A/N. Warning: silliness ahead.
This came to me as I was hanging laundry… Don't judge me, sometimes my brain can come out with pretty weird stuff. Also my sense of humor can be on the wild side of absurd, not everyone gets it. Hope you'll get a smile or two. Enjoy.
No beta'd, sorry. Do not hesitate to point out mistakes, English is not my first language.
Italics indicate thoughts.
Neal Caffrey, conman extraordinaire, brilliant artist, sexiest living man on earth, was also a simple, common human being. And as such, had occasionally to take care of such mundane businesses as… laundry.
Byron's suits deserved the best cleaning money could pay and were therefore taken care of properly. But Neal's FBI stipend didn't cover for all of his clothes to be dry-cleaned. Hence the need to do laundry.
He couldn't complain. June let him have access to the laundry room which housed top of the art machines. Still, spending Saturday mornings washing stuff wasn't his preferred hobby. He was currently taking out clothes from the dryer and folding them properly.
Mozzie, for some reason he couldn't begin to fathom, was there, sitting atop the washer and drinking tea from a paper-cup, certainly purchased on his way to Neal's. He seemed to enjoy watching the routine.
How does he take care of his stuff? Neal wondered not for the first time. Changing lodgings everyday was bound to require some intricate logistics. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask. He was curious, but he feared the answer, so he just let Mozzie tell his last stories. If anything, it made the time go more quickly. Mozz's stories were always fun.
"Why is there always a sock missing?" he grumbled, he voiced muffled as his head was still inside the dryer to check one last time.
"Ah!" Mozzie exclaimed.
Neal winced. He hadn't realized his friend had heard. He stepped back from the dryer, checking the socks pile and throwing a dark look at one lonely blue sock.
"I have a theory, you know," Mozzie informed him.
Neal sighed in his head. Of course Mozz had a theory…
"I believe you do," he answered politely.
"You believe my theory?" Mozzie asked aghast. It usually took him a bit longer to convince Neal.
"No," Neal corrected. "I believe you have a theory. As for believing your theory… well you haven't told me about it… yet." Maybe Mozz would get the drift and not explain the theory.
"See, it's just one more conspiracy by Big Brother."
So much for wishful thinking.
Oh dear. Another one… About socks? Neal clenched his teeth on the sigh threatening to come out and watched Mozzie with a small smile.
"Conspiracy? Really? We are still talking about missing socks, right?"
Mozzie was so smart, sometimes his brain just leaped ahead. Maybe Neal had missed something. The warm and dry air of the room didn't help much. Neither, finishing the bottle of red wine the evening before. His brain was still a bit fuzzy.
"Yes, missing socks. You never wondered?" Mozzie asked seriously, trying to contemplate how anyone, and most especially his friend, could disregard something that obvious.
"Not really. It does seem to happen to a lot of people…"
"Define 'a lot'."
"What do you mean define? You want a figure?"
"More of a percentage."
Neal watched the cup in Mozzie's hand. He was pretty sure it was tea, from that fancy place his friend insisted was the only one that knew how to brew a proper tea to go. And it was still a bit early, even by Mozz's standards.
Neal shrugged. He had no idea.
"One. Hundred. Percent," Mozzie announced insisting on each word. "Every single person in this town, in the country, has faced missing socks."
"Including you?" Neal couldn't help asking.
"Of course not! You think I'm stupid? I know what's going on, I keep watch!"
"You don't wash your socks?" Neal joked.
He doubted that. Mozzie was a neat freak. His smile fell when his friend frowned at him like he had lost his mind.
"No. I make sure they don't get separated in the first place."
Neal raised an interrogative eyebrow.
"I slip one sock inside the other, then roll them up in a ball," Mozzie explained as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
The second batch of clothes had just finished washing and Neal threw them in the dryer. No socks, only whites, he was safe with that load.
"Of course the ideal would be not to wear socks at all," Mozzie admitted.
"Which was fine in Cape Verde, but much more complicated in New York," Neal countered.
"Yes, of course. Although, if you wore lined boots…" Mozzie seemed lost in his mind for a second. "Chicks do wear those 'Huggs' boots with no socks on… but I doubt that's the reason."
"The reason of what?" Neal had lost the thread.
"Of knowing about the conspiracy."
"Right, the conspiracy."
"RFID," Mozzie simply stated.
Neal waited for the rest of the sentence, but none seemed to come.
"RFID?" he repeated, hoping to prompt Mozzie into an answer.
"Radio Frequency Identification."
"I know what RFID is, Mozz. What does it have to do with socks?"
"To track us course! As you said before, everybody wears socks!"
"Then why am I wearing a bulky, cumbersome, skin-chafing anklet?" It did seem unfair to be submitted to such an ignominious device if there were some more discreet ways.
"What part of conspiracy didn't you get?" Mozzie shook his head. "Anyway, anklets are more of a punishment on art thieves like you."
"Alledged art thief," Neal countered back automatically while folding a t-shirt.
Mozzie looked at him like a proud father. He had taught Neal to systematically deny all accusations. He had taught his friend well. Here he was, responding by reflex to his own best friend. If he had it in him, he would have hugged Neal. But his friend didn't catch his look; he put the t-shirt on the pile and turned to Mozzie.
"You also know that the information they can carry if fairly limited."
"That's not the point!" Mozzie lifted his arms in anger and the top of the teacup went flying.
Neal winced, glad his friend had finished his drink. He did not want to have to wash his clothes again.
Mozzie looked at his cup in surprise as if he had forgotten its existence, then put it down.
"They want us to believe RFIDs capabilities are limited, but they're not."
Neal leaned back against the dryer. Mozzie was determined to have his say, so the best was to humor him and get to the end of the conversation.
"Okay. So they track us through our socks."
"Yes." Mozzie nodded glad Neal finally paid attention.
"Then, why do the socks disappear… and to where?"
"I knew you would be interested!"
Not really, but there was still a load in the dryer, so it kept him entertained, and Mozzie looked so happy when he was indulged in his conspiracy theories…
"First, why. Well obviously to have us replace them. New technology, new information gathering processes, better intelligence... There are thousands of reasons to update the chips. And of course, too much washing probably makes them less reliable too."
"Makes sense."
Well, if there really was a secret service in charge of tracking citizens through their socks, obviously they needed to keep the system running and up to date. Neal winced in dismay. Too much time with Mozzie with a slight touch of hangover was not the best combination to have a rational thought process.
"I knew you would see it too."
"And what happens to the socks?"
After all, that was the real question. How did they disappear? Because, RFID chip or not, there still was the mystery of the missing sock.
"Dryers manufacturers."
"What about them?" Neal was starting to feel like he was having a conversation about quantum physics with two Nobel prize winners; he didn't understand a word of what was going on.
"They have an agreement with the Government. A secret hiding place inside the machine that traps the sock. Then it is destroyed using the heat of the motor."
Neal nodded slowly. This wasn't, and by far, Mozzie's craziest conspiracy theory. And it did give a reason to why socks kept disappearing. Although as illusions went the tooth fairy was more poetic.
Better not insist on the topic, and move to other subjects. The dryer was almost done, he wanted to get up to his apartment and have coffee. A strong coffee.
"So I guess, you also have a theory as to why, although you check your colors carefully, there always seems to be something red in the white batch."
Mozzie watched him like he had lost his mind, or sprouted a second head.
"For heavens's sake, Neal, how can you be so naïve?"
The end.
Comments, please? :-)