Johanssen's always been a bit cynical.

It comes with the job; there's only so many times you can look at gruesome crime scenes before you start to get a twisted view of humanity. The Ares agency is certainly better at solving crimes than the generally-indifferent cops, and that does help. It's not easy, digging through all these victims' worst mistakes only to report back to the family that it's usually who they'd warned their kid or their cousin or whoever away from the first place.

She'd been planning for every worst outcome before Lewis ever recruited her, to the combined chagrin and relief of her parents, happy she's safe but less than happy that she shows no sign of settling down with a nice man anytime soon.

If only they knew how it all actually shook out.

She's distracted from her thoughts when Venkat finally leaves the office like he'd said he was going to twenty minutes prior. The client who'd brought them their most successful case, and a good informant if not entirely trustworthy. He looks harried today, like he usually does, dark circles under his eyes showing Johanssen's not the only one who's had sleepless nights lately.

"Kapoor," she says. She kindly doesn't mention that he'd left her waiting in the everpresent rain, suit soaked through and deeply uncomfortable no matter how used she is to it.

"Beth," he says, and she waits for him to look down at the the sheaf of papers in his hands before rolling his eyes. Beck never has this problem, and Mark always asks--well, asked-- "Alright, got it here. A list of everyone who's asked me or Mitch anything about your operation in the past year. Don't have anything further back than that."

"Thanks," she says, not asking why he'd kept this up for that long anyway. Not smart to look a gift horse in the mouth, and she'll take whatever she can get to try and help solve this. Some of the names aren't surprising--Mindy Park, who they'd helped in locating her best friend Annie; Annie Montrose, who'd demanded any and all information they collected about her during her case destroyed or given back, and one of their best sources of information; Rich Purnell, who worked mostly with Vogel. "See you."

"Wait," he says, and she stops. "If there's anything I can do, let me know. I hope you catch this son of a bitch."

Johanssen nods. "Me too."

--

The night Johanssen meets Lewis isn't that different from the ones before it. She's busy writing notes about the brainstorming session she'd had to transcribe earlier, editing their half-baked ideas into something that might actually work, even be marketable. No one in the place seems likely to listen to her, but if she presents it along with the notes from the meeting tomorrow, she's sure someone will claim ownership, praise her quick typing, and hopefully it gets implemented.

Assuming anyone actually reads it.

She's at the bar closest to her apartment, a dingy little hole-in-the-wall where the only thing worse than the drinks is the company. People leave her alone, though, after word had spread of her stabbing someone who'd been too-forward with her pencil. Apparently it had gotten infected or something; she didn't care to pry further. Her paycheck is enough to pay for somewhere better, but there's not much point in risking a long walk home when drunk.

When someone sits across from her, she assumes they're going to realize who she is and leave, or the bartender will yell something and distract them enough that she can kick them in the shin. After a minute of that not happening, she looks up, irritated.

The woman sitting across from her--explains the boldness--is quietly refined in a way that doesn't fit this place. Doesn't fit Johanssen much, either. She has this beautiful red hair, even with most of it tied back, a dimple in her chin, and a calm in her gaze that Johanssen can't help but envy.

"Beth Johanssen?"

Her earlier irritation recedes only to make room for anxiety, and her grip around the pencil shifts to be more stab-friendly. "Depends who's asking."

"A friend," says the woman. "And someone who thinks you're wasted at that company. What is it, Infocom?"

"Something like that," Johanssen says. "So corporate espionage is your angle? I don't have my transcriptions on me, I'm afraid."

"I'm a friend of Martinez's," says the woman.

Just like that, Johanssen's a hell of a lot more willing to listen to the woman. Martinez is an old coworker, her favorite, the only one willing to acknowledge her work and funny to boot. He'd left ages back; she figured it was just because the hours weren't great for someone with a kid on the way. "You could open with that next time."

The woman smiles; it's a nice smile, but it doesn't soften her. If anything, she looks even more commanding with it on her face. "I'm Melissa. Lewis."

"Alright, Lewis," Johanssen asks. "What exactly do you want?"

--

The Hermes building is one of the city's nicest. Well, used to be. When it was built it was this shiny bastion of progress, but it's seen better days. There are bars on the windows of the bottom level, some of the rooms are too hot to do anything but sweat in, and any office too close to the bathrooms...

Less said about that, the better.

The elevator ride up to Ares isn't any less terrifying the millionth time she's done this, the thing creaking like it's going to give out and send her skyrocketing up to the top or careening to the bottom, leaving her as a red mush against its dusty art-deco decals. But it lets her off at the 13th floor like it always has, cheerfully dinging to tell her she's arrived.

Vogel's saying something in German on the phone, words terser and tenser than they usually are. Martinez is hunched over his desk, crossing things off a list. It's running out of leads; Johanssen's running out of patience.

"Beth!" Beck calls, and she smiles at him, sure her exhaustion shows in it. "Did you--"

She nods before he's even done speaking, holding up the paper that Venkat gave her. Martinez whoops, wincing when Vogel turns to him with a glare. "Yeah. Hopefully something sticks out."

Beck nods. Mark would've said "it will", the type of idealistic optimism that only Martinez ever gets close to.

Of course, if Mark were here, they wouldn't still be in the office. Martinez would be home with his kid, Vogel with siene Affen, Lewis in some dance bar with her husband like she's still 20. And Johanssen would be home, warm and comfortable. She could, still, Beck at her side, but it only ever feels empty, too-quiet.

Vogel hangs up. "Nothing from the docks."

Johanssen nods to acknowledge she's heard him before settling at her own desk, putting down the paper. "Where's Lewis?"

"Still searching the parks," Martinez says.

Of the office, he's the only one who refuses to say out loud what they all know, have known since a box showed up at their doorstep with a hand in it days after Mark had gone missing. Some days it pisses Johanssen off, makes her want to scream and claw at him until he says it, because she can't stop thinking about it, so he shouldn't get any peace if she and Beck can't, no one in this city should. Most days, she just stays quiet and keeps working.

"No one at any of the hospitals' morgues have found anyone that looks anything like him," Beck says. "Said they'd let me know if they did."

Before this, they'd been pretty good at keeping up a friendly chatter unless the case was particularly horrible: victim too young, too much blood, found a block away from an elementary school, all of the above. (That last one had kept Beck awake for weeks; he'd drunk more heavily than any of them for too-long afterwards.) Now, they're all silent, the scratching of pencil or pen on paper the only noise in the office.

The sun's long since set when Lewis walks in, visibly agitated, sitting down in her desk and reaching for the bottle of bourbon she keeps in her desk before anyone can so much as ask why she's so pissed.

"So the glitterati weren't helpful?"

Lewis shakes her head before drinking directly from the bottle. "Bupkis. Didn't matter how many greenbacks I slipped the staff, either. Any of you?"

A chorus of no. Johanssen's grip around her pencil is tight enough to snap, and Beck grabbing her hand doesn't help like it used to. "Do we have anything?"

"I haven't finished going through Venkat's leads," Johanssen says. "Most of them don't--I'll let you know."

"That's something," Lewis says, tired and unconvincing.

No one calls her on it.

--

"I'm not a detective," Johanssen says, disbelieving. The bar's long-since closed, the two of them smoking outside Johanssen's apartment building. (She's not convinced enough to invite her in, yet.) "Martinez recommended me?"

"'Brightest mind in that place' is what he said," Lewis corrects. "And we need another broad in our business. I promise, it'll be better than working with those yucks."

"Doubt the pay's half-as-good, though," Johanssen says. "And sorry, but I'm not exactly looking to get into the business of relying on something that's gonna go belly up the second you cross the wrong person."

"Been going well so far," Lewis says mildly. Johanssen has no idea what it'll take to shake her; she kind of wants to find out. "Look, how 'bout this? Take my business card, drop by on your next day off, and if you're not interested after that, I'll leave you alone. Heck, I'll give you the bourbon I keep in my desk if you do."

"How good is it?"

"Pretty damn good. Saving it for a special occasion. Or a terrible one. Whichever comes first."

Johanssen laughs, dropping her cigarette and crushing it beneath her heel. "You in the habit of making bets you'll lose?"

Lewis smirks. "No."

--

Johanssen's run through every name on the list she recognizes and a few she doesn't, down to less than six names. She hadn't exactly had a lot of hope going into this--cynicism's stronger than any other way to stay on the beam--but finds herself angry anyway. At the world, at Venkat Kapoor, at Mark, as fucked up as that is.

Beck rests a hand on her shoulder. She doesn't turn to look at him even as she stops aggressively scratching out the name Neil (died six months prior). "Let's head home."

Johanssen thinks she'd rather sleep in the office or go on a bender or taking her revolver and taking everything she feels out on the hide of everyone who let it happen, but she sets her pencil down anyway, follows Beck down the elevator and into their beat-up black Cadillac.

Their place is nicer than the Hermes building, which isn't saying much. It's not exactly in the sticks, but it's far enough that it's peaceful. Mark had loved it, loved the backyard, tending to the plants that had never quite gotten enough sun, loved the quiet, loved watching the neighbors try to figure out which of them was seeing Johanssen and which was the down-on-their-luck roommate who had to live with the newlyweds while the three of them laughed, Beck's arm around Mark's back.

They don't say anything anymore, getting ready for and in bed like it's a chore, even when Beck rolls on top of Johanssen and kisses her, or when she kisses back. This never used to be like this; it was joyful, fun, something she'd smile about, staring off into the middle distance until Martinez elbowed her, calling her khaki wacky or some other stupid slang she couldn't help but grin at.

Now, when Beck makes his way down her legs to get his mouth on her, she barely even moves her hips to help him along, does it more out of affection than any real desire to. She gets a hand on him for much the same reason, enjoys watching the way his face crumples even as she mostly just wants to sleep.

--

"Aw, duckie!" Mark says as Johanssen throws a pillow at him. "I'm touched! I didn't realize you liked me so much."

"You're obnoxious," she says, smiling too much for the words to have any weight. "Chris, tell him he's annoying."

"You're both annoying," Beck says, ducking as Mark throws another pillow her way. "I'm trying to read."

"Boo, cold fish," Johanssen says. "You have two of the prettiest people this side of town in your bed and you're reading medical journals?"

Tempted as he looks by the less-than-subtle flirtation, Beck turns the page, ignoring them both. Johanssen rolls her eyes and flops back on the bed, head flat against the mattress with most of the pillows on the floor behind her. Mark ends up dropping the pillow and doing the same, landing half on top of her. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I mean, Chris is the dreamboat, but you're not terrible," Johanssen says, and Mark agrees with a pleased hum. "This is generally the part where my gentleman caller would compliment me back."

"I'm pretty sure I've already called you the most beautiful dame in the city," Mark says, propping himself up a little higher. "Or was my constant supply of pet names not enough?"

"Mm, I don't know, I think you could do better."

Beck flips the page in a way that's somehow pointed, even though Johanssen's pretty sure he hasn't read a single word on the page.

"Sweetheart," Mark says, then winces. "Oof, no, makes me sound like a geezer. Darling? Eh, not a fan. Doll face?"

"That was a movie," Johanssen points out. "One that you dragged me to see, if you'll remember."

"Well, it's not like Chris could be dragged from his books long enough to enjoy it," Mark says. "Very pointed observation, chuck."

"Just because Shakespeare used it as an endearment doesn't mean you can pull it off," Johanssen says.

"You're such a square," Mark says, grinning down at her. She rolls her eyes even as she pulls him in, kissing him deeply and only letting him pull back to breathe. "Really? That's the one that works? Unconventional taste, but definitely suits you."

"Yeah, yeah, honey," Johanssen says. "I can definitely think of better things for you to do with that smart mouth."

Beck sighs, sounding more frustrated than annoyed.

Mark's smile turns mischievous. "Oh, really?"

"Really."

They manage to get her nightgown pushed up to her hips before Beck does set down the book, forgetting all pretense of not paying close attention but too stubborn to admit to it out loud. She smiles at him as Mark presses a quick, fond kiss on her stomach. "Oh, but your book."

"Beth," Beck says, warning.

"Mark," Johanssen says. "What about pet names for Chris here?"

"Angel face," Mark says, quickly enough that he'd definitely already been thinking about it. "Or is that only for dames?"

"Hm, not sold," Johanssen says, shivering when Mark moves a little lower. "What about, ah, kitten?"

"I don't hate that," Mark says. "For him, anyway. He's cute, fits him better than me."

"Aw, you're plenty handsome," Johanssen says, hand cupping his face fondly.

Mark grins up at her, settled between her legs. Beck shifts on the bed but doesn't move any closer. "Come on, Chris, you've got Beth Johanssen in your bed and you're gonna keep her waiting?"

Beck groans, eyes falling shut. "You two are gonna be the death of me."

God, Johanssen hopes not. "Kitten, don't make us tell you twice."

--

The last name on the list is one Theodore "Teddy" Sanders, some bigwig officer who City Hall says gets paid peanuts but somehow lives in the nicest neighborhood here, glittering skyrises almost managing to make you forget the country's barely out of the Great goddamn Depression. She should've brought someone with her, but she's on the knife's edge of losing it, and she doesn't think she could take Lewis' sternness or Martinez's hope or Beck's sad puppy eyes.

And Vogel was busy tailing Venkat in case he'd been holding something back. She doubts it, but better safe than sorry.

For a cop, the man's remarkably careless, getting into his car and tossing his gun into the passenger seat without even looking back as he reverses. It keeps him from seeing her in the backseat, and she's quiet as a mouse as she sits up and gets a knife at his throat.

He freezes. "Who's paying you?"

"I'm not as easily bought as you, chicken," she hisses. "Drive."

He does. "What do you want?"

"What do you know about Mark Watney?"

"Who the hell is--"

Johanssen digs the knife a little deeper, not enough to cut but just shy of it. "I've never heard such cock-eyed crap in my life."

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. I don't know anything."

With her free hand, Johanssen cocks her gun. A bead of sweat runs down Teddy's brow. "That doesn't jive with my information."

"Fine, alright, I get it, you're not gullible," he says. "All I know is that he's some private investigator. I don't know anything more than that, and I definitely don't know why you're asking me."

"Why are you looking for gumshoes? Shouldn't that be your job?"

"It's a--private matter. My wife--"

Johanssen rolls her eyes. "I don't care about your wife. Tell me everything you know."

"That is everything I know."

Johanssen weighs whether or not she believes him. It could be bullshit; all cops do is lie, and they can be half-decent at it. But she's got a gun and a knife on him, and he seems genuinely embarrassed about the wife thing. "Who told you to go to Venkat?"

"Annie, a secretary at the precinct--"

Shit, and Annie wouldn't recommend someone if she didn't trust them. "Fuck! This was useless."

"Yeah, seems like you'd know Annie," Teddy says. "You sure you want to be a PI? This kind of initiative, you'd do well in our office. Annie can tell you, it's not a half-bad job. Probably safer than any of the shenanigans you all get into."

"You don't know anything about us," Johanssen says, venomous, a defense that's been on the tip of her tongue for months.

"You're driven. Reminds me a lot of when I was a rookie on the fo--"

Johanssen laughs, sharp and mean. "I'm nothing like you. I will never be like you."

"The moral grandstanding would work better if you didn't have a gun at my head."

"...pull over."

Teddy does, and Johanssen gets out of the car without a second word, heading back to Hermes with her hand still on her gun, hidden in the folds of her coat.

--

Hermes is a brand-new, shiny building, the dramatic lines and gold detailing on the building as beautiful as any painting Johanssen's ever looked at. She almost doubts whether or not she's come to the right place, but no, the address on the card Lewis gave her matches.

Johanssen heads up to the thirteenth floor, trying not to twiddle her thumbs too much. She's just curious, is all. There's no way she'll go for this detective thing, told her parents as much when they chatted on the phone earlier, wasn't stung at all by their obvious relief when she said so. It's free bourbon; she wouldn't pass that up.

"Johanssen!" Martinez says once she walks in. "Vogel, you owe me."

"2 dollars," says some German guy, resigned. "You will bankrupt me."

"Very Versailles of you," says some blond guy, grinning at the pair of them. Martinez laughs at that, and Vogel hands over the greeenbacks without much grumbling. "I'm Mark. Good to meet you, Beth. Or do you prefer Johanssen?"

"Johanssen," she says, shaking his hand. They hold the handshake for a beat longer than she normally would, and his cheeks are just the littlest bit pink when he does end up dropping it. "Is Lewis here?"

"Oh, she just stepped out for a second," says someone in the back, an equally good-looking guy with brown hair. He's less subtle than Mark about checking her out, but does duck his gaze when she meets his, more respectful than most of the bozos she runs into. "Should be back before I'm done with this."

"You're such a drip, Beck," Mark says with an eyeroll. "You know most people stop with the studying once they graduate med school, don't you?"

"Most people stay doctors once they graduate med school," Beck says. "I'm already breaking convention. Might as well keep going."

"Can't fault that," Mark says, gaze as intent on Beck as it was on her. That's--interesting. "Let me show you around?"

"Sure," she says, and takes his arm when he offers it. The place isn't that big; the "tour" takes about ten minutes, most of which is spent with him telling a story about how he and Beck got sauced on a stakeout and almost missed their client's mistress sneaking out with half the contents of his safe. It's funny, and she doesn't even have to fake her laugh.

"Did Beck really tackle her?"

"Oh, propriety goes out the window on a case," Mark says. "Never really been my thing, anyway."

"Is that so?" she says, smirking up at him.

Before he can answer, Lewis walks in, smiling when she notices Johanssen. "I'm glad you showed up. Still want that drink?"

Johanssen bites her lip, watches Mark watch her as she does it. "Think I'm alright."

"Thought so," Lewis says, watching them with an expression that's less surprised and more resigned. "Your desk'll be next to Beck's."

"Oh, you'll like the good doctor," Mark says, walking her over even though it's a few steps away. "Handsome guy like that."

"Jealous?"

"Should I be nervous?" Beck asks, looking at the two of them with an expression that's probably supposed to be annoyed, but the smile playing at the corner of his mouth keeps it from being convincing.

"Of course," Johanssen says right as Mark says, "Well, obviously."

--

"Nothing?" Martinez asks, desperation clear in the lines of his face and the tension in his shoulders.

Johanssen sits down at her desk and scratches out Teddy Sanders harshly enough that the paper tears. "Nothing. Put him through the wringer, too."

Lewis nods, ever stalwart in the face of a crisis. "Does anyone have anything else? Anything?" No one speaks up, and Johanssen wishes she'd shot the guy. Being dragged to prison has to be better than this awful silence. "Shit."

Beck cries at his desk, silent but obvious, and Martinez joins him. Johanssen wishes she could, but she still feels too--cold, even as Lewis offers her a glass. "I should've taken this in the first place."

"Would that really have been better?" Lewis asks, knowing what she means. She hopes Beck won't piece it together; it'd hurt him, no matter how much she means it right now.

Rather than answer, Johanssen drains the bourbon in one swig. It doesn't burn as bad as she's used to, and the second pour's even easier. She tries not to look at the expression on Beck's face, grieving and disappointed, the rage she still feels simmering in her gut either missing or so deeply buried she doubts he'll ever let her see it.

When Beck goes home, he doesn't try and bring Johanssen with him, leaving her at her desk. She doesn't get up to follow, staring down at the photo of the three of them on her desk. She's well-past tipsy, so she doesn't think twice before throwing the thing away from her, the glass of the frame shattering into a million pieces.

Johanssen falls asleep at her desk, dreaming of better times.

--

"Angel," Mark whispers, close enough to her ear that she can feel his breath fanning out against her skin.

"Mmf," Johanssen says.

"It's a beautiful morning," Beck says, though he notably hasn't gotten up either, from the way the bed dips down in the middle, letting their legs brush.

"You sure you don't want to get up and see it?" Mark asks.

"Mmf," Johanssen says, again. She feels it's a fair point.

"Our girl's not much of a morning person, huh?"

"Mmf!" Johanssen protests.

"Understatement," Mark says knowingly. "We could tip her out--"