Author's Note: This is my first time writing for Alias, so please refrain from any tomato throwing. Though I love Sydney and Vaughn, part of me was always intrigued by the other possibility, so if this comes off as too shippy, blame it on my being in love with Will. Reviews are always appreciated.

Disclaimer: Abrams owns everything, I'm just playing in his sandbox for a few minutes.

He used to fantasize about this. In bed with Sydney, holding her close, it was his biggest hope, his fondest dream, for so long. Brain clouded from vodka and exhaustion and too much traumatizing information (Sydney was alive, Sydney was here, he'd slept with Sydney), Will tried to remember just how long he'd wanted this. Six years? Seven? Longer than that. How long had he been pining after his best friend? Since before Vaughn, before Danny.

Glancing down at his bedmate, Will saw that she was still asleep, though something told him that wouldn't be the case for long. Something told him Syd got less sleep now than she had two years ago, impossible as that seemed. She didn't look it though, no dark circles, nothing like that. She truly was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Even when she was crying her eyes out.

The arm draped over her tightened convulsively. He hated seeing her cry. Not as much as he hated thinking she was dead, but close enough. He thought of what it must've been like for her, two years gone in the blink of an eye. He'd had two years to get past Francie's death. Well, two years to pretend to get past Francie's death. For Sydney, the wound was still fresh. Who was he kidding; it was still fresh for him, too. (He'd been sleeping with an evil Francie clone. Evil Francie clone wasn't dead like she was supposed to be. Syd wasn't dead, Evil Francie Clone wasn't dead. Too much information.)

Sighing, Will fidgeted uncomfortably. Imagined pain was flaring in the scar left by Evil Francie's bayonet. Syd had a scar on her stomach. He'd wanted to ask about that, but her lips had distracted him. And really, he supposed, he hadn't wanted to ask about the mark anyway. Enough traumatizing information, not nearly enough vodka.

That thought made Will's stomach turn. How long before he realized that he and vodka, that he and vodka and Sydney, didn't mix well? He'd taken advantage of her. Or perhaps she'd taken advantage of him. Had they taken advantage of each other? But if two adults were mutually consenting, mutually traumatized, and mutually drunk, did that really count as one taking advantage of the other? Will decided not to think about it. Thinking made his head hurt, and if he thought too much about what they'd just done, the reasons behind it…

But he knew the reasons behind it, didn't he? He still loved her, part of him always would. And that was unhealthy, because the way Will loved Sydney didn't match up with the way she loved him. The way Will loved Sydney was more in line with the way Sydney loved Vaughn.

Vaughn. Will's hold tightened again. Without thinking, he rolled to his side and dropped the lightest of kisses to Sydney's shoulder blade. Will still loved her, she still loved Vaughn, and Vaughn was married. It really was a very sucky situation. . And Sydney was working with Vaughn's wife. Very weird, very sucky situation. Which, in Will's very inebriated mind, brought him right back to why Sydney was dozing next to him. She still loved Vaughn, and she still missed Vaughn, and he, Will, was the next-best thing. The Vaughn-substitute, one might say.

But no, that wasn't right. That made it sound like taking advantage, and he'd already decided that no taking advantage had taken place. God, he'd wanted this for so long, but not this way. What would Sydney think when she woke up, when the drinks had run their course? Would she be angry? Embarrassed? What would he think when he woke more fully, when the booze was out of his system?

He fidgeted again, that same imagined pain in his chest. Will used to be good at relaxing. He used to vegetate on Syd and Francie's couch for hours on end, laughing while the women criticized his taste in films. Will from Los Angeles used to relax with the best of them. Jonah from Wisconsin had what he suspected to be a sleep disorder. Sleeping meant nightmares, and visions of Evil Francie planting suggestions in his head. That's what she'd done, apparently, though he still had no memory of this. Sleeping meant fire and blood, and stillness meant much the same thing. Stillness meant complacency. What if Jonah accidentally turned into Will? What if, without something to occupy himself, he made another mistake? He'd made a mistake with Francie. Sleeping with the enemy, in every sense of the word. How could being with Syd like this feel so strange when Evil Francie hadn't triggered the smallest of alarm bells?

This was what stillness did to him. He wondered if it was the same for Sydney, if that was part of why she'd thrown herself so obsessively into catching Danny's killers. Still dozing, Syd pulled gently on Will's arm. Spooned up behind her, Will couldn't help but smile. Then his thoughts returned to Danny. Was it pathetic that he'd been in love with her for so long? Or was it only pathetic that he'd thought he could play hero after Danny's murder, that he could somehow earn her love and make things okay again?

Will's musings were cut short when he felt Syd stirring next to him. He didn't think she'd been sleeping deeply enough to dream, but apparently he was wrong. His heart, already broken for her, for what she'd been through, shattered a second time. Sydney whimpered quietly, her breathing turning labored as she muttered incomprehensible words of distress.

Unsure whether to hold her close or let her go (he didn't want a black eye if she mistook him for a threat), Will settled for rubbing his hands along her back. "Syd," he whispered, feeling her tremble under his fingers. "Syd, hey."

Back to his chest, the brunette released a choked sob. Breathing still sounded harder than it should.

Wishing his breath didn't smell so badly of alcohol, Will leaned close to her ear. "Syd," he murmured. One hand stayed on her back while the other moved up and down her arm. "Syd, wake up."

She didn't. Despite not being able to see her face, Will knew she was crying again. God did he hate it when she cried. He continued his efforts to wake her, determined to pull her out of this without scaring her too much in the process. "Syd," he repeated, giving her arm a gentle shake. "Syd, you're okay. You're okay."

"Vaughn."

The half-hopeful, half-desperate whimper caught Will like a wrecking ball to the chest. It shouldn't have surprised him really. Thinking about it, he was mildly shocked that she hadn't cried out Michael Vaughn's name as they finished. Will felt like he should be mad about this, wanted to be mad about this, but the anger wasn't there. He'd never been able to stay mad at her, and he couldn't very well get mad at her for feeling the way she did. Ignoring the sting her words caused, the ex-reporter cautiously slipped both arms around her waist, resuming their earlier position. "You're okay, Syd. Vaughn's okay. Wake up before Francie gets all the good breakfast stuff."

Remarkably enough, Sydney did wake up, sucking in harsh, teary breaths as she caught sight of her surroundings. Blinking away the moisture, she took several more steadying breaths, still facing away from her companion.

"You okay?" Will asked, running gentle fingers through her hair. His free hand dropped unconsciously lower, grazing the scar by her navel.

"No," she replied, still struggling for control.

Ask a stupid question… Frowning, Will let go of her once again. He felt useless, he felt depressed, he felt like he was invading her space. Granted, he'd been avoiding her space for sometime, but now he felt like she might actually mind. Noting the hoarseness of her voice, and remembering just how much she'd had to drink, Will decided to make himself scarce by making himself useful. "Let me get you some water."

"No," she repeated, more sharply this time. Sharply and desperately. Reaching behind her, Sydney pulled him back down, draping one of his arms back over her torso. "Don't," she said tearfully. "Please, just stay here. Just for a minute."

Will obliged. As if there was any other choice. With Syd keeping his left hand in place over her stomach, Will used the other one to remove the tears from her face. "Okay," he murmured, indulging himself with a kiss to her cheek. "It's okay, we've got plenty of time."

She nodded, but did nothing else. Barely audible sobs continued to wrack her body. Will could do nothing except hold her. Hold her and hate himself for enjoying the way she fit against his body. He shouldn't enjoy that feeling, but it was beyond his control. "You want to talk about it?"

His question was followed by the briefest of pauses. "Not really." Aware of it or not, Sydney held his fingers tighter over her stomach.

Will got the nonverbal message, scooting closer to remove the last few inches between them. Unwillingly, his mind traveled to another time, another lifetime, when Sydney showed up at his apartment unexpectedly. He hadn't known why she was upset, but somehow they'd ended up on his couch, in much the same position they were now. Back then, all he'd wanted from her was the truth. Now, as he whispered nonsense words and promised not to go anywhere, he wondered. Was it worth it, this truth that had destroyed both their lives? Would it have been better to stay ignorant?

Probably, but better or not, easier or not, safer or not, Will didn't regret the knowledge he'd gained. It meant being closer to Sydney.

Abruptly, Sydney went stiff in his arms. "Will," she asked, sounding rather afraid of the answer. "Did I…?"

He frowned, first concerned that she might've forgotten their activities entirely. Surely the fact that they were in bed together…? Or was the regret kicking in already? "Syd, I don't…I'm sorry. I just, I missed you so much and then…God, Sydney." She was going to freak out, he was never going to see her again.

But maybe he was wrong. Rolling over to face him, she placed a finger to his lips. "Will, don't. It's not…don't worry about it." Muttering something about talking in her sleep, Sydney moved so that she was laying on her back, expressive brown eyes closing tightly.

Then Will understood. She remembered the V word, that slip of the tongue, uttered when she was half-asleep. Shaking his head, Will gathered her into another embrace. How many times could his heart shatter in the space of two hours. "Oh, Syd."

She hid her face in the hollow of his throat, tears wetting his skin. "I'm sorry," she cried softly.

"Shhh," he soothed, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Don't be sorry, Syd. You don't have anything to be sorry about."

Will was surprised to find that he genuinely meant that. She expected him to hate her, for so many reasons, but how could he? He could hate Vaughn (but not really) for getting married, for getting over Sydney. He could hate Sloane and Sark and Allison (especially Allison), but not Sydney. He could never do anything but love Sydney, in one way or another.

He held her until the sobs stopped, until all the tears were gone. Resting her head on his chest, it was a long time before Syd spoke again. "We should get up."

"You're still tired," he argued.

"I'm always still tired."

It was supposed to be a joke, but Will couldn't laugh. "Try and sleep awhile longer." It was selfish, what he was doing. Sleeping with her was weird and wrong, but not completely. It wasn't so completely wrong that he didn't want to prolong the contact as long as possible. Because when reality set in, when drinks and emotions were no longer a factor, this would become one of those things of which they did not speak. Like that kiss in her kitchen, like that other kiss that wasn't in her kitchen. Wasn't it okay to pretend, just for a bit, that he loved her and she loved him and that was the end of it?

"I can't," she replied. The quiet desperation was back in her voice. "I don't know if they're nightmares or flashbacks or what, but I can't…"

Will nodded in understanding. The place where the bayonet pierced his chest continued to throb with imagined pain. In his mind's eye, Will saw fire, smelled smoke, felt the blood pouring from the wound. "Think happy thoughts," he said, unsure whom he was addressing, Sydney or himself.

"Not too many of those lately,"

The sadness was too much. Will struggled to remember a time that wasn't all sadness. Most of those non-sad memories involved Francie though, which by definition made them sad. "What's her name again, Lorraine?"

"Lauren," Syd corrected.

He smiled at her obvious distaste. 'Lauren' came out sounding like a particularly vile obscenity. "Lorraine sounds uglier," he declared. "Think of Lorraine falling off the Grand Canyon or something."

"That's horrible!" she exclaimed, punching his arm.

"And yet you laugh," he teased. "Horrible, happy, the phrasing's interchangeable when it comes to her. Now catch a few winks before we get back to the international espionage."

"We?" she asked smiling.

"Yes, we. You're not hogging all the action on this one. Besides, I still have to fulfill my James Bond fantasy."

"Will…"

"Sydney?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"When did you get so bossy?"

"Not me, Jonah. Jonah's a control freak. Sleep."

For the second time, Will made to get up. The booze and the tears were gone now, and all he could think was that Syd wouldn't want to stay in this bed with him, no matter how good it felt to be with her like this.

For the second time, Syd halted his movements, pinning him under a hopeful, imploring gaze. "Will?"

She was asking him to stay, so he stayed. As if there was another choice. Maybe the booze wasn't completely gone from either of their systems, and maybe the nightmare was affecting her more than she wanted to admit. Whatever. The weirdness and the awkwardness and the espionage could wait a few minutes.

Will had always been jealous of the men in Sydney's life. Danny was going to be the heroic doctor, Vaughn was the heroic CIA agent. Her contact, her confidant, her…but Will didn't want to think about that. Danny was the heroic doctor, Vaughn was the heroic CIA agent, and he, Will was the lowly friend reporter. For so long, he'd chased Danny's killers, trying to play hero, trying to give Sydney closure. Playing hero, thinking that if he did, she might change her mind, might realize… Obviously that hadn't gone exactly the way he planned. But maybe tonight, right now, he could pretend again. Pretend that this wasn't screwed up; pretend that he could protect her from nightmares and memories and remnants of the past. Tonight, it might be okay for him to play hero.