They called us renowned, and in truth, we were. Everyone knew of us, and about us. The city praised us for things we did, and condemned us when we screwed up. But they never told us we didn't know how to do our jobs.
They called her conventional, and she was. A cop who'd had her father before her, a reputation to live up to and shoes to fill. She did it admirably, moving up until she came to the Major Case Squad where she stayed. And then things changed.
They called me an oddball, and I suppose I was; I never paid much attention. They partnered her with me, along with the theory that a conventional cop could "tame" me, so to speak. It worked. She got used to me, I got used to her, and we remained partners.
They called us flawless, which we both found ridiculous. There were things that were wrong with our work, and we knew it. But no one else ever really seemed to. So we ignored it, and went about our business.
They called us honest, and trustworthy, and we tried to be, to each other, our captain, and the department. We wanted to be people that others could count on, and we were. Justice was served more often than not because of us. The city watched, but as usual, never found anything wrong.
I called myself acquired, to reassure her. There she was, broken and upset in the courthouse, and it was all I could think of to say. She wanted to know that we would be all right, and that was all I could tell her.
She called herself an idiot because of that letter. But I never blamed her for it. I couldn't because I understood. We continued on as we had before, and our captain watched, waiting for any changes. But there were never any for him to see.
So he called us invincible, claiming that there wasn't anything in the world that could stop us. But we had our weaknesses. Hers just were never as obvious as mine. My past haunted me more often than not. She was there to pick up the pieces of myself that I left behind. And I loved her more than anything for it.
The department called us lovers, and though we were, they couldn't prove it, so we remained partners. Our work didn't change because of our relationship. If anything, it got better. Those that knew our state left us alone; those that didn't continued to speculate. But what they saw was perfection, and it was the way we kept it.
I called myself a perpetual bachelor once; she smirked and told me to watch: I'd end up married. And when I looked at her standing across from me on our wedding day, I couldn't have been happier. And true to her word, she laughed at me when it was over. I kissed her and told her I loved her, and that was that.
She called me a pushover later on, after the birth of our first child, and I ignored her. At least, I did at first. I called her wonderful, a miracle, and she rolled her eyes, told me to get over myself and we went to work.
They called us unstoppable. That anything we wanted, we got, whether it be a search warrant, a court order for DNA or a confession. But what they didn't know was that we could be stopped. We were mere mortals and could be destroyed just as easily as we were created. Blood soaked my clothes, and I fell to the floor with her in my arms.
They called me a nervous wreck, and I was. Hospitals never were my favorite place to be. I paced, ignoring the stares of the others, everyone from Captain Deakins to ADA Carver. And when someone else came in, I turned, anxiously, dreading what I thought I would hear. But my assumptions were wrong. They told me that she'd make it and in that instant, I felt my heart lift again.
They called us unbreakable. And when she woke up a few days later, took my hand, called me an idiot, told me she'd be fine and that I was to go home, I knew it was true.