Disclaimer: I own nothing.

THE STING UNDER MY TONGUE, CHASE IT

Mick always smelled of firearms – the smoke, oil, and leather of holsters. He wore a gun every day, but he never tired of handling them and spent a lot of his free time around them too. A sniper never stopped honing. And Mick was a maestro who seriously enjoyed his craft.

Gun oil was almost permanently under his fingernails and bullet smoke had worked its way under his skin. He had calluses from hours at the range and from long lonely hours on perches, waiting for the perfect shot. Guns were part of who he was.

Prophet liked to breathe it all in and mouth the taste off of Mick's neck. Guns were a tool to him, a necessary weapon for work. But for Mick, they were so much more. Prophet learned to love the mark they left on his partner.

Cooper knew. Of course he did. Things of that magnitude did not pass Sam Cooper by. But he didn't comment on it. He watched, obviously making sure that their relationship didn't get in the way of work or the team's dynamic. When Mick caught his eye, Cooper merely smiled.

So they had Cooper's approval. That wasn't weird at all.

Garcia knew because Garcia knew everything. But she balanced that out with her sunnier-than-sunflowers personality and her overwhelming warmth for everyone, no matter how dire the circumstance.

She messaged Mick on his phone with her heartfelt congratulations on his good taste. A basket stuffed with chocolate and fruit was delivered to his apartment, along with a note festooned with Garcia's good cheer and earthy sweetness. Mick grinned, scratched his head, and took some of the chocolate over to Prophet's place.

Gina and Beth found out eventually, and those were not conversations that Mick cared to repeat to anyone, ever.

The cut on his thigh was deep but the medic had stitched it up really neatly. Of course it stung like hell and hampered his movement, meaning Prophet had to sit out the more strenuous parts of the next case – namely chasing down of a suspect. So, frustrated, he sat by the vehicles in case the unsub double-backed. Which was exactly what happened.

Prophet was on his feet immediately, hissing pain out through his teeth but able to block a blow before the guy got several good punches in and started making swipes with a knife. Thanks to his extremely tender injury, Prophet couldn't be quick, most movements really hurt, and he couldn't get to his gun. This wasn't going to end well.

Then the unsub paused for a tiny second to catch his breath, Prophet took the opening. He swept the guy's legs out from under him and pulled his gun.

"Prophet?" Mick was sudden and anxious on the radio. "Keep an eye out, yeah? Because the only way he could have gone is..."

"Back here? Yeah, I got that."

There was a pause, then Mick was clearly running because he sounded breathless. "You okay?"

Prophet's mouth twisted into a hard little smile. The unsub shifted in alarm. "Am right now."

A couple of minutes later Mick broke through the treeline and pounced on the unsub, wrestling him into handcuffs. Prophet kept his gun steady, even though his injury was seriously throbbing after all the urgent movement. Mick eyed him, checking for blood and signs of trauma. Prophet shook his head. It didn't feel like he'd ripped his stitches.

Once the suspect was ensconced in a cop car and heading for the station, Cooper told Mick to take Prophet back to base. So Mick drove the SUV and kept a hand on Prophet's uninjured thigh. Once they were in the red cell's unconventional headquarters, he crowded into Prophet. His hands roamed, checking for injuries, his eyes pinned to Prophet's. Prophet let him.

His mapping done, Mick let out a breath and pressed their foreheads together for a long moment. Prophet fisted a hand in Mick's jacket. This was the job. This was the risk. Didn't make close calls any easier though.

Mick's mouth fused to Prophet's, hungry for taste and connection, for evidence that they were both good and present. Prophet pushed back, his tongue seeking Mick's, one of his hands gripping Mick's thick brown hair.

They stayed that way right up until the team's other SUV arrived. Mick trailed biting kisses from Prophet's mouth to his jaw to his cheek. Prophet's teeth marked a spot behind Mick's ear that always made him shiver. They both made promises.

Mick was drinking coffee and sending a text to his sister when, without warning, Shelly sat down opposite him.

"So I hear you're dating my ex-husband."

Mick didn't spit out his drink, but it was a near thing. "God, you know how to pick your moments, don't you."

Shelly poked his elbow, spilling his coffee. She was wearing the bracelet that Mick had bought for her last birthday. "Why the fuck did it take Jonathan so long to tell me? He's never waited before."

Mick had to shove past a sharp flicker of jealousy but her words lingered for a different reason. Prophet had waited. A good thing, right? Shelly grinned knowingly like she thought his expression was adorable. Mick shifted and narrowed his eyes.

"Just so you know, you and Prophet have the weirdest exes relationship."

Shelly snorted and ordered a pastrami sandwich and black coffee from a passing waitress. "No shouting, no blaming is a good thing, Mick."

"I could write a book about you two."

"Split the profits with me and we'll talk."

On the anniversary of the death of Mick's parents, Jenna called Prophet. He'd been expecting the call after the previous year and listened for as long as she needed him to. She sounded tearful but not overwhelmed. She was strong. She was going to spend the weekend with cousins. She'd already talked to Mick but she was sure that he'd been shutting down, trying to protect her as always from his own pain and still-raw sadness.

"Thanks, Prophet."

She didn't need to specify.

Prophet let Cooper and Penelope know what was going down. Then he grabbed a bottle of good whisky, put his phone on silent, and went up to the roof to find Mick.

Prophet always tasted of lemons. Psychologically, Mick could profile that that indicated cleanness, freshness, alertness, something important that had gotten into Prophet's pores and had stayed there. Looking into Prophet's background would reveal that it was all about control after his time in prison, some repeated task that worked citrus under his skin and was a symptom of always being aware, always conscious, of the fact that he needed to stay on one side of the law. Mick grinned into Prophet's side and continued his journey downwards, nibbling on a hip bone.

Screw profiling. He just liked the taste.

-the end