Yeah I know everyone does it, but I just couldn't resist.

For all the husbands, wives, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, and friends that would never come home after September 11, 2001, and for those who remember them still.

Today, we honor our heroes.

--

It's been a long day.

All our days are long, just because of the death we see on a regular basis. I'm thankful that I still consider the days long, that I haven't become accustomed to the death, the suffering.

He sits at his desk, bent over, his head resting on one hand, the other scribbling in a report, the skyline lit up outside the windows behind him. I can't see his face, can't read his expression. He doesn't move, minus the twitching of his hand as he signs his name. He folds the file cover over the document, setting it on the side of his desk for tomorrow, and still not seeing me, stands and turns to the windows, staring outside at the blanket of twilight over the city.

I finally pull open the door and step inside, not interrupting his silence. I know he's heard me, but he does not speak, instead letting the quiet ensue. I lean against the door frame, wondering if I should go up to him, or give him some space. I decide on the first. There was a time where I would have let him be, but I can't today. I come to stand beside him, our gazes locked on the buildings and lights of the city.

He had hid it well, for the most part. But I saw it; I always did. He was too quiet, and when he did speak it was half-hearted, solemn.

"They all talked to me today," I began, "Danny, Lindsay, Hawkes, Flack, Sid, Adam. They all wanted to know if you were okay. We're all here, you know."

He nodded, after a moment.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, absorbed in our own thoughts; it felt like hours. Finally, I gave his arm a gentle squeeze and turned away, a silent message sent that said, you know where to find me.

"Can you believe it's been eight years?" he asked, not looking at me, still partially lost in thought.

"…I know. It's a long time," I reply, not sure of what I should say.

Now I'm worried. Not extremely, but I don't want to leave him alone like this. I rest a hand on his shoulder. To my surprise, he covers it with his own.

"Thank you, Stella," he murmurs.

For what exactly he is thanking me for, I do not know. For being a friend? He doesn't need to thank me for that.

He removes his hand, and after a moment, I remove mine. The message remains.

I'm here, if you need me.

I think about the day as I get my coat and head for the elevator. So many innocent people. So many lives lost. That's why we do this job, day in, day out. Why we confront the death, the suffering. We face it so that maybe, in the short time we have, we can atone for some of the evil that has been done. We can bring some measure of peace to the world, and prove that our losses have not been in vain. We can do good.

I know he knows that, and it is what he holds onto.

Because of that, he'll put today behind him, as if nothing had happened. We have to believe.

Tomorrow will be better.