Response #1 to "One Morning"
A bit over the word limit. Optimistic!AU or perhaps optimistic!possible ending. Too optimistic? You tell me.
She lives in a small town; the type where everyone knows everyone else’s life story, primary schools consider thirty-six kids a big grade, and nothing but the occasional drunk redneck breaks the peace. She lives with her loving husband and beautiful daughter, and most days she is content.
Every morning, she goes through the same routine. Get up, check gun, check exits, wake husband, get dressed, go for run, get back, feed baby, wait (in vain) for phone to ring in case of international emergency, eat breakfast, put baby in stroller, check gun again.
On the eight hundred and thirty-fourth morning, she forgets to wait for the phone.
On the one thousand, two hundred and twenty-second morning, she forgets to check for her gun, skipping to ‘wake husband’ and then checking her gun twice afterwards.
On the one thousand, two hundred and twenty-third morning, she remembers that she forgot to check exits the previous day, and checks twice to make up for it.
On the one thousand, four hundred and sixty-fourth morning, she stops counting.
Every morning, this life seems more and more real and the other more and more of a dream. Was she ever a spy? Did she ever know such things as espionage, lies, hatred, and violence? What’s SD-6 and APO? Did she ever use aliases? Was Julia Thorne one of them? Was Sydney Bristow?
Some mornings she wakes up to the sun spilling light and shadows onto her blankets, and this is her life: a life of a few close friends, her husband and daughter, teaching English in this small coastal Australian town, barbeques every second Saturday, and the occasional mass. For a second, she believes this with all her heart, and she is normal, delighted even; then the second passes, and she checks her gun.
The words ‘Rambaldi’, ‘espionage’, ‘APO’ and ‘CIA’ have all more or less faded into a rapidly diminishing background, almost as if parts of a dream. Sometimes her husband isn’t next to her when she wakes, or she asks her students to turn to page fourty-seven, or she hears about a bombing in a remote Russian town, and panic grips her heart for a moment; her daughter drops a cup, her students ask a question, her husband calls from the other room, and the spell is broken, and she is normal once more.
She wakes up instinctively one morning as someone enters her bedroom. Sitting up with an uncanny alertness for six a.m., she is greeted by a rush of brown hair and a bear hug.
“Bella? Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
The girl looks up, her eyes fearful. “Mummy, are you going to leave me?”
She is taken aback. “Mummy would never leave you, sweetheart.” She strokes her daughter’s long brown hair, attempting to comfort. “You probably just had a bad dream.”
“I... you said you were leaving, and daddy was leaving too.” The six-year-old sniffles, and her mother is reminded painfully of herself at that age, wondering yet again how much of the Derevko legacy she has passed on and will need to pass on.
“Bella, your daddy and I will never leave you. Pinky promise.” The girl manages a smile. “You want some breakfast? I know porridge always makes you feel better when you’re upset.”
“I’m not hungry,” the girl replies. “Mummy, will you tell me a story?”
Her daughter hasn’t requested a story for almost four months. “Sure, sweetheart. Have I told you the story of mummy almost being shot?”
Brown eyes widen in surprise. “No.”
So she recounts her experience with a bank named Credit Dauphine, and how her partner Marcus had almost died from a drive-by shooting incident in Rome; as she speaks, her daughter calms more and more and she knows her job here is done. Her daughter’s dream will fade, perhaps entirely, and she will be happy again.
As for her? Her dreams will mingle with reality, until reality is but a dream, until lies are no longer such harsh, cruel things, but instead fairytales built entirely on pure intentions. This is not a game of hide and seek, and she was silly to ever think it would be; it is a chance for rebirth, a normal life for her daughter, and perhaps happiness in an entirely different sense.
Some nights, she will dream. Some mornings, she will wake up not knowing who she is. But most nights, she’ll go to sleep with her husband at her side, and her daughter curled up between them, and she’ll be content; she’ll wake up with the morning sun bathing everything in brilliance, maybe check her gun, go for a run, get dressed for work while her husband cooks bacon, and she’ll be content. The darkest hour is always before dawn, and perhaps the life she had before was but a dream, a nightmare, a story for her daughter on cold winter nights. Every fight ends with a victory, every mission ends with an extraction, and every dream ends with a morning; perhaps this could be hers.
She lives in a small town; the type where everyone knows everyone else’s life story, primary schools consider thirty-six kids a big grade, and nothing but the occasional drunk redneck breaks the peace. She lives with her loving husband and beautiful daughter, and most days she is content.
Every morning, she goes through the same routine. Get up, check gun, check exits, wake husband, get dressed, go for run, get back, feed baby, wait (in vain) for phone to ring in case of international emergency, eat breakfast, put baby in stroller, check gun again.
On the eight hundred and thirty-fourth morning, she forgets to wait for the phone.
On the one thousand, two hundred and twenty-second morning, she forgets to check for her gun, skipping to ‘wake husband’ and then checking her gun twice afterwards.
On the one thousand, two hundred and twenty-third morning, she remembers that she forgot to check exits the previous day, and checks twice to make up for it.
On the one thousand, four hundred and sixty-fourth morning, she stops counting.
Every morning, this life seems more and more real and the other more and more of a dream. Was she ever a spy? Did she ever know such things as espionage, lies, hatred, and violence? What’s SD-6 and APO? Did she ever use aliases? Was Julia Thorne one of them? Was Sydney Bristow?
Some mornings she wakes up to the sun spilling light and shadows onto her blankets, and this is her life: a life of a few close friends, her husband and daughter, teaching English in this small coastal Australian town, barbeques every second Saturday, and the occasional mass. For a second, she believes this with all her heart, and she is normal, delighted even; then the second passes, and she checks her gun.
The words ‘Rambaldi’, ‘espionage’, ‘APO’ and ‘CIA’ have all more or less faded into a rapidly diminishing background, almost as if parts of a dream. Sometimes her husband isn’t next to her when she wakes, or she asks her students to turn to page fourty-seven, or she hears about a bombing in a remote Russian town, and panic grips her heart for a moment; her daughter drops a cup, her students ask a question, her husband calls from the other room, and the spell is broken, and she is normal once more.
She wakes up instinctively one morning as someone enters her bedroom. Sitting up with an uncanny alertness for six a.m., she is greeted by a rush of brown hair and a bear hug.
“Bella? Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
The girl looks up, her eyes fearful. “Mummy, are you going to leave me?”
She is taken aback. “Mummy would never leave you, sweetheart.” She strokes her daughter’s long brown hair, attempting to comfort. “You probably just had a bad dream.”
“I... you said you were leaving, and daddy was leaving too.” The six-year-old sniffles, and her mother is reminded painfully of herself at that age, wondering yet again how much of the Derevko legacy she has passed on and will need to pass on.
“Bella, your daddy and I will never leave you. Pinky promise.” The girl manages a smile. “You want some breakfast? I know porridge always makes you feel better when you’re upset.”
“I’m not hungry,” the girl replies. “Mummy, will you tell me a story?”
Her daughter hasn’t requested a story for almost four months. “Sure, sweetheart. Have I told you the story of mummy almost being shot?”
Brown eyes widen in surprise. “No.”
So she recounts her experience with a bank named Credit Dauphine, and how her partner Marcus had almost died from a drive-by shooting incident in Rome; as she speaks, her daughter calms more and more and she knows her job here is done. Her daughter’s dream will fade, perhaps entirely, and she will be happy again.
As for her? Her dreams will mingle with reality, until reality is but a dream, until lies are no longer such harsh, cruel things, but instead fairytales built entirely on pure intentions. This is not a game of hide and seek, and she was silly to ever think it would be; it is a chance for rebirth, a normal life for her daughter, and perhaps happiness in an entirely different sense.
Some nights, she will dream. Some mornings, she will wake up not knowing who she is. But most nights, she’ll go to sleep with her husband at her side, and her daughter curled up between them, and she’ll be content; she’ll wake up with the morning sun bathing everything in brilliance, maybe check her gun, go for a run, get dressed for work while her husband cooks bacon, and she’ll be content. The darkest hour is always before dawn, and perhaps the life she had before was but a dream, a nightmare, a story for her daughter on cold winter nights. Every fight ends with a victory, every mission ends with an extraction, and every dream ends with a morning; perhaps this could be hers.