Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. Belong to genius folks at ABC. Just writing for fun.
Author's Note: Just started writing this yesterday morning. Loved the idea of doing a Will POV piece. Let me know what you think!
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At 7:04 a.m., Will Tippin's eyes fly open, the blue irises vibrant despite the early hour. He's not a morning person, never has been. Almost failed half of his journalism classes because of it (what sadist came up with the idea of 8 a.m. classes, anyhow?). But he has an idea, an idea that puts a smile on his scruffy, unshaven face. He decides to surprise her this morning.
It's 7:05 a.m. and he's rolling out of Jenny's bed, careful to be as quiet as humanly possible. After all, he is a journalistan investigative journalist for one of L.A.'s biggest papers. He's good at keeping a low profile and sneaking around when the situation requires. And with his pants halfway on, he proves his point. His size 10 foot is somehow entangled in the cuff of his pantsand he trips. Catching himself before tumbling to the ground, Will hops around, quietly, of course, and remedies the problem. But not before backing into the wall and knocking down a picture frame (and uttering a curse word...or three.) Unfortunately, he's not fast enough to catch it. It is only six minutes after seven in the morning, and although he is wide awake, he's not a juggler. The lack of coordination and rhythm (although he knows he can do a mean Cabbage Patch if need be) runs in his family. It should be against all laws for his father to try to shake his groove thang.
Thank God for the atrocious gold shag carpet in Jenny's room. The frame hardly makes a sound as it lands on the well-padded floor.
He handles the frame (a different gold color than the carpeting - he's not Christopher Lowell, but knows it definitely clashes with the room) very delicately, as if it contained a priceless Monet instead of a cheesy red-eyed picture of Jenny and her sorority sisters on spring break. "More daiquiris!" he can almost hear them scream from the still shot. Hmmmhe had never noticed it before, but some of those devil-eyed girls were quite hot. Especially that brunette in the back --
Oh yeah, Sydney. His mind is back on track. He grabs his plaid button-down shirt, hopelessly wrinkled from its nighttime position on the floor, and tiptoes (exaggerated, almost cartoon-like) out of Jenny's room, only hearing a muffled, sleepy noise from his assistant/sometimes-lover. He throws on his Dodgers hat and heads out the door, not caring if the squeak of door hinges wake Jenny.
Sydney would be up soon. She, unlike him, was the consummate morning person. She might even run a few miles before sitting down with a full breakfast and the morning paper (his paper, of course, becauseshe's a good friend that way). He briefly wonders what she'd say if she knew he was back on the Danny Hecht story. Then he sees the bakery and is consumed with a different train of thought.
He hopes this surprise will help lift her out of the funk she's in. He remembers the ragged, pained expression she wore last night when she returned from one of her trips - he thinks she said this one was to Chicago. As a journalist, he wonders what the hell that bank assigned her do that was so damn exhausting, both mentally and physically. As a friend, he wonders what he could do to put that gorgeous smile back on her face. The latter thought led him into the bakery, then to a fresh fruit stand, and finally to Starbucks. He approaches her door armed with buttery croissants (for him, he knows she won't eat them unless she's swimming in depression), a basket of fresh melon, strawberries, grapes and pineapple, and of course, the tall skim lattes.
As he raises his hand to ring the doorbell, the door swings open. They both let out a surprised scream, his louder (and a little more high-pitched) than hers. Then they laugh. And he sees those dimples appear.and his heart flutters shamelessly.
"Will!" she says, still laughing. "What in the world are you doing here.you do know that it's not even eight 'o clock, right?"
He shrugged sheepishly, grinning. He holds out the food, his arms full. "I come bearing breakfast."
Her eyes widen. "That's so sweet - come in!" She grabs the coffees, nestled in a cardboard holder, and turns back into her apartment. He can't help but admire her body -- he's a guy after all, even if he does scream like a girl.
"Were you - were you going somewhere just now?" he asks, clearing his throat, following her slim form inside the airy living room.
She concentrates on placing the coffee cups on the kitchen table. "Actually, yeah. I was just going to run to the store really quick. Do you mind? It'll only take a second."
"What do you need? I can go get it," he offers, putting the fruit and croissants next to the coffee.
She flashes him a disarming smile. "No, no, you've already done so much, Will. I'll be just ten minutes, OK?"
"Yeah sure - what do you need to get? I mean, I can go with you if you want, I really don't mind."
She plants a soft kiss on his cheek, rubbing his arm with three fast strokes. "I need to get the morning paper - I'm really quite a fan of one of its star reporters."
Will rolls his eyes, but can't help but beam at the flattery. "Alright, fine.go ahead. I'll start on these croissants."
"Good." She whisks her keys off the kitchen table and heads to the door. "Don't go anywhere - I'll be right back!"
And she's gone. Like so many times before. There one second, gone the next.
Will wonders from where she gets all that energy. Always on the go, always running off for a meeting, a business trip, a run to the store. No wonder she looked so tired last night - but he knows there was more than just exhaustion in those eyes, in the way her shoulders were hunched, in the somber way she spoke, in the teary-eyed way she dismissed him. Something had happened on this last trip.
He is mulling over a number of possible bank emergency scenarios in his head when a bound black book catches his eye. He's never seen it beforeand it's just sitting there, on the coffee table, open, with a black pen nestled between the pages. It can't behe moves closer.oh, it is.Sydney's professional, slanted scroll fills the pages. Her journal. Oh, this is temptation of the worst kind, Will thinks, trying to look away from the writing. But a word catches his eye.
Love.
His heart stops for a moment in anticipation of the next few words. "I've tried to deny it, to push it away, to remain distant and aloof, but it's futile, I think. I can't pretend any longer. I'm falling in love with him, and he has no idea."
Who? Who is she writing about? Will slides from his standing position, a hand resting on an arm on the couch, to sit on the couch, his blue eyes burning into the lined pages. He can't read fast enough, can't digest the information at the speed he desires. He only has a few minutesone space in time during which he is completely allowed into Sydney's world. In the back of his mind, he knows this is wrong, a violation of the worst kind, that he isn't technically "allowed" into her secret thoughts, but rather he is sneaking in through an unmarked back door.
But he can't help himself. He loves her. He needs to know where her heart lies, what she thinks, and if, by some odd quirk of fate, if she loves him too. He knows he could simply ask her these questions, instead of reading her most private thoughts, but there were no guarantees of an honest answer - the truth. And being a trained truth-seeker, he knows he's stumbled upon the one object that could pull all the pieces of Sydney Bristow together. He knows she hides a lot, things she feels she can't confide in him or Francie. And now a strong ray of light is being shed on that part of her. He knows it's wrong, but he just can't pull his eyes away.
"It's like I'm falling headfirst in this black and white spiral, spinning closer to something I can't define, can't understand. And I'm powerless to stop it. He's the only one who knows me, who could possibly grasp all the facets of my life. Oh, God, I don't know what to do. Sometimes, when we're engaged in some pointless conversation, some inane small talk about the weather or a new movie that neither of us has seen, I feel so connected to him. This attraction surpasses all others, like this magnetic force that makes me look at him in a way I could not have just a few months ago."
Will's mouth goes dry as he continues to read.
"I know that it could never work. It's best to keep things at a friendly level, the practical (and probably smartest) part of me says. But when he turns those eyes on me, especially when I need him the most, I don't think in a practical manner. I think in terms of hands and lips, in terms of heat and heart. I think of passion, and the security he somehow provides me every time we're together. And how he has come to accept me for who I am, for my past, for everything we've both been through. The most gentle, beautiful, perfect man is standing right in front of meand I'm basically powerless to do anything about it. Unfortunately, the circumstances that surround our relationship won't change. My heart, so stubborn, won't likely be budged. Dear God, I know this shouldn't be happening, but I think I love him."
Will's jaw drops. Is she talking about him? It all makes sensedoesn't it? This man could very well be him. Who else could it be? She hasn't been dating anyonehasn't brought any new friends overwho else could it bebut him? Is it possible that she secretly loves him, that she's moved past those kiss-on-the-cheek-let's-just-remain-friends feelings she had awkwardly conveyed after those two recent kiss disasters?
He turns the page hungrily, seeing just six more sentences.
"I won't lie to myself anymore - I am falling in love with him. It's the worst possible thing that could've happened in this situation, I won't lie about that either. But the most pressing question remains: what do I do about this? I don't think I can handle another betrayal, though, I can only sustain so much. And if I let him inI can't bear to think of what could happen if it all were to go terribly wrongor if he doesn't feel the same way I do.I can't risk everything for which we've worked so hard. I can't - maybe we are just aren't meant to be."
Yes we are! My God, Will thinks, his mind buried in shock, in these written revelations. She loves him.? Could it be?
The sound of a key rattling in the front door brings him out of this love-induced fog. He swiftly rearranges the journal and jumps back to the kitchen table, stuffing a croissant in his mouth and gulping down half of his latte.
He chews distractedly, but not fast enough to prevent himself from coughing on a chunk of croissant that lodges itself in his throat.
"You okay?" Sydney laughs, floating into the room. She is glowing, her cheeks flushed and dewy. That's the look of love, Will thinks. Is it on my behalf?
She tosses the newspaper on the coffee table, spots the journal and whisks it away nonchalantly.
He coughs again and swallows. "Uh-huh." Words, for this journalist, are not to be found at this moment.
The old-fashioned steel-rimmed clock on the wall reads 8:01. Just an hour ago, he was in another world. One that consisted of waking up at the home of a sometimes-lover/assistant, an unsteady future and an unrequited love for a friend. It had all seemingly changed in the course of an hour. In this heavy haze, he can't even begin to grasp a mere word. His eyes, permanently widened, trance-like, just follow her.
She walks briskly to the doorway of her bedroom, her ponytail bouncing, and tosses the journal on her work desk before sitting down next to her friend.
He can't look her in the eye, but he knows he has to say something. These newfound revelations have his mind buzzing, his heart racinghe needs to say something, anything.
"What's your story today?" she starts, motioning to the paper.
He sees only the journal. The crisp writing, so unlike his messy journalist note-taking scrawl. The world stops as his mouth opens, the words flowing like water, drowning out all other stimuli in the room. "I love you."