Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Alias.
Spoilers: #14 "The Coup" and #18 "Masquerade"
Francie's POV
====================================
Tiny Dancer
by Shade
"Hold me closer, tiny dancer," I hum as I fold Syd's laundry.
Yeah I know. The moment I start doing laundry for other people is the day the apocalypse comes, right? But Syd's gone on another one of her bank trips, and she's been on so many lately that her hamper was filled to maximum capacity this morning when I walked into her room. So I decided to help her out some. After all, I'm her best friend, and those trips really wipe her out. I know she'll appreciate my help.
I pick up a new shirt and smooth it out on the ironing board. The shirt is black. But it's Sydney's shirt, so what else is new? I pin the three quarter length sleeves back and fold it upward. I turn it over, revealing it's v-neck, and place it on top of the "already folded" pile.
"Count the headlights on the highway," I keep humming, thinking to myself what a great Elton John song that is while I absent-mindedly continue to fold Sydney's freshly cleaned wardrobe.
Ten minutes, seven shirts, five pairs of pants, two skirts, and nine sets of bras and panties later, Sydney's laundry is ready to be put away. "Damn Sydney's lucky to have me," I smile to myself. I pick up the tall stack of folded clothes and head to Syd's room to put them away for her. As I walk down the hall, I begin to hum a new song.
"I'm sailing away," I quietly hum the familiar Styx tune. Syd likes Styx. I wonder when the last time was that she had the pleasure of listening to them. The bank uses up all her time. She even told me that she was thinking of quitting school so she could focus more on her job. Of course she didn't though, it was just a rough day. But someone's job shouldn't force them into thinking that way, even if it was just because of a bad day.
I stop humming when I enter Syd's room. I'm too busy thinking about her situation – and trying to decide where to put her different articles of clothing – to concentrate on Styx.
I gently place her sets of underwear in the underwear drawer. That was the easy part. I lay the skirts out on Sydney's pristine bed. They'll get hung up at the end. Then I look at the shirts and pants in my arms and sigh. See, Sydney has this weird, eclectic clothes system. She doesn't put her clothes away by season or color or article, like normal people. She's tried to explain her system to me before, but it was too over my head to remember. She said something about how the clothes correlate to her bank trips or something. Knowing that I have no clue where the clothes go, I start opening random drawers. The stack in my arms gradually gets lower as I make an attempt to put the clothes away according to her peculiar mold.
Finally, I only have two shirts left in my hands. One shirt is white with a black splotchy pattern. I remember that Syd wore this shirt to Zebu's. And I remember that she left unexpectedly – for a change, right? I open a drawer that I have ignored up until now. It's small and on the bottom, furthest to the left out of the four drawers in that row. There are only two other shirts in there. They are rolled up into little balls, which was interesting because Sydney always folds everything. Balling her clothes is like the antichrist or something. I've already done this much for her, so I shake out the shirts to get the wrinkles out so that I can fold them. But when I shake out the second one, something falls onto the floor.
I put the shirts I am holding onto Syd's bed and bend over to pick it up off the floor. At first glance, it looks like the blank side of a small piece of paper – like the size that would have a phone number on it. My inner self screams with happiness for Syd. She got a number! She's finally moving on! Wait, why didn't she tell me? But as I pick it up and turn it over, I see that it's not a phone number at all. It's an airplane ticket stub. I sigh – Syd didn't get a number after all.
I place the ticket on the top of her dresser. I stare at it for a minute. A small fragment of her life. A remnant of yet another ridiculous bank trip that stole her away from her friends for yet another day. But wait. Hang on. Syd's name isn't on the ticket. It's some woman named Kate Jones. And she's flying to Ireland. I pick up the stub and look more closely. Apparently Kate Jones is our third roommate – she has our address. And the dates are the same as Sydney's trip last week. This is weird. Sydney may have gone on a trip at the same time, but it wasn't to Ireland. It was to Dallas. And even though this Kate Jones woman shares my address, I don't know who it is. I collapse onto Sydney's bed, perplexed. I have no idea what's going on with this plane ticket. And Syd's away again, so I can't ask her.
But I can ask Will.
====================================
TO BE CONTINUED…
Spoilers: #14 "The Coup" and #18 "Masquerade"
Francie's POV
====================================
Tiny Dancer
by Shade
"Hold me closer, tiny dancer," I hum as I fold Syd's laundry.
Yeah I know. The moment I start doing laundry for other people is the day the apocalypse comes, right? But Syd's gone on another one of her bank trips, and she's been on so many lately that her hamper was filled to maximum capacity this morning when I walked into her room. So I decided to help her out some. After all, I'm her best friend, and those trips really wipe her out. I know she'll appreciate my help.
I pick up a new shirt and smooth it out on the ironing board. The shirt is black. But it's Sydney's shirt, so what else is new? I pin the three quarter length sleeves back and fold it upward. I turn it over, revealing it's v-neck, and place it on top of the "already folded" pile.
"Count the headlights on the highway," I keep humming, thinking to myself what a great Elton John song that is while I absent-mindedly continue to fold Sydney's freshly cleaned wardrobe.
Ten minutes, seven shirts, five pairs of pants, two skirts, and nine sets of bras and panties later, Sydney's laundry is ready to be put away. "Damn Sydney's lucky to have me," I smile to myself. I pick up the tall stack of folded clothes and head to Syd's room to put them away for her. As I walk down the hall, I begin to hum a new song.
"I'm sailing away," I quietly hum the familiar Styx tune. Syd likes Styx. I wonder when the last time was that she had the pleasure of listening to them. The bank uses up all her time. She even told me that she was thinking of quitting school so she could focus more on her job. Of course she didn't though, it was just a rough day. But someone's job shouldn't force them into thinking that way, even if it was just because of a bad day.
I stop humming when I enter Syd's room. I'm too busy thinking about her situation – and trying to decide where to put her different articles of clothing – to concentrate on Styx.
I gently place her sets of underwear in the underwear drawer. That was the easy part. I lay the skirts out on Sydney's pristine bed. They'll get hung up at the end. Then I look at the shirts and pants in my arms and sigh. See, Sydney has this weird, eclectic clothes system. She doesn't put her clothes away by season or color or article, like normal people. She's tried to explain her system to me before, but it was too over my head to remember. She said something about how the clothes correlate to her bank trips or something. Knowing that I have no clue where the clothes go, I start opening random drawers. The stack in my arms gradually gets lower as I make an attempt to put the clothes away according to her peculiar mold.
Finally, I only have two shirts left in my hands. One shirt is white with a black splotchy pattern. I remember that Syd wore this shirt to Zebu's. And I remember that she left unexpectedly – for a change, right? I open a drawer that I have ignored up until now. It's small and on the bottom, furthest to the left out of the four drawers in that row. There are only two other shirts in there. They are rolled up into little balls, which was interesting because Sydney always folds everything. Balling her clothes is like the antichrist or something. I've already done this much for her, so I shake out the shirts to get the wrinkles out so that I can fold them. But when I shake out the second one, something falls onto the floor.
I put the shirts I am holding onto Syd's bed and bend over to pick it up off the floor. At first glance, it looks like the blank side of a small piece of paper – like the size that would have a phone number on it. My inner self screams with happiness for Syd. She got a number! She's finally moving on! Wait, why didn't she tell me? But as I pick it up and turn it over, I see that it's not a phone number at all. It's an airplane ticket stub. I sigh – Syd didn't get a number after all.
I place the ticket on the top of her dresser. I stare at it for a minute. A small fragment of her life. A remnant of yet another ridiculous bank trip that stole her away from her friends for yet another day. But wait. Hang on. Syd's name isn't on the ticket. It's some woman named Kate Jones. And she's flying to Ireland. I pick up the stub and look more closely. Apparently Kate Jones is our third roommate – she has our address. And the dates are the same as Sydney's trip last week. This is weird. Sydney may have gone on a trip at the same time, but it wasn't to Ireland. It was to Dallas. And even though this Kate Jones woman shares my address, I don't know who it is. I collapse onto Sydney's bed, perplexed. I have no idea what's going on with this plane ticket. And Syd's away again, so I can't ask her.
But I can ask Will.
====================================
TO BE CONTINUED…