Unsung Hero

June 17th, 1545 Hours

I like flowers.  Who doesn't?  Call me girly.  I don't care.  Chances are, you like flowers too.  If you don't, you're either allergic to them, or you're lying. On the other hand, I care if the P.D. calls me girly. You have to maintain a tough-guy reputation around here, and I'm already pushing it with the whole pink sprinkle thing. Even Frankie, who's about four feet tall with blonde hair down to her back, curses and spits with the best of 'em. She can outdraw most of the guys, too. It took her years to get any kind of respect, though, and it can go right down the drain in a tenth of the time. Everyone has to tread lightly at the P.D.

When a package of lilies shows up at the station with my name on it, I pretend I don't care. There's the obligatory, "Pfft, flowers?" while my colleagues whistle and hoot, then I read the tag with a smirk. All it says is "Thank you" in loopy handwritten cursive. Don't know what I did to deserve these. Doesn't really matter, and I'm not gonna argue. They're nice. They smell nice. The lilies are—for lack of a better word—pretty. But no one is going to find out I like flowers; the P.D. is my family, and I'd never tell them. I can't. Not in a million years. These are going in the "garbage," meaning somewhere in my office, out of sight.

When I brush past Frankie, bored, stretched out in an office chair with her feet on her desk, she calls, "You get asked to prom, Fisher?"

"None of your beeswax," I snap, holding the bouquet a little tighter.  "Get back to work.  You've been sitting there all day."

"Aw, Fisher, you're blushing!" Frankie laughs, sitting up. Everyone else is at their desks, either pretending to be on the phone or shamelessly watching the scene play out. I can't really get angry at her for sitting there. Faulkner isn't exactly a dangerous city; people are too afraid of the heroes to commit crimes. We get maybe three calls a day. The mayor's worried about some major catastrophe, though, so he wants at least ten of us on duty at any given time. Waste of resources, if you ask me. As a taxpayer myself, I'm not exactly overjoyed to have ten officers bearing the weight two or three of us could.

"Chill, Frankie."  Now I can really feel my face heating up.  Telling anyone they're blushing is a sure-fire way to make it a true statement.  "Gonna start paying you by decade."

"Only get a day off once every ten years anyway."

I'm ready to say something sarcastic in response when I realize she's probably right.  I don't remember my last day off.  Must have been boring, or maybe I never had one.  No wonder my social life went downhill after college.  Well, not even downhill.  More like straight off a cliff.  I can't do anything but clear my throat and mutter, "Touché."

Frankie just grins at me and puts her feet back on the desk. I think she knows the lilies aren't going in the garbage. I'll never hear the end of this.

I take them to my office anyway, hoping I can find some way to keep the lilies alive until I leave work. Maybe the "World's Greatest Uncle" mug I got from my niece, whom I haven't seen in five years. I've never used it. Coffee's not my thing, and there's nothing worse than reading a lie you wish were the truth every day. My real family—that's not the right word. The P.D. is just as real as they are, and we'd take a bullet for each other.  That's the difference. My relatives live in South Carolina. I miss them. Just not enough to leave Faulkner.

Before I can even dig the mug out of my desk's messy drawers, the radio chirps for the first time all day. I heave a sigh and tell dispatch to go ahead while I sift through pencils and paperclips.