressed. The tension's starting to build in the other man's shoulders though, so maybe he should say something else. "Is that all?"
Prophet's eyebrows furrow in immediate confusion; whatever he was expecting from Mick in reply, it wasn't that.
"So, no touching?" Mick asks, in an attempt to move the conversation along. "Or was it that you weren't expecting it?" A thought occurs to him, then. "Or is it that Agent Jackoff's been abusing you all day?"
Poor choice of words, maybe, given what he's just learned, but Prophet's shoulders loosen minutely, and he shakes his head.
"Probably didn't help," he admits. "Might be a bit of all three, if I'm being honest. Don't really do well with people coming up behind me either."
"Noted." That's not really all that worrisome either. "You'll be in good company there," he says. "Not really a good idea to try sneaking up on me or Coop. Anything else?" Prophet shrugs, but still looks decidedly uncomfortable. "We can take a rain check on the whole combat training-or drop it completely, if it bothers you."
"Wouldn't mind learning how to fall properly," Prophet admits after a moment's debate. "Agent Jacobs said I'd figure it when I got tired of getting knocked on my ass, but doesn't seem to have happened yet."
"I saw you guys going at it when I came in," Mick says, "The way he was throwing you about, I'm a little surprised you weren't seriously hurt."
He gets a non-committal half shrug in reply, one that isn't particularly reassuring, but nothing he's seen of the other man so far has given him reason to suspect anything worse than some potentially nasty bruises.
"Anyway, I can teach you to fall easily enough. Mostly just takes practice. And depending on whether or not you struggle with throwing yourself down, we might be able to avoid the whole physical contact thing, at least for a while. Wouldn't hurt to get some practice being thrown, once you've gotten the hang of it, but that can wait for another day."
As it turns out, Prophet has absolutely no trouble with the concept of throwing himself towards the mat, or-after watching Mick demonstrate about half a dozen times-getting down the basics involved in executing a proper fall.
"It's coming along," Mick. They've been at this for about an hour, and Prophet's starting to slow down. "You've got the gist of it, though."
More concerned with catching his breath than with talking, Prophet only nods and uses his sleeve to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He's starting to look more than a bit spent, Mick notices, but on the other hand, he's also considerably more relaxed than he's probably been since before Mick showed up.
"Don't know about you, but I could use a break." Mick says. "And maybe more food. There's still half a pizza upstairs, though it's probably cold by now. This place got a microwave?"
"In Agent Cooper's office, but that's locked."
Mick chuckles. "No problem there," he says. "I can have the door open in a jiffy-Coop won't care," he adds, because Prophet's suddenly looking not just uneasy, but downright apprehensive.
Prophet follows him back up the stairs and down the hall, shaking his head and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, but at least he comes along. He also watches Mick make short work of the lock on Coop's office with an air of resignation tinged ever so slightly with a sort of cautious interest.
They don't touch anything other than the microwave once inside, though, and Mick makes certain to lock the door back behind him when they're done.
"You have to admit, hot pizza is infinitely better than cold," Mick says, settling back into the same chair he'd claimed earlier while Prophet chooses to perch on the edge of a nearby desk rather than its corresponding chair.
"It's pizza." Prophet doesn't look all that enthusiastic as he takes a bite.
"You don't like pizza?" Mick asks, twisting around to shoot the other man a disbelieving look. "Who doesn't like pizza?"
Prophet rolls his eyes. "I like pizza fine, when I'm not eating it for the fifth meal in a row."
"Fair enough," Mick concedes. He's not sure he'd get tired of it even then, but the man's entitled to his opinion. "How does that work out, exactly?"
"Got here yesterday, Agent Kirk ordered it for dinner. Breakfast was leftover pizza, and then today..."
"Right." Mick frowns as a thought occurs to him. "You spend the night here, mate?"
"Not really anywhere else to go."
"Coop didn't arrange something?" Mick presses, and Prophet shakes his head.
"He was supposed to be here when I got out yesterday, but that case came back up," he admits.
That explains his warning about the couch, Mick realizes. The man probably ended up sleeping there. "Look, I'm going to call Coop-we should have heard from him by now anyway-and see if he made any arrangements for us before he left. If he hasn't, I'm not spending the night here, and neither are you."
That apprehensive look is back as Mick pulls out his cellphone and puts in Coop's number. It makes him wonder how well Prophet actually knows the other man, but it also brings up the question of how the two crossed paths in the first place.
"Hey," he says when the phone goes straight to voicemail. "Figure you're busy, and you'll get to this when you have a minute, but Prophet and I have been pretty much stuck here all day with nothing to do, and it's getting late, so we're going to go find a hotel for the night, and we'll be back in the morning. If you need either of us before then, you can call me at this number."
He slides his phone into his back pocket and ignores the tension that's once again building in Prophet's shoulders. "Come on," he says.
"Pretty sure-"
"That Agent Jackface left me in charge when he said he had his own work to do and asked if I could 'handle the con'? That's you, right?" Prophet nods. "And the whole reason he was here was because they didn't want you running around unsupervised?" Another nod, though Prophet looks a whole lot less offended by that than Mick would be in his place. "Well I'm not staying here tonight, and I'm apparently in charge, so neither are you."
By the time they find a hotel-and make it up to the room-the exhaustion is back in full force. Mick drops his bag by the door, throws himself down face-first on to the nearest bed, and considers giving in to the desire to never move again.
He hears the door close, but other than that Prophet doesn't move from where he stopped just inside the room.
"Mate, I'm bloody exhausted," Mick mumbles into the mattress. "Sleep, or don't-I don't really care at this point, but as tired as I am I'm not going to be able to sleep with you standing by the door staring at me all night."
Silence. Then-
"Is it going to bother you if I take a shower?"
"Uh-uh."
The next thing Mick knows it's morning, the sun is streaming in through the window, and his phone is ringing. He fumbles around for a moment, trying to remember where he is and why, and exactly who the guy in the other bed is.
"Prophet with you?" It's not unusual for Coop to skip formalities. The worry in his voice, though-Mick sits up, blinking as his sleep addled brain starts to catch up, and stifles a yawn before replying.
"Yeah, he's here. Listen, Coop-"
"Put him on."
"Wh-Sure." he looks over to the other bed, where the other man is both awake-and watching Mick. "Coop's on the phone. Wants to talk to you."
He launches the phone in the man's direction before it occurs to him that it might not be the best idea, but Prophet catches it easily enough and sits up, bringing the phone up to his ear in the process.
"Sir?" The older man frowns as he answers. "Yes, sir. Agent. Figured it was better if someone could confirm my whereabouts, just in case." Prophet's frown deepens. "I understand. Yes, sir." He lowers the phone and all but slides off the bed. "He wants to talk to you," he says, handing the phone back to Mick before heading for the toilet.
"I want you to join me in Kentucky. Both of you. You up for the drive?"
"Not really familiar with the territory-"
"Prophet can help you navigate."
"Any reason he can't drive?" Mick asked, curious.
"Expired license. See you in a few hours." Click.
Mick looks up as Prophet comes out of the bathroom in the same clothes as yesterday. "He tell you he wants us down there?" he asks. Prophet nods. "You know how to get to Kentucky?"
Another nod.
"All right, let me rinse off, and we'll be on our way."
They also stop downstairs long enough to grab a couple of bagels and a banana on their way out. Prophet shoots him a sideways glance before helping himself to a cup of coffee, one that Mick chooses to ignore, given the early hour.
Prophet turns out to be a fair navigator if not much of a conversationalist. He also manages to find something halfway decent on the radio, so at least they don't have to spend the next several hours in total silence.
"Been to Kentucky before?" Mick asks. When he catches Prophet's nod out of the corner of his eye he figures that's the best he's going to get, but then the man sighs, shifts in his seat, and rolls his shoulders.
"Have you?" he asks, tone conversational rather than confrontational, and Mick shakes his head.
"Haven't really spent much time in the States," he admits. "Other than the last day or so."
"Grew up in Woodland Mills, Tennessee, about a mile from the Kentucky border," Prophet offers. "Small town, couple hundred people."
"Aberystwyth."
Prophet's eyebrows lift pretty much of their own volition. "Aber-
"Aberystwyth," Mick repeats with a chuckle. "It's in Wales. Ceredigion, specifically."
"I'm gonna take a pass on that one," Prophet drawls, offering up a self-deprecating grin as he leans forward to fiddle with the radio.
"Seaside town," Mick offers. "Well, college town as well. Big with tourists too, actually."
"Huh," Prophet leans back. "Need to be in the right lane coming up."
"We should stop for lunch soon," Mick says. "Don't know about you, but I'm starting to get hungry."
Prophet's staring out the window again and doesn't immediately respond; for a minute Mick thinks he might have dozed off, but then he shifts, stretching his back. "Sure," he says.
"Pizza?" Mick asks, grinning at his own, admittedly not-that-great joke.
Prophet rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he turns back toward the window.
They end up stopping at a local cafe. It's not too busy, but there are a few people scattered through the restaurant. The place is clean, moderately well lit, and the waitress that greets them and leads them to a table is both friendly and attractive.
"What can I get for you gentlemen?" the girl asks, flashing Mick a smile as she reaches for pad and pencil.
"Just water," Prophet says, when she turns to him, and Mick realizes he hasn't even looked at the menu.
"Water," Mick repeats when the waitress turns to him. He spares Prophet a sideways glance before adding, "Two specials. You eat burgers, right?"
Prophet eyes him almost warily for a moment.
"There's a pizza place across the street if you'd rather-" He's going to run that joke into the ground if he keeps it up, but for some reason it works.
"Burger's fine," Prophet says, reaching for a napkin-purely, Mick thinks, for something to do. "Thanks."
The burger's pretty good. So are the chips, even if Prophet keeps calling them 'fries,' and even if Mick's pretty sure the man's doing it on purpose, just to annoy him.
He wads up a napkin and tosses it in the general direction of Prophet's head only to hit the older man square in the face.
Prophet blinks at him for a moment, and Mick wonders if maybe he's crossed a line, but Prophet simply retrieves the wadded-up napkin from where it landed on his plate and launches it back, and though his aim isn't quite as good as Mick's it still catches him in the shoulder before bouncing off the table and rolling across the floor.
"Sorry," Mick says to the waitress who is now staring at them both.
They've been back on the road for about an hour when traffic slows to a complete standstill. Mick rolls down the window, sticking his head out in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever's causing the hold-up.
He can't see much from this distance. Just flashing lights somewhere ahead of them and several endless lines of stopped vehicles. "Might be a while," he says, pulling his head back inside the car. "Should probably let Coop know."
He gets the man's voicemail again and leaves a quick message.
"Now what?" he asks, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He's already starting to get bored.
Prophet shakes his head but doesn't comment, and Mick's not entirely sure but he thinks the guy might be laughing at him-there's a slight upward curl to the corner of his mouth that supports the theory.
"Maybe pick a better radio station," Mick grumbles half-heartedly. "It's been the same ten songs since we left the city."
"Didn't think you liked the other options," Prophet drawls, unconcerned. He's mellowed out considerably since yesterday, and seems to be warming up to Mick, albeit gradually. "Could switch it back to country."
Mick shudders. "Or we could talk," he says quickly, before the other man can follow through with his threat, and then his mind immediately goes blank.
"Sure," Prophet agrees, and he sounds willing enough as far as Mick can tell, but then proceeds to say absolutely nothing else.
"You're a terrible conversationalist," Mick accuses, but he's still not coming up with anything either.
Prophet shrugs.
"So what made Coop want you for the team?" It's taken Mick twenty minutes to finally come up with something to ask the other man, but even as he asks he realizes that it sounds more than a little rude-and possibly like he's questioning Coop's judgment when it came to bringing in a convicted felon.
"I-have a unique perspective with regards to the criminal element," Prophet replies, and the way he says it sounds more than a bit like he's quoting someone. "You?"
He's also opened himself up to a similar line of questioning, but it's too late to go back now. Mick takes a moment to sort through several possible answers before settling on the bare minimum.
"Coop and I met overseas several years ago; made an impression. He called, I came."
"Huh." Prophet's expression is neutral, except for his eyes, and Mick can practically see the gears turning as he considers that bit of information. "Must have been quite the meeting."
"Have to say the same for you," Mick suggests, tone even, waiting to see if the other man's going to press for more.
"He did say experimental," is all Prophet says as he leans forward to adjust the radio again. Mick's not sure if it's a nervous gesture, or if it's just something to do, but he winds up on the same station every time. "We're moving," he nods toward the sea of cars in front of them.
They stop at a gas station a few hours later to refuel and stretch their legs. At least, Mick needs to stretch his legs-Prophet seems content to remain inside the car while Mick puts petrol in the car and then heads inside to pay.
He grabs some snacks on his way to the register, because while he's starting to get hungry again they're running considerably behind schedule after being stuck in traffic for over an hour. A look out the window at the car outside and he reconsiders, doubling back and grabbing a couple bottles of water and a few more random items off the shelf.
"Figured we lost enough time earlier," Mick says as he slips back into the driver's side and sets the bag of snacks down on the floor between them. He reaches in and grabs the waters, offering Prophet one before opening his own. "Not entirely sure what half of this stuff is, but you're welcome to help yourself."
Prophet hesitates for less than a second before rifling through the bag. "Well, now, these are an American delicacy, especially down here in the south." The drawl is back, and somehow even worse than Mick's heard so far as he pulls out a bright yellow bag from the selection.
"I know what Funyons are, mate."
Two hours later they're pulling up to the police station, and Prophet's reverted back to quietly taking in the world around him. The wariness is back in his eyes, the tension back in his shoulders, but if Mick's right about it being the fact that they're about to walk into a building full of police officers, he figure's that's just something the man is going to have to learn to deal with.
"Come on," Mick grabs what's left of the snacks as he gets out of the car. If Coop's still here, and he would have at least left a message with Mick if he were expecting to meet them somewhere else, it's unlikely they're going anywhere else anytime soon.
Author's Note: Yeah. A series, apparently. And a new hyperfixation? Anyway, let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: Criminal Minds: Suspect Behavior does not belong to me.