Spoilers: It's an alternate Almost Thirty Years. Everyone knew that it was a freakin' tranq, so I figured, "Let's wing him." :bwa ha ha ha has:

Author's Notes: Whom to thank? Estella for keeping me in touch with my old friends. I miss you all, even though none of you will ever see this note.

cosset KOSS-it, transitive verb:
To treat as a pet; to treat with excessive indulgence; to pamper.
Cosset comes from the noun cosset, "a pet lamb."

"Haven't seen you for a while. What's it been, two weeks?"

"Yeah."

"You gotta stop smokin' those things. People are going to think you're an addict. Then where will you be? You'll have throat cancer and you'll be forced to quit and start doing those commercials for the teens. You know the one's I'm talkin' about. The lady with the hole in her neck? The woman who bashes eggs all over her kitchen and screams something about brains on drugs?"

"You didn't mention the X-Files series finale."

"I'm pretending it doesn't exist. I was ashamed."

"You're prattling."

"Jesus, I wonder why? Do you know how hard it is to keep Jack Bristow from barging in and checking all over for Tippin's file? He suspects something. And I'm worried."

"Good thing that Will Tippin doesn't have a file other than the public one, now, isn't it? The computer doesn't have anything on Tippin. I never trust those things."

"What? Computers?"

"Anything written down, whether mechanically or electronically. It has a tendency to get lost. I keep them here."

"Ah, so that's why you have that big missing patch up there. I just thought you were going bald. But, no, apparently you are having your hair removed one strand at a time to make space for the notes you will have tattooed."

"You're about as funny as a fart in a spacesuit."

"Haven't I read that before?"

"I think it's Card."

"Plagiarist."

"I was quoting."

"Whatever. Let's get back to the work on hand. What have you done with Tippin in the two weeks you refused to contact me and arrange a meeting? And, by the way, after thirty years of having you contact me, I think I want you to give me your number so you can be contacted, not contactee."

"Bite me."

"I don't swing that way. Go on about Tippin, will ya?"

"Nothing much. He spoke to his family and friends. Gave them the story we drilled into him. It's a beauty. Just plain stupid on his part and he knows it. It was all I could do to keep a straight face when I first told it to him."

"What was this doozie of a story, sir?"

"He opened the door and somebody was standing there to burglarize the place. Some Cambodian woman. She waved a gun at his head and out piled five agents, with their lasers trailed on her. She freaked, fired the gun once, and passed out. Tippin isn't pressing charges."

"That is priceless. Where did you come up with that?"

"It happened about four years ago."

"Damn. Who was it that was in safe house? Quayle?"

"P-O-T-A-T-O-E."

"Hilarious. What about work? What, is he dropping off the face of the Earth there? I thought that was generally frowned upon."

"Just handed in his resignation last week. He didn't want nothing, no money for injury on the job or anything. I would have milked them, but, hey, I just like big figures in my checkbook. He's still young enough that he doesn't care."

"Sucker."

"He did ask for this file, though, and was real specific about it. You'll never believe what the hell this boy had planned. Guess!"

"I don't know. Just tell me, Johns."

"No, guess."

"I give."

"You're no good at this game."

"I never was. You broke me of fun when you took me in."

"Anyway, he had written a story with all he knew about Danny Hecht "

"Isn't that Sydney's fiance? The one that SD-6 offed a while back?"

"Yeah."

"Man, that was classy killing. The blood and the ransacking of the apartment alone was an eight on my scale. Usually I just have them shot and then I take the car and sell it to a chop shop."

"You're unoriginal."

"Continue with your story, then, meanie."

"You don't have to call names."

"Stop pouting, Johns. It doesn't become a higher-ranking officer. And you look like a girl when you pout. Twelve."

"At least I'm not a sulking thirteen-year-old. As I was saying, he had this article all written out. SD-6. Danny. Kate. Eloise. It was like Days of Our Lives with PAX TV names. It was pretty good stuff, too. It had quite a lot of detail. Not all of the facts were straight, but, let me tell you, Sydney Bristow would have been dead by the end of the day it was published."

"When was it going to be published?"

"If Tippin didn't come back and didn't contact them, the paper was gonna publish it. You know, one of those, If I die fighting for the Union, I want you to marry my brother? Only not so civil war and more like I'm going into something I don't know about and I'm scared shitless."

"I didn't think he'd have the brasses to do that."

"Call him Man-In-Pain."

"Or Draggin'-Man."

"I see the pun and I raise you onamonapia. Clink clink ouch ouch."

"Who can compete with that?"

"No one, Fredricks."

"What's happening now?"

"Well, we've given him time off to look for a job. Now he's gonna be hired at the LA Periodical. He works on getting up to level with my agents and gets coffee. Most young agents who know about my division would die for the honor of spitting in my cup every morning."

"God knows I would. That's an okay start; you're cosseting him. What about after that?"

"It all depends if Tippin decides to whiten his teeth or not."

Johns met with Will Tippin for the first time in fifteen days at a small café near the office buildings of his former place of work. He had been calling Will every day with instructions on as to what he should do and he had been leaving men to watch and interact with Will in his stead. Johns walked up unannounced and handed the young reporter a large manila envelope.

"I just knew I'd be getting a present soon," Will remarked casually from behind his bagel. He swallowed and stood.

"You call me every day to tell me you love me and you have all your friends come over and ask if I want to go out with you. It's very flattering for a gal, let me tell you. I have to say it, though, Johns - I don't think of you that way." He glanced at Johns, grinning, while he went up to pay for his food.

Johns said nothing, merely grunted. After a moment of looking at him, Tippin faltered and opened the package. Johns watched while Tippin self-consciously ruffled through the pages. "Wow," Will said. "There's a work contract in here for some newspaper called the LA Periodical. I think I've read that before. It's got a pretty wide variety of articles, no definite feeling as to what type of paper it is." Tippin glanced at Johns with a dubious look on his face. He was going to work at a second rate paper? It didn't matter he wasn't really working there, just having his name on the payroll was bad enough.

"And this looks like a lot of papers that I'm going to have to sign," Will said. Johns merely grunted, so Will took that to mean that yes, he was going to have to sign them. He wondered if he should read them as well but decided against it. If they were there to screw him over, they had him. He couldn't stop it one way or the other. He was in way too deep. "And this looks like a passport, driver's license, birth certificate, and social security card of a one Mr. Zachary Edwards. Am I Zach Edwards?"

"Yes." The answer was short and obviously meant to be non-committal to the conversation and whatever threads were stemming from it. Johns was clearly impatient to go. Tippin looked at the car in front of the café; it was in the red zone and big and black. It screamed soccer mom so loudly that Will almost put his hands up to his head to cover his ears. He walked over to it and opened the car door, getting in after pausing to see if it was the correct car with a backward glance over his should towards Johns. Johns glared at nothing for a moment before entering on the driver's side.

"Good, because Will Tippin, gee, that's so out, you know?" Will snapped his buckle and watched as John thrust the key into the ignition. The engine gave a sort of feeble protest, as if only to make it formal, and then shuddered to life. Will looked out the window from his vantage point on top of the world in the SUV and grinned at a little Italian sports car that was in front of them. It was so toast.

"Sydney Bristow has Kate Jones," Johns said, maneuvering the giant vehicle in front of another and causing the driver of the truck to swear and give them the finger. Will liked being this kind of passenger and not the type of driver that he usual was - the truck driver.

"Got it. This is my travel icon. My avatar for the three-dimensional world. One more strand to add to the completion of the tangled world of lies that I am constructing." Will absentmindedly let himself chatter on and on. He was a very good chatterer when he got the chance to exercise his skills in the art.

"I hate writers," Johns said. "Always think what they have to say is worth saying. And I hate journalist even more. They always think that they should speak no matter what, because even if they have nothing worthwhile to say, they'll still be speaking. If they are remembered for their words or not has no meaning to them."

Will took the hint.

The office building where Agent Johns parked the sports utility vehicle looked much the same as any of the other buildings on the street on which it was located. It was not very large and definitely not in the best of condition. There was cracked and peeling paint on the wooden door and the windows were rather dirty. A large sign on the door declared it to be the main offices of the LA Periodical. Will frowned as he followed Johns into a brightly lit reception area. There were no shadows and the only cobwebs were near the bottom a plastic tree in the corner behind the door. Not very CIA at all.

The girl at the front desk smiled as they walked up. "Mr. Johns," she said respectfully. She reached under the counter and brought out a small laptop computer. Taking off her necklace, she opened up the locket to remove a small key. She used the key to open the laptop, which turned out to be not a laptop but rather a small safe. Withdrawing several paper bags from the laptop-turn-safe, she closed it, place the key back in the locket, put the chain back on her neck, and put the laptop back under the counter. "There's your lunch," she said.

"Whoa." Will couldn't think of anything else to say. Was this guy paranoid or was John just showing off for him? The girl looked at him expectantly. Oh, yes, he must introduce himself. How silly. He stuck out his hand. "Will," he said.

The girl gripped it in a surprisingly firm grasp. "I know who you are, Mr. Tippin," she said, smiling as she was shaking his hand. "I hear you are the new reporter that our esteemed editor is taking under his wing." Will glanced at Johns and thought personally that Johns looked like the only time he'd take Will under his wing was to put him in a headlock. "Usually he takes only interns. You must be very proud." She dropped his hand and leaned forward over the desk. Of their own accord, Will found his eyes drifting southward to the ample cleavage that was now being presented to him. "I'm Stacey Jacobson," she said. She leaned back and once again shook his hand before dropping it. "I'm sure you'll have a fine time here, Mr. Tippin."

"You don't have to call me Mr. Tippin. Just Will is fine," he said, smiling at her. Stacey merely grinned.

Johns grunted again - did he know how to do anything other than grunt? Was he perhaps some sort of missing link in the evolutionary chain? Wasn't there a gorilla named Koko who they had taught to sign? Hadn't she consequently acquired a vocabulary of over three thousand words? Johns began to dragging Will away from the desk.

"She knew my name," Will said, dazed. "I didn't know her name, but she knew my name." He halfheartedly considered turning around and waving to Stacey, but decided against it.

Johns snorted. "Of course she did, Tippin," he said simply. "Jacobson is the best geneticist and computer expert we have on staff, even if she is only an intern. We were lucky to get her away from her previous post. She created our security file on you. I don't know if you noticed this, but she got you to look in the correct place for the right amount of time so that we could scan your retinas. Also, when you shook her hand you probably didn't notice the latex covering that took your fingerprints. Nor the slight snag on the palm of your hand that got enough skin cells to get a DNA analysis."

Will gasped and did look back at Jacobson. "She took my DNA?" he asked, shocked.

"No," Johns said, "but that sounded good. We'll take the DNA from you later on. Right now, Jake is probably entering your voice registration and all the other information into the computer as we speak she didn't even need to prod you to say your first and last names. Hurry up, Tippin."

Will obligingly turned up the speed of his gait. They were headed for a door with a single word on it saying 'Stairs.' Will glanced longingly at the elevators. Johns noticed his glance and chortled. "Ever hear of a drawer having a false back? Well, this office has a floor with a false back; a false floor. Only way to get to floor 14B is by stair."

Johns was walking swiftly up the steps and Will was trying valiantly to keep up with him, hoping his breathing wouldn't become too irregular. He almost forgot to ask the next question, so busy was he trying to keep oxygen in his lungs.

"14B?"

"All of our interns work on 14B. It is not connected in any way to 14A: there is a solid wall dividing them down the middle. It is approximately one fourth the size of the total floor. Those who are working inside the operation but who haven't received full agent status are located here." Johns stopped on floor four and watched disapprovingly as Will half-jogged up towards him.

"What does that mean?" Will asked. Johns's eyes narrowed before he turned and began walking up flight five.

"Do you always ask so many questions?" Johns inquired. Will furrowed his brow and closed his mouth, effectively stopping the questions that began to form in his mind. Do you always answer a question with a question? he wanted to ask. Johns sighed heavily, the sigh of an impatiently patient person. "Everyone here is an agent in the CIA. When they come here, they have to re-earn that status, mostly through writing for the paper. We're propagandists for the government here, and that is much more difficult than it looks."

Will gaped at him. "Explain." Oh, thank the good lord up in heaven. The seventh floor; they were halfway done. Will was going to have to begin jogging, or else he'd never make it a week in this place.

"Bossy Bessie," Johns said. "This paper is run and written by government workers. It goes against our constitutional rights and all that stuff, so weren't officially seen as part of the government." Wow, Will thought. "But that's not our real job."

Wait a second here? What had Agent Johns just said? "So, uh, officially you are an unofficial government operation?" Will said. Johns grunted. Ah, back to monosyllabic Johns now, weren't they? "But that's just a big cover-up for something else. You make it sound like something Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson would have on the cartoon show."

"We both know you're waiting for the Olson twins to turn eighteen," Johns muttered, passing the sign that declared it to be the eleventh floor.

Will decided to ignore this. "What are we covering up?" He grinned when he said this. They were covering up something. They as in the CIA. This was the place where men were made and dreams were realized. This was so cool!

"We aren't covering up anything. The agents are covering up something. Interns don't know this, usually, so just remember that I'm giving you this information so you know if you'll ever want to leave, you'll be living like Napoleon. Wet island with no technology and people watching you for the rest of your life. Probably be assassinated too, just to make sure everything goes as follows."

"I thought Napoleon died from something in the paint on his bedroom walls," Will said, frowning in the general direction of the agent, not being able to lift his head from where he was watching his feet rise and fall, rise and fall.

Johns didn't answer, even with a grunt. He merely touched the doorknob of the door at the landing. Wrenching it open, he stepped into the room, motioning minutely for Will to follow him inside.

There were two men standing in an almost empty landing. There was a Pepsi machine between them and they appeared to be lounging during break. When they saw Johns and Will, they straightened up, their hands cocked at their sides in an odd fashion. That's the way that gunmen keep their hands, Will realized. They nodded once at Johns and then turned to Will. "Name?" they asked. He gave them his name and waited expectantly while the men stared at him. Was it his imagination, or did he hear a crinkling? Were these men wearing ear pieces?

"Agent Francis Johns and Junior Special Intern William Tippin are on the admittance list," the larger of the two men. Will began gravitating towards the door on the left, but Johns placed a hand on his arm. The second man, the smaller one, took out several quarters and put them in the machine. Clink. Clink. Clink. Three quarters. He placed the remaining four back in his pocket. He then pressed the Pepsi button once, twice; the orange soda button three times; and the Mt. Dew button once. Taking a firm grasp of the machine, they then slid it easily to the right.

"Walk this way," Johns said, striding purposely into the room revealed by the door. Will could say nothing, just nodded mutely, and thought to himself, Holy crap.

Johns walked quickly, with purpose, through the room. The people near the front stood respectfully as Johns passed, sitting only when he was beyond them. It gave Will the creeps. What sort of place was this? As they got further into the room, however, fewer and fewer people stood, until they passed through a door into a large hallway. People standing at their doors or working with them open barely glanced up as Johns and Will progressed.

"This place has a major security hazard," Johns said as they were walking. "For the main offices for the interns there is only one exit that they can assess without help in case of an accident. While that also means that there is only one way to enter these halls, it does tend to cause people to panic during earthquakes."

Will said nothing, just stared goggle-eyed all around him. He noticed two men, boy, really, that's how young they were, speaking animatedly in the doorway of one of the offices. One was in a maroon shirt and one in olive green. Johns continued talking about security in the place.

The one in the maroon shirt glared the olive-green shirt and said, "No, Spiderman is better than Batman. He can swing off of buildings." Will paused, completely ignoring Agent Johns and his talking by now and focusing on the conversation.

Olive-green glared directly. "So can Batman." One for each side and neither showing any signs of backing down. This was going to get interesting. Will glanced back at Maroon and waited expectantly.

He didn't have to wait long. "Spidey sense." My spidey sense is tingling, Will thought. The first week of his sophomore year at college, his roommate had murmured that in his sleep and creeped Will out. He was convinced he had a psycho who thought he could jump off tall buildings and live.

"Batmobile."

"Does the Batmobile tingle?"

"I'm sure there's a button for it." Will had to give him credit, that was a surprisingly thought-provoking response. After all, Bruce Wayne is a very busy man. On the other hand, though, he had no end of babes throwing himself at him.

"What about you?" Maroon rounded in on Will and he backed up quickly into a wall. Damn. That had materialized out of no where. Should he perhaps find whatever wizard was working the magic in this place and complain? He glanced around helplessly for Johns, but he was standing several paces away with a neutral expression on his face. This guy had one expression! "Spiderman or Batman?"

"Superman," Will said, licking his lips. Olive-green and Maroon stared at him with deathly rays of hate that was twinned in their eyes. Will gulped and wondered briefly if these men were agents and if so, would they be killing him now? "See," he explained, "he's the only one who wears the tights and no mask."

Olive-green and Maroon looked at each other, mouths open. Were these two brothers? Will wondered how quickly they would take his body apart. Never get in the middle of a fight of grown men and comic book heroes.

"Good one," Olive-green said. Will let out a sigh of relief. He wasn't going to die today! Oh, thank the Lord! He was going to call his mother as soon as possible and tell her how much he loved her!

"Never thought of it that way," Maroon conceded. He shrugged his shoulders and started speaking more, but he was interrupted by Johns.

"Tippin, come on. You don't want to be late, now, do you?" Maroon and Olive-green turned to look and Johns and gasped. Obviously they knew him. Probably as some hard-ass who never let them work in peace, Will thought to himself. "Wilkinson, Godat, get back to work." Interesting. Godat wasn't said the French way, Go-day, but rather the poor white American trash way, Go-dat. Will liked whichever one was Godat that much better.

Godat and Wilkinson both backed up several paces from Tippin and eyed him once over before disappearing down a hallway. Will had the sudden idea that he was the adopted project of the local freak in the CIA. Great. Why didn't he begin packing his resume immediately?

"Now," Johns said as they resumed walking, "usually we have you tested for a year to see if you're good enough for the training of a normal CIA agent. Then we promote you to intern. After another year of low intel work, we give you a chance to prove yourself as an agent. Then you have to prove yourself in the field and or as a jockey. Unfortunately, you're an idiot." He gave a helpless shrug and Will murmured a quick apology. Johns waved it off nonchalantly. "So, we're skipping you several grades."

"Cool," Will said. They walked into a darkened corridor. There were no windows and there weren't any doors that he could see, except for one at the very end. Interesting. They would be going through that door to change his life.

"Not cool," Johns said, managing to make the word cool seem juvenile and completely unprofessional. Will glowered. Cool was a good word. Expressive. He'd not stop using it for some stupid job as a spy! Wait. Yes he would. "Think of it this way: It would be like if you were a three-year-old and we put you in with the sixth graders. Academics and physical education."

"But a third grader wouldn't be able to keep up with a sixth grader," Will pointed out. "I don't think a three-year-old has much of a chance." They were half-way down the hall and Will kept glancing at the door and grinning at it.

"Exactly, moron," John said, stopping in the middle of the hall and turning ninety-eight degrees. "You are so in over your head. You drowned days ago, you just aren't aware of it yet." He placed a hand on the door handle and turned. A small closet was shown. Johns reached over and brushed aside a coat, revealing a black box with a hinged top about eye level.

He flipped it open and stared at it; there were two plates, one on top of the other, there. Will was shocked when a thin red line ran across John's face. After a two minute pause, Johns spoke his name. "Frank Johns." Will watched, fascinated, when Johns placed his hand below the thin, clear plate that had scanned his eyes and. Will shivered to see it turn briefly red.

Johns stepped back and turned to Will. "Your turn." Repeating the process and feeling rather stupid, Will was surprised to feel how cold the plate got when he placed his hand on it. When he was finished, Johns placed the back where it belonged and walked out of the closet. Will barely made it out before Johns had shut the door once more.

Walking together quickly down the halls, Will couldn't help but feel a bit apprehensive about the ever-closer door looming up. When they reached it, he closed his eyes for half a second, and then opened them sharply. He must not appear frightened.

Johns paid no attention the younger man, his nondescript form never turning in the slightest to Will. Once the door was opened fully, he stepped into the room and spoke.

"Ling, I have the new jessie." He jerked a finger towards Will and a woman stepped forward. "Junior Special Intern Tippin, meet Agent Ling Chau. Ling, meet Jessie Tippin." Will stuck his hand out hurriedly, to shake Ling's. She stared at him and he withdrew it after a few moments.

Ling was small, just almost coming up to Will's shoulder, but sturdily built. Her eyes brightly brown, her dark hair curly, her fingers formidably long, Will was struck by how she looked so Chinese and yet had the oddest features: she was half Caucasian if she was any.

"I love your hair," Will said, trying to fill the awkward silence that had descended up on the group. Strike that; no one except Will seemed to be uncomfortable. Ling was still staring at him with her large eyes and Johns was watching the two of them with an amused smile on his face. Was this the first time Will had seen him smile? He couldn't remember.

"I'm not," Ling said.

"Wh-what?" Will faltered. She wasn't what?

"I'm full blooded Chinese. I just look damn good for it," Ling said. Will saw Johns's eye twitch before Johns turned his head slightly. Ling faced Johns, completely ignoring Will's apologies. "I thought you were bringing me a jessie. A J.S.I. This is not a jessie. This is a pansy."

"What?" Will broke in, shocked. Did Ling just say that he was gay? He wasn't gay. He was very not-gay. In fact, he was checking out her ass right now. Look, that was him, checking out Ling's ass. He'd seen a nicer one on Francie (when she was dieting it off, even), but, still, he was checking it out. Not gay.

"Don't worry, Ling, he's got a thing for little girls, not boys. He isn't gay." Johns looked at his fingernails and scratched the surface us his right ring finger with the thumb of the same hand. Will stuttered a question out, which Johns waved away. "This is the one that was dating that kid, Jenny, remember?"

"Ah, I remember him," Ling said, her face void of emotion and her eyes so definitely not twinkling that Will frowned and began contemplating way to prove he wasn't perverted or gay. "I say he was playing it for a sham; in denial. I could beat the crap out of him right now."

As if to prove the point, Will was suddenly on his back with Ling on his chest, all five foot-one and one hundred twenty pounds of muscle of her. Her hands around his neck made breathing difficult to breath. Oh, dear Lord, it wouldn't be geeks who would kill him; it would be this tiny woman with the feral glint in her eyes. He began to see stars right before Ling let go and scrambled up. Rubbing his neck, he followed suit. "I'm going to have a bruise," he said in a raspy voice. When he finished speaking, somebody melted in from the shadows of the room handed him a bag. Opening it, Will discovered . . . Cover Girl foundation in it? "Oh, no way." Will said.

"You're gonna need it. If that is any way to gauge how your training will go, you are going to be more black and blue than pink and brown," Ling said. She turned away from Will and walked to the end of the room, which, Will noticed for the first time, was completely empty. "Are you three coming down stairs with me or shall I go all by myself?" she asked. Will's heart sank. Down those stairs again?

Perhaps it wouldn't do to be too optimistic, but when Will saw the elevator he grinned. Now, that was more like it. He'd talk to Johns about this make-up thing later. No way was Will Tippin, Junior Agent Special or . . . no, wait . . . jessie . . . Junior Special Agent. Yes, he was a Junior Special Agent and he was not going to be wearing any make-up.

"Johns," Will said, catching his arm inside the elevator, "what's a Junior Special Agent?"

Johns smirked, but it was Ling who spoke. "Gophers."

End Chapter Two

Hey, dudes, I totally based Ling on my dear friend Estella. Estella is full blooded Chinese (her parents ARE from China!) but she is TALL (Ling isn't) and built very sturdily (yet she's thin, you know), and has the CURLIEST hair I've ever seen. I'm so jealous of it. So there! I'll find a picture of her. She's so beautiful. And sorry this is coming out late my family and I've been crazy lately.

(Additional author's note, added three years later this story got Estella hooked on Alias, and now she's the biggest Alias fan:-D)