Progress of Decline_
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of the guy who created Felicity, and therefore do not belong to me.
A/N: First time posting on this site, first time writing Alias fiction. Which is Will-oriented, mainly because there's so little of it floating around. And because Will is cool.
***
A few years ago Will found out he'd fallen into something like love with her, and he's realized that this is not the smartest thing he's ever done.
***
He thinks too much.
She's laughing at something that's remotely humorous and he's laughing because he hasn't heard that sound for what seems like years, and under the heady haziness of tequila and chocolate he feels vaguely guilty. It's the same lingering, choking feeling he got when Danny was alive, when he looked at her and wanted her so badly he could taste it. He always ended up sickened with himself as a friend and human being.
He's nothing if not disgustingly decent, and there are times when he hates himself for it.
He's not unhappy, though, usually. He's got the young struggling- journalist thing down pat, he has good friends, and if he's been secretly in love with one of them for years it's no skin off his back. Of course, life would be better if Sydney would suddenly realize that he's the love of her life, but he can't have everything, he guesses.
Everything is currently looking straight at him with warm, slightly confused brown eyes, and he squashes down the guilt because the fuzzy edges of his brain are telling him that he's paid his dues. And if he's taking advantage of her, what with the vulnerability and tequila and ice cream and mood lighting and all, that's okay too because she's always had an advantage over him. He discovers that alcohol makes justification so much easier, and decides he should drink more often.
They're nose to nose now, and he's closer to her than he's ever been, close enough to see the light sprinkling of freckles on her nose and count each one, and for once in his life his brain slows down to a hum. There's a breathless, frozen second, and then their lips are bumping gently together, and he'll never know who leaned forward first.
He thinks, later, that Sydney Bristow tastes like everything he's ever wanted, and everything he's never been able to get.
***
He's never, ever cheated on a girl, because when he was younger it was a monumental event if someone even agreed to go out with him, and it wasn't like he had girls lined up around the corner anyway. And honestly, this isn't even cheating, because Sydney isn't his and has made that painfully, devastatingly clear. Several times.
Jenny the intern isn't Sydney, but she's small and brash and cute, and he likes her because she's something like brutally honest. He's never been a big fan of subterfuge, mainly because he's usually about as sneaky as an elephant.
They're eating ice cream and she looks innocent and adorable in his shirt because it's huge on her, hanging down to midthigh. "So you're still in love with Sydney," she says casually in an interlude, and he chokes on his ice cream.
"I-I what?" he stutters in surprise, trying to find it in him to look hurt and indignant. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You didn't deny it," she points out calmly. "You're obviously still head over heels for her. So why this? She's not around to see."
This is the strangest post-coital conversation he's ever had, and it's taking on a disturbing bent. Because he's almost sure that whatever happened tonight had nothing to do with Sydney, and because what she said is also true. "No---listen," he says, frowning. "I mean. I am, but I don't want to be. Being in love with---with Sydney isn't entirely healthy, and this. Whatever this is, it isn't for her."
Jenny looks at him doubtfully, and he knows how much she wants to believe him because he's been there---is there. The whole caring much more than he wants to thing, and the desperate desire to prove his mind wrong. Her face softens somewhat and she breaks into a smile, and he's got this feeling that it wouldn't be a hard thing for him to fall in love with her when the doorbell rings.
He goes to answer it, Jenny trailing after him and still smiling brilliantly, and when he opens the door and registers the face the first thing he notices is how colorless it is. And while he watches, horror- stricken, Sydney takes an involuntary step back.
He's never thought he'd find out how a murderer feels.
***
He's spending tonight alone, more or less, with a good book, a roaring fire, and a glass of wine. He's sworn off women for the time being, Sydney in particular, and it's not the worst thing in the world. It gives him more leeway to play intrepid boy detective and focus on trying to find out whatever this SD-6 thing is. It wouldn't be a bad idea to concentrate on work for a while. Lately, he's been taking the 'struggling' part of being a young struggling journalist a little far, and his bosses have noticed.
The doorbell rings twelve pages into the book, and he gets up reluctantly. When he sees Sydney standing on the doorstep it gives him an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu, and when he sees the expression on her face he knows that something's seriously wrong.
"Is Jenny here?" she asks cautiously, looking desperate.
"No---no," he says, leading her into the living room and sitting them on the couch. She's trembling like a leaf and blinking rapidly. When he puts his arm around her she starts to cry, and this is what scares him most. She won't talk, and all he can do is murmur quietly to her, rocking her gently and stroking her hair. He sighs, inwardly.
Sydney isn't his. She never has been, even including those few precious seconds in her kitchen, and he's very nearly sure that she never will be. He'd like to think they could have worked, perhaps, if timing and circumstance had been right, but at this point their paths have already crossed and diverged. The sad fact is that she has always owned him, and he can't find the strength to break the hold she doesn't know exists.
"I just want to stay here a little while. If that's ok," she says shakily, and any resistance crumbles until there's nothing left for him now but her. He wraps his arms around her gently, handling her like porcelain, and eases them down onto his couch. They lie there, motionless and watching the flames flicker, and the only thing running through his mind is the only thing he knows as truth.
This girl will be the death of him.
***
_01192002 (jen@velvet-star.com)
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of the guy who created Felicity, and therefore do not belong to me.
A/N: First time posting on this site, first time writing Alias fiction. Which is Will-oriented, mainly because there's so little of it floating around. And because Will is cool.
***
A few years ago Will found out he'd fallen into something like love with her, and he's realized that this is not the smartest thing he's ever done.
***
He thinks too much.
She's laughing at something that's remotely humorous and he's laughing because he hasn't heard that sound for what seems like years, and under the heady haziness of tequila and chocolate he feels vaguely guilty. It's the same lingering, choking feeling he got when Danny was alive, when he looked at her and wanted her so badly he could taste it. He always ended up sickened with himself as a friend and human being.
He's nothing if not disgustingly decent, and there are times when he hates himself for it.
He's not unhappy, though, usually. He's got the young struggling- journalist thing down pat, he has good friends, and if he's been secretly in love with one of them for years it's no skin off his back. Of course, life would be better if Sydney would suddenly realize that he's the love of her life, but he can't have everything, he guesses.
Everything is currently looking straight at him with warm, slightly confused brown eyes, and he squashes down the guilt because the fuzzy edges of his brain are telling him that he's paid his dues. And if he's taking advantage of her, what with the vulnerability and tequila and ice cream and mood lighting and all, that's okay too because she's always had an advantage over him. He discovers that alcohol makes justification so much easier, and decides he should drink more often.
They're nose to nose now, and he's closer to her than he's ever been, close enough to see the light sprinkling of freckles on her nose and count each one, and for once in his life his brain slows down to a hum. There's a breathless, frozen second, and then their lips are bumping gently together, and he'll never know who leaned forward first.
He thinks, later, that Sydney Bristow tastes like everything he's ever wanted, and everything he's never been able to get.
***
He's never, ever cheated on a girl, because when he was younger it was a monumental event if someone even agreed to go out with him, and it wasn't like he had girls lined up around the corner anyway. And honestly, this isn't even cheating, because Sydney isn't his and has made that painfully, devastatingly clear. Several times.
Jenny the intern isn't Sydney, but she's small and brash and cute, and he likes her because she's something like brutally honest. He's never been a big fan of subterfuge, mainly because he's usually about as sneaky as an elephant.
They're eating ice cream and she looks innocent and adorable in his shirt because it's huge on her, hanging down to midthigh. "So you're still in love with Sydney," she says casually in an interlude, and he chokes on his ice cream.
"I-I what?" he stutters in surprise, trying to find it in him to look hurt and indignant. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You didn't deny it," she points out calmly. "You're obviously still head over heels for her. So why this? She's not around to see."
This is the strangest post-coital conversation he's ever had, and it's taking on a disturbing bent. Because he's almost sure that whatever happened tonight had nothing to do with Sydney, and because what she said is also true. "No---listen," he says, frowning. "I mean. I am, but I don't want to be. Being in love with---with Sydney isn't entirely healthy, and this. Whatever this is, it isn't for her."
Jenny looks at him doubtfully, and he knows how much she wants to believe him because he's been there---is there. The whole caring much more than he wants to thing, and the desperate desire to prove his mind wrong. Her face softens somewhat and she breaks into a smile, and he's got this feeling that it wouldn't be a hard thing for him to fall in love with her when the doorbell rings.
He goes to answer it, Jenny trailing after him and still smiling brilliantly, and when he opens the door and registers the face the first thing he notices is how colorless it is. And while he watches, horror- stricken, Sydney takes an involuntary step back.
He's never thought he'd find out how a murderer feels.
***
He's spending tonight alone, more or less, with a good book, a roaring fire, and a glass of wine. He's sworn off women for the time being, Sydney in particular, and it's not the worst thing in the world. It gives him more leeway to play intrepid boy detective and focus on trying to find out whatever this SD-6 thing is. It wouldn't be a bad idea to concentrate on work for a while. Lately, he's been taking the 'struggling' part of being a young struggling journalist a little far, and his bosses have noticed.
The doorbell rings twelve pages into the book, and he gets up reluctantly. When he sees Sydney standing on the doorstep it gives him an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu, and when he sees the expression on her face he knows that something's seriously wrong.
"Is Jenny here?" she asks cautiously, looking desperate.
"No---no," he says, leading her into the living room and sitting them on the couch. She's trembling like a leaf and blinking rapidly. When he puts his arm around her she starts to cry, and this is what scares him most. She won't talk, and all he can do is murmur quietly to her, rocking her gently and stroking her hair. He sighs, inwardly.
Sydney isn't his. She never has been, even including those few precious seconds in her kitchen, and he's very nearly sure that she never will be. He'd like to think they could have worked, perhaps, if timing and circumstance had been right, but at this point their paths have already crossed and diverged. The sad fact is that she has always owned him, and he can't find the strength to break the hold she doesn't know exists.
"I just want to stay here a little while. If that's ok," she says shakily, and any resistance crumbles until there's nothing left for him now but her. He wraps his arms around her gently, handling her like porcelain, and eases them down onto his couch. They lie there, motionless and watching the flames flicker, and the only thing running through his mind is the only thing he knows as truth.
This girl will be the death of him.
***
_01192002 (jen@velvet-star.com)