non_horation | Sydulia

Title: She Made My Bed
Fandom: Alias
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, it belongs to JJ Abrams.
Spoilers: To the end of season 3. Set before The Two
Pairings: Julia/Simon
Summary: Julia surprises Simon
Rating: PG

She made my bed.

This amuses me endlessly. I'd never really though of Jules as any kind of homemaker. Homewrecker, sure. Homeburner, definitely. But this talent for housework is really something else.

Leaving bedroom and its perfectly-made bed behind, I go into the kitchen of our current apartment -- and base of operations -- to find Julia eating a slightly-burned piece of toast slathered with entirely too much butter. My Jules chews with her mouth open. Not the type you'd expect to go around making beds like Merry Maids. Especially beds in which you and she had just previously spent the wildest night of your lives.

She hears my footsteps and looks up, seeing me in the doorway. Grinning, her face alight with mischief, she says, "Hey babe," around a piece of partially-masticated toast, twirling a lock of too-blonde hair around her index finger. "Sorry I didn't save you any toast," she makes an exaggerated show of swallowing the piece of toast. Naughty girl, my Julia, "I was hungry."

I don't know how she manages to look so stunning, eating so much. I guess all the running around blowing stuff up burns more fuel than one would expect.

"It's fine," I reply, "Wasn't hungry anyway." She laughs out loud at this, a harsh and bitter sound. Nothing ladylike about my Julia. Except . . .

"You made my bed." I move to stand behind the chair she sits in, draping my arms over her shoulders. She looks surprised for an instant, before flashing me that crazy grin of hers, showing all her teeth.

"Yeah, babe, I did. I just hate to leave a mess." Which is the truth. Julia always cleans up meticulously after every killing, washing every last drop of blood away before she's satisfied and can continue with business as usual. It's something I've always teased her about, her obsessive cleanliness is out of place in our line of work.

"You just don't seem like the type," I laugh, "to go around making the beds of every guy you - "

"Not every guy," she cuts me off abruptly, her face a mask of seriousness, "You. You're special. You look out for me, eh?"

Thinking about this, it is true. I look out for Jules, and she does good work in return. She makes a quick kill, and is the best safecracker I've ever seen. And she slips into undercover identities like she's changing clothes. And that's not even counting all the side benefits to working with a girl like Julia.

But the look on her face . . . somehow, this is a lot more important than the words being passed between us. I need to tread carefully, or Julia Thorne may be lost forever. She's running from something, has things to hide, and she's still learning that we never quite escape our demons.

"Yeah," I agree, hoping she's not too bothered by the hesitation, "of course. You're my best girl, babe." I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. There's something special about her, that's for sure.

She smiles brightly at me, and plays with the ridiculously expensive tablecloth absently with her left hand. Julia's so stubborn, she probably willed herself to be left-handed, just so she could stand out from the crowd. Not that she needs any help in that department. Julia certainly knows how to make a statement.

Now that we've gotten that . . . whatever it was . . . out of the way, down to business. I grab a folder off the counter by the telephone, and slap it down on the table in front of her. "So, Jules, what can you tell me about the Vaughn job?"

"Oh," she grins, "I've been keeping a special eye on that one." Julia's always hated the pretty CIA boys.