Jennifer Carmichael-Flack, Rachael Cohen and Omar Bailey are my characters. Everyone else belongs to CBS. I'm just playin'. It's been a while, and I felt like some Flack-related fluff.

Jennifer Carmichael-Flack squeezed a blob of shampoo into the palm of her hand and massaged it into her dark hair. She huffed as her fingers snagged on the tangles in her soapy tresses and she tore her hair free with a sigh. The word 'frustrated' barely scratched the surface of how Jenny was feeling. She and her husband Don had been working opposite shifts for the last three weeks, through his birthday and their second wedding anniversary, totalling four missed calendar events so far this year: and it was only March. Jenny turned the water off and sighed again.

Tonight would be Jenny's first night off for three weeks. She'd had the night booked for nearly six months, but any fantasy of relaxing and pampering flew out of the window as she wandered back into her bedroom, wrapped in a fluffy white robe and rubbing her damp hair with a towel. The stack of laundry in the corner was nearly as high as she was tall and the bedside tables and the floor were littered with empty coffee-stained mugs. She dressed in yoga pants and one of her husband's old, worn NYPD sweatshirts and set to work.

If the bedroom were a battle site, the kitchen was a war zone. Empty plates and bowls were stacked in the sink and on every available surface and a strange, unpleasant smell emanated from the fridge. Jenny threw an armful of dirty clothing into the washing machine, pulled a pair of pink rubber gloves from a cupboard and set about filling the sink with hot water. So much for not working today.

ooo

Don Flack growled a low, frustrated growl as he dropped into the chair behind his desk. This was his thirty-seventh consecutive working day and the twenty-third day since he last saw his wife. He had just interviewed a man in relation to a case whose evidence was circumstantial at best and no one they could find to speak to could even be considered a suspect at this time. The case was going nowhere and more cases were coming in almost hourly. Don was exhausted. He'd only been on shift for two hours.

He buried himself in the paperwork that had been building for weeks: the stack was growing so tall it was becoming unstable and "Flack's leaning tower of reports" had already become the joke of the precinct. The monotony of filling out forms and signing his name was enough to kill an hour and a half before a shadow fell over his desk. He looked up to see his curly-haired crime lab colleague Stella Bonasera holding out a steaming paper cup.

"Thought this might soften the blow. We got a lead on the Manson case," she began.

"Isn't that good news?" Don took the cup and took a long, grateful drink. "That case has been going nowhere for nearly a week."

"The lead is in Jersey City." Stella finished her previous sentence with a sigh.

"Great," Flack responded. His voice held no enthusiasm. He stood and stretched his arms high above his head before slipping them into his favourite leather jacket and snatching his coffee up from the desk. "Let's go, then."

ooo

Five hours later, clutching the paint-stained shoulder of a handcuffed man's plaid shirt, Don marched back into the precinct with a face like thunder. It never ceased to amaze him the lengths to which a person would go to hurt another and his faith in humanity was rapidly deteriorating. This was one of the worst cases he'd been dealt in a long time. Stella led them into an empty interrogation room and Don pushed the man into the cold metal chair.

"Talk." He demanded.

ooo

It hadn't been easy, but Don and Stella had finally got a confession – or an implication that served as good as – and Jeffrey Holmes was on his way to Sing Sing. It was three o clock, Don noted, as he pulled another pile of reports in front of him, he had another three hours of his shift to go. That is, of course, no more calls came in and turned it into a double.

"Hey Flack, see you tonight, man?" Omar Bailey stopped by Don's desk on his way out. He'd changed from his uniform into jeans and a white button-down shirt. Rachael Cohen draped an arm over his shoulder as she came to a stop beside him.

"Tonight?" Don looked up from yet another report, confused. He knew many of the younger officers routinely met for drinks and pool tournaments in a cop-friendly bar just down the block, but he couldn't remember agreeing to join them recently.

"The ball," Rachael told him. "Dress blues, posh frocks, cheap champagne, schmoozing…"

"Shit, the ball," Don's head dropped and he scrubbed his tired eyes with a clenched fist. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be there."

"Later, then!" Omar and Rachael waved gaily before playfully shoving each other out of the door. Don let himself smile briefly at their game before engrossing himself in paperwork. Just two and a half hours to go. His thoughts quickly shifted to his wife. He hadn't seen her for more than three weeks. He knew she'd booked tonight off work months ago. He'd tried to do the same but his request had been denied instantly and he'd resigned himself to working and rushing to the ball at the end of his shift – assuming he finished on time, of course. He expected Jenny would be soaking her tired feet in a bowl of hot water right now. A foot spa was her favourite method of relaxation. As a nurse, she found manicures useless and impractical, but a good pedicure soothed her overworked feet and she loved the secret of beautiful toes inside her shoes.

Don's eyes strayed to the photograph taped to the corner of his computer monitor. The picture had been taken on a Tuesday afternoon in Central Park. It was about a month after they'd got engaged and the leaves on the trees were visions in tangerine and scarlet. Jenny had been eating a hot dog from their favourite street vendor when Don had turned to her, camera in hand, and she'd grinned around the sausage. The wind had picked up her hair and blown it out around her head like a fashion shoot. She looked more carefree and happy than Don had seen her in a long time. In fact, he hadn't seen her at all in a long time.

ooo

It had taken most of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon, but the kitchen was finally sparkling and all the laundry was done, folded and put away. Old magazines and newspapers had been thrown into the recycling box and the entire apartment had been dusted, straightened and polished. Jenny had even swapped a few old photographs in frames for more recent ones.

She checked her watch. It was nearly five. Ordinarily she would be hurriedly chewing on a slice of toast while twisting her hair into her trademark braided bun, slipping her feet into shoes and searching for her keys right now. It seemed foreign to her to have a night off work after so many consecutive shifts. She glanced at the table in the hallway of the apartment. Beneath her keys was a pair of shiny tickets to tonight's Policeman's Ball. The dress code was 'black tie' and Jenny had found the perfect dress.

In the bedroom, Jenny pulled the garment bag from her wardrobe and laid it out on the bed. She headed for the en-suite bathroom and took another quick shower to rid herself of a day spent cleaning. The hot water soothed her shoulders and cleansed her dust-clogged pores. A few minutes later, wrapped in her fluffy robe, she sat in front of a mirror and brushed pink shimmering powder over her cheeks. She lined her eyes in dark grey kohl and slicked black mascara onto her lashes. Satisfied, she turned to the bed. She pulled the dress from the garment bag and slipped into it with practiced ease. She pulled a pair of sequinned kitten heels from a box in the bottom of her wardrobe and tugged them onto her feet. Ready.

ooo

At five minutes past six, Don signed his name with a flourish, re-capped his pen and signed himself out for the day. In the locker room, he took a quick shower under lukewarm water, mentally praising himself for remembering to keep a small bottle of shower gel in his locker. His dress uniform had been hanging there for a week already, after Jenny had left a note with a gentle reminder that he ought to do it now, lest he forget on the day. He marvelled once more at how smart and intuitive she was as he buttoned his jacket. How did she know he'd forget all about the Ball?

The evening was set to begin promptly at six forty-five and Don checked his watch as he left the precinct. It was six thirty: he had fifteen minutes to get there. He wondered briefly if he'd bump into his wife on the way, but dismissed the thought quickly: she was probably there already, chatting away like old friends with someone she'd only just met. He walked quickly, dodging camera-toting tourists, and stopped outside with a minute to spare. He stepped inside.

The room was bigger than he remembered, decorated in dark blue and silver. He was stopped on his way in by both the chief of detectives and by Omar and Rachael, both already giggling loudly and enjoying the champagne being handed out by hired waiters. Don scanned the room for his wife. His eyes found her before his brain did, settling on the slim figure of a woman in a navy blue knee-length dress with an A-line skirt, embellished with tiny sequins and rhinestones. The skirt sparkled in the light as she moved slightly to the music playing in the background. He made his way over to her.

"You look incredible," he whispered in her ear, gently brushing her chocolate hair away from her neck. He wrapped his arms around her and breathed in the sweet scent of her apple shampoo. She relaxed into him, feeling the residual tension in her muscles finally start to release. She didn't need to speak.

A few moments later, they took their seats, hand in hand, at a table they shared with Detective Scagnetti and Danny, Lindsay and Stella, three of Don's colleagues from the crime lab. Jenny shook hands with John Scagnetti and his date for the evening and hugged Danny, Lindsay and Stella. She turned to the large stage which had been set up at the front of the room and watched expectantly as the city's Chief of Police walked to the lectern in the centre. An hour and a half of speeches and presentations followed. Danny mimed falling asleep and snoring several times until Lindsay finally poked him in the side and glared.

"Our final presentation tonight is to one of the city's finest young detectives," the chief began. He accepted a small wooden frame and box from an assistant who swiftly returned to his seat behind the chief. "For his great work in last November's Huntsdown case, and to say thank you for putting his life on the line to keep this city safe, the New York City Police Department wishes to award the Combat Cross to Detective Donald Flack, Junior."

The room filled with the roar of cheers and applause, Danny's loudest of all.

"Flack, man, why didn't ya say anything?" he asked as his best friend stood, blushing. Don smiled weakly and accepted a handshake before walking towards the stage.

"Take tomorrow off, son," the Chief told him, shaking his hand and pausing for photographs. Don accepted a medal and a framed certificate of thanks before returning to his seat sheepishly.

"Didn't wanna make a fuss," he answered Danny's earlier question.

"Flack, it's the combat cross," Stella protested. "It is a fuss."

Don just smiled as the waiters carried plates of food to the tables and everyone began to eat. He looked around the room and saw Omar and Rachael dancing together, holding each other close – the liquid courage of the champagne had given them the push they needed. He turned to his wife. His heart swelled with pride as he watched her in animated conversation with his colleagues and not for the first time, he realised how much he'd missed her lately. He rested his hand on her shoulder and she turned to him. Her smile grew wider than he'd ever seen it. She reached up to cover his hand with hers and squeezed it gently, before turning back to continue her conversation.

Tonight, he'd go home with his wife and tomorrow, they'd have the day together. That was all they needed.