...until the depths give up their dead.

It's driving Martin insane, but he can't remember the entire quote. He's not even sure what it is that he's trying to remember, doesn't remember if it's something he's read in a book, seen in a movie, or just picked up through general pop culture osmosis. Whatever it is, though, it's already happened- the paramedics left with Jessica Fawkes' body twenty minutes ago, and now he and Danny are the only ones on the beach.

None of their cases are easy, but kids are the worst. The faces smiling down from the whiteboard are always straight out of the yearbook, braces and acne and promise all mixed together. They always look so happy, those pictures.

Jessica had passed those awkward years, the ones Martin sometimes half-suspects he never quite grew out of, escaped the indignities of pimples and crooked teeth. Even her promise was becoming reality: she graduated with honors two weeks ago.

She didn't come home Tuesday night.

Forty-eight frantic hours of investigation failed to turn up anything. No drinking, no drugs, no abuse, no debts, no boyfriends, no girlfriends, no pregnancies, no fights, no enemies, no problems. No leads.

The fact that they have a standard checklist for missing teenagers is profoundly depressing.

It wasn't until this morning that they found her car parked at the head of a beach access path, this afternoon that they found her body. They'd known she was a swimmer- team captain, backstroke champion, scholarship winner. They hadn't known about her favorite method of summer training. She hadn't known about the undertow.

The beach spent an hour doing its best impression of a kicked anthill, but now it's practically deserted. Just him and Danny, and they're sitting on the sand staring out at the ocean that killed Jessica Fawkes. The paperwork's waiting, but it's too late for triplicate forms to make any real difference. No one who hasn't died already is going to get hurt because their reports are turned in Monday.

Jackets, ties, shoes, and socks are in a pile up closer to the car. The Suit may be an indispensable part of the FBI image, but at this time of year it's also a portable sauna. It's not until everyone else leaves that they can shed layers, unbutton collars, and roll sleeves in an effort to get some relief.

The sun is beating down, but the breeze off the water is cool and the waves are just barely lapping at their feet. The ocean is a beautiful sight, the beach is silent except for a few gulls, and Danny's shoulder is warm and solid under his head.

Their part's over now.

Title: What It Is
Author: rokeon
Rating: G
Feedback: Anything you particularly liked or hated?
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, they're CBS's. More's the pity.
Archive: Wonderful, just let me know.
Summary: Drabble- It's not a ring.


It's not a ring.

It's not a marriage license, not a civil union. It's not sanction from the FBI, certainly not a blessing from his father. It's not names in each other's wills, on adoption papers or mortgage contracts or even matching movie ticket stubs.

It's rug burn. It's a nasty red rash on his knees that's been there for a week now, not cyclically growing and fading like it has for the past two months but getting steadily worse.

It stings like hell, and it's not remotely like a ring, but Martin thinks he could get used to it.