response #4 to challenge "one morning"
Spoilers only through the pilot.
"The End Is The Beginning"
Sydney watches them tow her truck away, numb to this small, final loss. Her body is shaking with exhaustion and grief; tear tracks and smears of Danny's blood have dried upon her cheeks.
(The truck's a classic, a decades-old beauty that Syd dearly loves, but she never reclaims it. The City of Los Angeles can junk it. That's what her dreams have come to now: so much junk.)
I have to get home, she thinks. She could call Francie, Charlie or Will; any of them would drop everything to help her. If it came right down to it, she could even call her father, who's not good for much but would probably come.
But Sydney believes her father would give her no sympathy for Danny's death, and she doesn't have the strength to face his coldness now. She knows that any of her friends would hold her tight, crying out their own grief along with hers, but she doesn't have the strength to face that, either. Right now, Sydney doesn't even feel as though she could speak the words aloud: Danny has been murdered.
So she catches the bus. A few early-morning commuters are headed to work, neatly dressed and brisk; some people look askance at the bedraggled, bloodstained woman next to the door. Sydney doesn't care. It's not as if she's the first whacko ever to ride a bus. And if they call the men in the white coats --
The padded cell, the straitjacket, the silence-- yes, let them call. Maybe they'll come and lock her away from Danny's death, from Sloane, from the CIA, from her whole shattered life.
Nobody calls anybody. Sydney gets home around 6 a.m.
The apartment doesn't call upon too many difficult memories; she and Danny mostly spent time at his place, and that's where the reminders are. (That's where his body is -- Sloane said they'd call the police, they'd take care of that, so I should wait for the phone call --)
Sleep is out of the question, but she feels as though she should lie down. As she sits on her bedside, she sees the red message light blinking and taps it.
Francie invites her to Sunday brunch.
Greg from her modern poetry seminar wants to borrow her notes.
And then Danny speaks, his voice like a bomb bursting inside her, releasing love and grief and rage and, worst of all, a split-second's hope that this has all been some terrible mistake. But the terrible mistake is the one he made when he placed this call.
Life is full of danger, Danny says. He loves her no matter what. He'll make a life with her. All she has to do is come home.
Sydney starts crying once more; she'd thought she was out of tears, but she was wrong. At that moment, it seems to her that she will never smile again, serve her country again or love again. Her tears blur everything, even the dawn that surrounds her.
"The End Is The Beginning"
Sydney watches them tow her truck away, numb to this small, final loss. Her body is shaking with exhaustion and grief; tear tracks and smears of Danny's blood have dried upon her cheeks.
(The truck's a classic, a decades-old beauty that Syd dearly loves, but she never reclaims it. The City of Los Angeles can junk it. That's what her dreams have come to now: so much junk.)
I have to get home, she thinks. She could call Francie, Charlie or Will; any of them would drop everything to help her. If it came right down to it, she could even call her father, who's not good for much but would probably come.
But Sydney believes her father would give her no sympathy for Danny's death, and she doesn't have the strength to face his coldness now. She knows that any of her friends would hold her tight, crying out their own grief along with hers, but she doesn't have the strength to face that, either. Right now, Sydney doesn't even feel as though she could speak the words aloud: Danny has been murdered.
So she catches the bus. A few early-morning commuters are headed to work, neatly dressed and brisk; some people look askance at the bedraggled, bloodstained woman next to the door. Sydney doesn't care. It's not as if she's the first whacko ever to ride a bus. And if they call the men in the white coats --
The padded cell, the straitjacket, the silence-- yes, let them call. Maybe they'll come and lock her away from Danny's death, from Sloane, from the CIA, from her whole shattered life.
Nobody calls anybody. Sydney gets home around 6 a.m.
The apartment doesn't call upon too many difficult memories; she and Danny mostly spent time at his place, and that's where the reminders are. (That's where his body is -- Sloane said they'd call the police, they'd take care of that, so I should wait for the phone call --)
Sleep is out of the question, but she feels as though she should lie down. As she sits on her bedside, she sees the red message light blinking and taps it.
Francie invites her to Sunday brunch.
Greg from her modern poetry seminar wants to borrow her notes.
And then Danny speaks, his voice like a bomb bursting inside her, releasing love and grief and rage and, worst of all, a split-second's hope that this has all been some terrible mistake. But the terrible mistake is the one he made when he placed this call.
Life is full of danger, Danny says. He loves her no matter what. He'll make a life with her. All she has to do is come home.
Sydney starts crying once more; she'd thought she was out of tears, but she was wrong. At that moment, it seems to her that she will never smile again, serve her country again or love again. Her tears blur everything, even the dawn that surrounds her.