shallowness: Five panels featuring pictures of different female characters based on my interests at the time. (Default)
[personal profile] shallowness
Title: Year 47
Fandom: Alias
Rating: PG
Pairing: (Syd/m)
Genre: Angst, futurefic.
Word Count: 419.
First posted: April 2005.
Summary: Rambaldi had known

Disclaimer: Not mine, I make no profit from this.
Notes: Mild spoilers for late S1. Thanks to em_meredith for betaing.

Year 47: shallowness

The muffled alarm woke him up like it was meant to. He whapped it, then caught up with the fact that he needn't have bothered. The other side of the bed was empty, though the clock-face confirmed it had gone off when he'd set it to. He just hadn't been early enough to get a jump on her.

He rolled his eyes - the 'in bed' part of the birthday breakfast was pretty much out. So he adjusted, dragged the bedclothes away from his body, and got up.

He figured that Syd had probably snuck down to do some work. She sometimes had patches of sleeplessness, even though these days, her missions were more often in class than they were out in the field. She'd been assigned a new batch of recruits lately, and biased as he was, he thought they were going to be damned lucky. She was putting in the wee hours for them already, pushing the limits of what level of classified documentation she could check out.

Arriving downstairs, he saw that it was still too early for her cards to have been delivered yet. From the other side of the thick door, he could hear barking, so he obediently unlocked it to let the mutt and the cold, early air in.

"Whoa, Sawyer," he muttered, as the dog, acting like the puppy he hadn't been for a few years, bolted past him out back. "Someone's hungry."

It was too cold to keep the door open, and he was the self-designated chef for the day, with wife and dog waiting. Wondering if he could coax Syd back to bed and salvage the breakfast plans, he entered the open-plan living area.

Sawyer had long stopped barking.

She was sitting at the dining table, papers scattered in a white jagged ring in front of her: the first sign. The second was the way she was leaning - sideways, awkward, wrong. He called her name, walked up to her, reaching out too slowly for her carotid pulse. There was none.

They would tell him it was her heart. He wouldn't believe it until he was taken to a dust-free room, with shielded light bearing down on him, and held a sheet of another man’s handwriting surrounding an impossibly detailed sketch in his gloved hands. The picture would not leave him, even when he returned home and began opening the envelopes that were addressed to her, surrounding jokes and beautiful cards, the writing knowing nothing of what was to come.

Feedback: please, concrit welcome.


shallowness: Five panels featuring pictures of different female characters based on my interests at the time. (Default)

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