AN: Here we go again. Hope you enjoy. This chapter was as much fun to write as the first, but as always, I couldn't have done it without Kat. Thanks girl!
Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own anything Alias. Jekyll Island is a barrier island in Georgia, bordered by the Atlantic on the east, the Intracoastal Waterway on the west. It's just an hour north of Jacksonville, Fla.

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Jekyll Island
Chapter Two: Sweet Caroline
by Rach
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The ceremony was beautiful. Really, it was. Somehow, she had grown past feeling sad or guilty when attending a wedding. She didn't remember the day (or even how) it happened, but she knew that she can now make it through a wedding (even a lengthy Catholic one) without picturing Danny's pale face, the spatter of his blood on the bathroom tile, or visions of a shared life that would never be. He was gone -- just three words, but also a phrase that had gotten her through numerous heart wrenching moments, even in recent times, under different circumstances. It had been years since Danny's death -- over three, in fact. She still missed him, but also found it difficult to picture his smile, to remember his voice. She had loved since then. A love that had smoothed over the rifts of lingering shame, anger and guilt. A love that had foolishly prompted her to hope. A love that was taken away with rough abandon, still tainting her tongue with the acidic bitterness of betrayal and loss.

Closed door. Not leaving the apartment for a week. Broken spirit, fractured heart. Shivering in the June heat, a blanket cocooning her from her cold room, from reality. Not speaking for days, not even when her father, uncharacteristically concerned, unexpectedly appears on her doorstep. An alarmed, almost frantic Francie forcing her into the shower. Demanding answers, an explanation that will never come. Because she doesn't know what it is, she doesn't know where things start and end. All she knows is a blur of an ever-turning, distorted circle. Sleep, nightmares and reruns of Three's Company.

Will squeezed her hand. He was just trying to reassure her in his thoughtful way -- he hadn't forgotten Danny either, and was sure this wasn't easy for her. Ironically, she ended up feeling guilty because Will thought she was sadly remembering her deceased fiancé. She smiled up at him, forcing herself back into the moment. Jekyll Island. Amy's wedding. Will , in a white wooden chair, sweat dancing on his forehead, grinning like mad. Beaming with pride that his sister was actually going through with this wedding, despite her understandable fears that her soon-to-be in laws would brand her as a freak and unsuitable.

The ceremony was held outside in the late afternoon ninety-degree heat, on the grounds of the historic Jekyll Island Club, the kind of place where guests wore golf clothes and still played croquet on the green out front.

Even the wedding guests lucky enough to have procured seats in the shade couldn't escape the humidity. It was bordering on oppressive, the sticky air making an impact on everyone and everything, as evidenced by growing circles of perspiration on clothing and the Spanish Moss that hung like damp rags from the tree branches overhead. Sydney thanked God she'd decided on a breathable linen dressand that neither Amy Tippin nor her soon-to-be husband were Catholic.

******

"Congratulations, Amyyou look stunning." A hug passed between the two women. "Your hair looks great."

Amy Tippin flashed Sydney a wide, genuine smile. "You think?" Her fingers nervously raked through the new haircut, a modern bob. "The color is a change, isn't it? I wasn't sure I was going to like it."

"No, it's the perfect color," Sydney assured her. "Auburn suits you."

Amy beamed. "Well, the magenta was nice for a while." Her eyes wandered over the crowd until they settled on a lanky blond man. "But I just couldn't do that to John on our wedding day, especially to his family. They were a bit, well, alarmed when they first laid eyes on me."

Sydney's eyebrow raised curiously. A hand rested on her shoulder.

Laughing. Tugging of belts and shoelaces and socks. The tingle of his hand on her shoulder and the heady anticipation that follows as she leads him into her bedroom for the first time. Fingers intertwined. An unexpected exchange of terms of endearment. No saying goodbye, not a single word precedes his dramatic exit from her life.

It was Will's hand, swollen and reddened by the heat.

"They're very southern, very old money," His voice came from behind Sydney. His breath tickled her skin and smelled like peppermint. "I mean, they're part owners of this place, aren't they?"

"They own half of Georgia," Amy remarked in a hushed tone. "Talk about giving Ted Turner a run for his money."

A relative's voice interrupted and Amy was swept away in a wave of well-wishers.

Will shook his head, his eyes on his sister. "I just can't believe it," he said, jamming his hand in his pocket. "My sistermarried. And to this guyhe's great, don't get me wrong, but they're just so different."

"Sometimes if two people are too much alike, things are destined to not work out," Sydney heard herself saying.

"Yeah, I guess," he responded, his eyes drifting from his sister to the bar positioned in the far corner of the reception tent. "Let's get a drink?"

Sydney nodded with a smile, taking his offered arm. "I think a celebration is in order."

********

She couldn't pinpoint exactly when or why they crossed the line that night.

One moment they were dancing, singing along to some Neil Diamond song (John's family had major pull with the DJ), the next she was in his arms, swaying slowly as the sun set upon the Intracoastal Waterway to the west.

And even then, she didn't have a clue. He was just Will, she was just Sydney. They were dancing, just dancing.

"So what do you think of this place?" he whispered, his lips a little too close to her ear. "Mind-blowing how the Rockefellers and Pulitzers vacationed hereyou'd think they'd at least make camp on the other side of the island, by the beach."

She chuckled, mentally recognizing an anxious note in Will's voice. "Maybe they had a thing for swatting bugs," she replied after feeling an annoying but familiar pinch on her calf.

The conversation faded away, not really serving a solid purpose other than to fill the empty, not mildly strained silence.

She felt the muscles of his back through his damp white dress shirt. He had long since discarded his tie and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. Her head naturally rested on his chestand she felt something she hadn't experienced in months.

Relaxation.

No room in her mind for flashbacks of foreign places, penetrating voices and a man she had promised to forget.

Just Sydney and Will. Just dancing. No guns, screams or tears. Normalcy.

And somehow relaxation grew into something else, something more. Something that made her tilt her head upward to see his eyes burning down on her. Something that prompted her hands to slide down his biceps, her fingertips stinging as if they were just waking from a year-long slumber, really feeling for the first time in ages.

He was looking at her, hope shining in his blue eyes. Confusion, concernand hope.

She did the only thing she could think of doing - she smiled. A wide smile that seemed to swallow her entire face, that reminded her that she was still alive, still relatively young, and that she could still feel.

Her right hand grasped his left, sweeping from palm to knuckles to fingernails. They were no longer moving.

He was still looking at her, still questions dancing in his eyes. Just like him, she had no idea what she was doing, what it all meantso she didn't answer.

Without a word, she walked off the dance floor, her hand still gripping his. The thinning crowd, well on their way past intoxication, didn't notice as they silently left the reception.

She went to the pier. He followed.

She walked to the edge, placed her hands on the steel railing and looked down, only seeing shadows gliding over the water.

"Syd," Will's voice punctured the silence. He was next to her, just a sideways glance away. "Is everything okay?"

An explosion rocks a building. Flames. Heat. The telltale scent of burning flesh. Her hand muffles a scream, covers her face from debris. Gone.

Her eyes were closed. "Mmmmhmmmm," was all she could manage. The flashbacks were more than she could stand sometimes, intruders of the worst kind. Reminders of a life she was starting to think she couldn't live anymore.

"Hey." He pulled her to him carefully. "I know you."

Eyes flew open as the first breeze of the night tickled her bare legs. It was dark but she could see the details of his face. His eyebrows were pulled together in concern as he continued to look at her, to search her face for answers.

He cared; she knew he cared. He had always cared.

"I know," she responded, not knowing what else to say. But he didn't know her. He didn't know she could hog-tie a 250-pound security guard in less than ten seconds. He didn't know she had been tortured by the enemy -- teeth yanked and body beaten (but never into submission). He didn't know the reason she had taken down all photos of her mother. He didn't know the scent of musty warehouses, ancient catacombs or an aristocratic playboy's bathroom.

"And you're not okay, are you?"

His arms were comforting, like a warm chenille blanket. "Sometimes I'm not sure," she murmured into his shirt.

A minute passed, maybe more. The water was relatively still, lazily lapping against the boats docked nearby. The quiet of this place was good for her. It wasn't too often her life was quiet. Her days were filled with gunshots, heels clicking on expensive marble floors, explosions, the pulsating bass in a nightclub, the roar of a plane's engine, the squeal of a car's tires. Then there were voices -- talking, explaining, evaluating, repeating, describing, demanding, ordering, questioning. Always questioning. She was exhausted by the questions.

Now she craved quiet like how she used to crave love. First the love from her father, then from Dannyand then Vaughn. And each time it was taken awayor didn't last.

She didn't want love anymore. She wanted peace, understanding, just a single morning she can sleep in until 11, not being jarred awake by nightmares, an urgent page from Sloane or a phone call from Weiss.

"Anything I can do to help?" Will asked quietly, probably having sensed this pause would stretch into hours if he remained silent.

Her hand grabbed his shirt, feeling the buttons dig into her fisted palm. Pulling him closer, she focused mostly on his full lips, although the back of her mind noted his startled expression.

The kiss was soft as her parted lips met his. He exhaled as she pulled away, and her hand released his shirt, leaving a ring of wrinkles in its wake.

Debating. Was this right? Should she just stop now before he got hurtentangled further in her complicated life?

He ended her debate after their brief moment of separation. Fingers running through her hairanother kiss. Comfort mixed with passion as she returned the kiss.

Memories were stifled by the humid air, by the sensation of being touched again.

There would be no flashbacks that night.