Sonny notices. He notices the lack of last name given, the distance feeling it creates, despite the friendliness that the both of them present. Truthfully, he hates that he's started having trouble not thinking like a cop. He always thought he'd be able to keep those two parts of him separate. Cop Sonny at work, and regular Sonny at home. But he's slowly began to realize that that's not the case.

He realized it before he ever showed up here and started coping by treating the situation like some sort of standard investigation. He realized it back home, with the last few cases that left him feeling he he'd been punched in the gut, wounded and a little breathless.

The job ruins a lot of good people. It makes them paranoid, pessimistic, unable to form healthy relationships. Sonny always swore he wouldn't let it happen to him, but lately, he's not sure.

"Yeah, I noticed that," Sonny says, glancing at Alex's red color scrubs. "I guess I got lucky — I don't have to worry about accidentally turning my socks pink."

It's a joke, his tone as light as Alex's, but the thought itself is a concerning one. Their clothes are different colors, like they're being sorted somehow. Sorted by what and by whom is the real question, but he's already gathered that nobody's figured that out, either. It's hard to figure anything out when they're all trying to survive.