He slams the door. “Who is she?”

“No one of consequence,” Crawford answers.

Blue eyes narrow tightly, “You’re lying.”

“Why would I do something like that?” He pauses to consider the other’s actions, “Schuldig, you’re jealous.”

“Like fuck.” Hair tossed, arms crossed, wearing a scowl instead of his trademarked smirk, he turns away.

“You are.”

"You are." Insolent and singsong childishly the words are repeated. “As if you’re anything to be jealous of?” Door opens, and he slams it again on his way out.

Crawford speaks to an empty room knowingly, “Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?”