Sporks and Fries:

Alcohol and Magazines

By Kira

kira@sd-1.com |

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. Really. Seriously!

It was actually Will Tippin's idea.

It was two days after Jack Bristow came into the JTF with a large bruise on his forehead. The older agent had been increasingly distant that day and continued to shoot glares at Weiss that only Sydney could rival in her most angry of moments. Will had become increasingly curious as the day wore on, wishing he could be in the "know". Sydney was in the "know," Jack was in the "know," Weiss was in the "know," and even that Vaughn guy was in the "know." Hell, everyone in the cast was in the "know" except for him, and he saw only one way to fix that.

"Guys' night," he said casually, leaning against the desk next to Weiss, eating some strawberry yogurt. Weiss paused from his work, then swiveled to look up at him.

"Guys' night? What are we, in junior high?" Weiss asked, taking in the former-reporter decked out in semi-casual wear. Why couldn't he wear clothes like that to work? And while his mind was on the subject, why couldn't Vaughn?

"No. I just think it would be nice," Will continued, shifting his weight as his eyes went back to the yogurt. "I mean, we've been working together for how long, 2, 3 months?"

"You're eating strawberry yogurt for lunch and you're proposing a guy's night?" Weiss inquired, gesturing to the food in question. Will shrugged and scooped his spoon around the outer edges to make sure he got all of it. As soon as he pulled the spoon from his mouth, he pointed it at Weiss.

"Didn't I hear something about you being on a diet?" he asked, narrowing his eyes as the spoon wavered at the end of his hand. A fleck of strawberry landed on the desk, but Weiss didn't notice that. He was too busy being embarrassed and angered at the same time.

"…yes," Weiss confessed. "But if you – wait, where did you hear it?"

"Syd told me."

"And?"

"Vaughn told her," Will said, sticking the spoon back in the container.

"Does he tell her everything?" Weiss growled, looking across the JTF for Vaughn. He didn't find him and frowned a bit.

"I think so," Will added as an afterthought. "Anyway, what are you doing tonight?"

"Wha? Oh, nothing."

"Good," Will smiled. "I'll ask Syd to invite Vaughn." Weiss nodded, and almost returned to his work before remembering the state his apartment was in. He raised a hand and called out to Will.

"Better ask to have it at his place."

. .

Michael Vaughn loved parties. When he was small, his mother would throw one whenever his father came home, a large bash to celebrate him living to see another day. Of course, it always ended with her drunk in a corner, and his father having to carry her upstairs, but this simply taught the young boy how to be a proper host. However, this also taught him how to be a proper host when sending people away.

Which was why he was sitting straight on his couch, nervous. A guys' night? Sure, he'd hung out – scratch that – gotten drunk with Weiss before and watched old movies, but never with more than just him. What was he supposed to do?

He suddenly flashed back to college, but brushed that out of his mind as someone knocked at the door. As he walked to the door, Sydney's voice hollered in his ear.

"Don't let Weiss get near you – I don't trust him alone with you."

"But Syd," he whined, "he's been my best friend for years. We've been alone plenty of times."

"Don't wanna hear it! Just…"

"Hey!" Weiss said, breaking his thoughts again. He grinned as Weiss enveloped him in a large bear hug. Will stood awkwardly behind him as Weiss rested his head on Vaughn's shoulder. Ahh…he had taken his advice about the aftershave and worn less. He sighed, inhaling his scent. How perfect was this man? He smelled wonderful, no matter where he was, including his apartment after a day of work. Will cleared his throat behind them. Weiss growled and pulled back.

"What is it now…." His voice trailed off as he saw who was standing behind Will.

Sark.

That bloody Brit! What the hell was he doing there!?

Sark smiled, feeling a happiness he hadn't felt in long time. There he was – and even though it had only been a week and a half, he still had felt this emptiness inside him.

It had been a month ago that he realized it. Sark was on yet another boring menial mission in which he had to go find some thing blah, blah, blah. And then there was this beautiful man – if there ever was one to turn him, this was the one – who ran after him and chained him to a gate. As this memory had run through his mind a month ago, he realized it – and promptly flew to LA.

"Good evening, Mr. Vaughn," he smiled, speaking with his crisp quasi-accent. "Mr. Tippin, it's nice to see you looking so well." Will appeared a bit uncomfortable and backed up until he backed into the doorframe. "Shall we take this party inside?"

When he spoke, they moved.

"Wow, Vaughn, this is a nice place," Will observed. It really was. All clean and color coordinated like he'd been shopping the Martha Stewart section of the local K-Mart. Yeah, so it was cheep coordinated. He was a government employee.

"Thanks," Vaughn responded.

"Very clean as well," Sark said. He was standing in Michael Vaughn's apartment. And he didn't have to kill anyone or break down any doors with bullets to get in. It just added to the experience. Of course, they always said that violence always heightened…things…so maybe –

Oh dear, there was that glare from Weiss again.

"What are you doing here?" he growled protectively, his voice low enough so only Sark could hear.

"Why, Mr. Weiss, we meet again," he smirked. "But this time, I don't think a box of straws is going to save you."

"Oh yeah? Wait until I get into the kitchen."

"Really, Mr. Weiss, I don't see Mr. Vaughn as the straw type."

"I have two words for you, Sark: Bendy-Straws."

"Be-"

"Wow, Vaughn, you have a great movie collection!" Will's exclamation carried over their argument, and both men turned to see Will crouched down next to Vaughn in front of the apartment's DVD collection. "What's your favorite movie of all time?"

"Of all time?" Vaughn smiled back. "Hrmmm…I don't know if I could pick just one. I mean, that includes every movie ever made." Will's beautiful blue eyes opened wide, a look both Sark and Weiss knew well - it was The Look. They had to stop him before he completed the thought, before anything else happened. Weiss, having lost weight in the last two weeks because of his successful diet, leapt over the couch only to fall over onto the coffee table. As he lie there flat on his back, Sark rounded the couch swiftly yet safely, putting a hand on both Will and Vaughn's shoulders.

"Why don't we get something to drink?" he tried. Vaughn nodded and stood, Will following suit. He said the right answer to the question! He was – he could see why Weiss and Sydney were always talking about him. Vaughn moved over to help Weiss from the table, who held onto his hand for just a tad too long, before Sark's movement under his coat for his gun caused him to let go.

"We need something to drink," Weiss sighed. "And we need it badly."

The others nodded and headed for the hopefully well stocked frig. The only way Vaughn could redeem himself for the Martha Stewart decorating would be a good bachelor stock of beer and old food. Plus, he was always at Sydney's, so why would he have anything here?

Three Hours Later…

"You know what?" Weiss posed, half-hanging over the back of the couch.

"What?" Will asked, sitting in the nearby armchair, examining one of the magazines he'd found on the coffee table.

"I'm booooored," he moaned, the word elongated as Vaughn's feet came to rest on his legs with a thud. Vaughn's head hung over the end of the couch, the world odd as he looked at it upside down.

"There is a pack of cards," Sark tired, still completely in control. He could hold his alcohol better than anyone else here, something he hoped to use to his advantage. "We could play poker." His accent slipped, causing him to look around the room with shifty eyes.

"I don't have any money," Will said. Weiss was suddenly alert. This was perfect. He smiled, poking at Vaughn's foot. Of course, Vaughn had good reflexes, and promptly kicked him in the face.

"Ow!" he cried, holding his eye. No, this was not going to stop him.

"You ok?" someone asked. He wasn't sure, because he was sure Sark no longer had an accent. That faker.

"Yeah."

"We can't play, I have no money," Will continued on, throwing the magazine across the room. Sark caught it perfectly and started to read it.

"But you have clothes," Weiss grinned like a chestire cat. Vaughn laughed from the end of the couch, that deep, wonderful laugh.

Will made for the cards.

. .

"You must have been a serious gambler in your past, Mr. Vaughn."

Sark smirked and brushed back some of his gorgeous blond hair, noticing how envious of his golden locks Weiss and Will were. He shrugged. Not everyone could be blessed with perfect hair – but he was still trying to figure out how Vaughn was able to pull off the bed head look at all hours of the day and night without looking sloppy or ill-groomed. It always took Sark himself at least an hour to get his hair to appear perfect, an hour of torture if he were still sharing the only bathroom in a cold European warehouse with psycho Sloane and Irina. He shuttered involuntarily. Now *she* took a long time to get her hair just right – and how many times had she chastised him for using the last of her hair products?

"Not really. Alice was the gambler," he explained, struggling with his task of shuffling the deck. "She was always pulling me off to Las Vegas whenever I had a free moment." Will shook his head at Vaughn's apparent ineptness when it came to something as simple as shuffling some cards, and reached forward to take them from him. His hand touched Vaughn's cold one, and he paused in movement. Weiss cleared his throat. Nothing. Weiss reached in his pocket and extracted his yellow yo-yo, an evil grin on his face. He could handle competing with the Brit, but Will as well? No, no he couldn't. So, in the usual Weiss tradition, he threw it at Will's head.

"Ow!" Will yelled, quickly pulling back his hand so to rub the side of his head. "What is with you and throwing things at people!?"

"Yes, Mr. Weiss. Straws, yo-yos, and what's this I hear about you throwing a muffin at Jack Bristow?" Sark piped up, dusting an imaginary spider from his forearm.

"Did you just send a fleck of evil my way? Because I swear I saw a fleck of evil come my way," Will started, still rubbing his head. The cards were now in a large pile on the table, Vaughn running his hands through them as if he were a 5-year old. The boys were transfixed by this simple action, except Sark, who felt the need to snark Will in an effort to eliminate him as a contender.

"What, am I Lurky now?"

"Lu-who?" Weiss inquired. Vaughn almost giggled as he started stacking the cards back into some kind of deck.

"From Rainbow Bright!" he exclaimed, clapping. Will groaned – this man was a giggly-drunk. Who would have thought this stoic man could *giggle* like a school girl? "He was the big guy and Murky was his partner, and they went around spreading those, those, things!" He punctuated the word thing as if it were a breakthrough term of utmost importance. His arms went above his head, fingers spread wide.

"Aren't you a little – old to be liking Rainbow Bright?" Will inquired. Weiss growled. Did he just call Vaughn old?! Did he just dare to call him – oh, this was not going to fly. Not going to fly at all.

"Will, watch your tongue," he hissed across the table. Sark laughed.

"At least Rainbow Bright was in my generation," he deadpanned. The group stopped, silent.

Then: "We need more beer. I'll get it."

Ahh, Weiss, the voice of reason. He shoved back his chair and stood…only to trip over one of the legs. He caught himself without thinking on the first thing he came in contact with, which happened to be –

"Get your hands off my boy!" Sark exclaimed, completely out of character. And that was when they realized Sark was a loud drunk. With Weiss' tumble and landing on Vaughn, he was the clumsy one.

"So what's this about Alice?" Will asked, always the reporter. Vaughn started playing with the cards one-handed as Weiss leaned closer into his side.

"Off. My. Boy."

"Oh, she had a gambling problem. When I broke up with her, she went to Las Vegas with one of my credit cards. You should see that bill," Vaughn continued to explain.

"Off. Now."

"Really? And you haven't called anyone?" Will raised his eyebrows, surprised.

"Mr. Weiss."

"Naw. She's mostly harmless," Vaughn sighed. Will nodded in understanding as he examined his fingers on the table. There *was* a fleck of evil there! Sark, that mean sadistic bastard, spreading his influence like that! He wasn't going to convert him that easily – he was a –

Weiss screamed a girly scream that rivaled Will's.

Sark was standing at the other end of the table, his gun drawn and pointed at Weiss, who was now clutching Vaughn's right leg as if he were a 2 year old child scared of getting lost in the large K-Mart. Sark was slightly frightening with that gun pointed at him, but all Vaughn cared about was his leg. An old hockey injury had popped his knee out, and Weiss' constantly tightening grip wasn't helping that one bit.

"Whoa," Will breathed. He decided this would be a good time to get that beer Weiss was supposed to be retrieving at the moment. He wasn't cut out for having guns pointed at people, especially when alcohol was involved.

"Sark, why don't you put the…the….what's that? The gun!" he shouted, grinning. The grin had lasting effects, and even Weiss stood to observe its wonder. And Will almost dropped the beer he was carrying as he re-entered the room. Sark was also effected, and let the gun drop to the floor with little mind to the fact that it might accidentally go off.

"Why…" Weiss cleared his throat and let his voice return to a normal pitch. "Why don't we just start the game."

So they started.

Vaughn, being the ex-boyfriend of Alice, the gambling addict, was pretty good at poker.

Will, being nothing more than a journalism major, wasn't that good a poker.

Weiss, being the "ladies man" he claimed to be, was very bad.

And Sark was enjoying watching his companions screw up because they were too damn drunk to realize that the side with the red and black dot-like thingies were supposed to be secrets and thus not shown to everyone at the entire table (and at one point, the neighbors across the alley from the apartment).

However, the pile in the center of the table was getting large enough that it didn't matter if they were holding the cards backwards – no one could see anyone else. This disappointed Sark the most, as Will and Weiss were able to look around the sides and see the man of wonder and he couldn't. So, he pouted.

"Are you pouting? I can *hearere* you pouting over there," Vaughn's throaty, alcohol-effected voice floated over the pile like a beacon of hope and joy sent to him and him alone. It was deep and smooth, wonderful in every way. Oh, at this point he was considering giving up the life of the assassin for this man. If he were put in CIA custody, would he come and visit every day? Speak to him through the glass that clearly separated them even in this clear, twisted life.

Oh, to be a fly on a wall in that apartment that night.

"Let's see, you lose!" Weiss cried in delight. "Lose the undershirt."

Vaughn paused, then complied. Sark actually leaned over and *pushed* the clothes off the table to watch this event take place.

It was worth every glare from Weiss. And Will.

Of course, since they were glaring at him, they were missing the view.

"Dudes, who idea was this anyway?" Vaughn inquired, scratching his chest. There was a delayed reaction before:

"Mine."

"Mine."

"Totally mine, guys," Will said, pouting. "No question."

"At least you're still wearing something resembling a shirt," Vaughn observed with a child's voice. It was getting kinda cold in the room. Maybe that was because he'd left the window open when showing his neighbors his awesome hand (which wasn't all that awesome, since it was only a pair of 2's and the cause for him loosing his blue oxford).

"That's no mistake," Sark grinned. He looked down into his lap and the extra deck he'd swiped from a box in the closet labeled "Alice's Leftovers". Yes, there was no mistake on why he, Weiss and Will, who had temporarily banded together for a common cause, were still semi-clothed.

But that was all about to change.

. .

"Uh, guys?"

Vaughn sat with a bare foot propped up on the table, wiggling his toes every so often just so he'd know they were still there. Of course, he could have always just looked at the foot in front of him, but something in his mind told him that wiggling them and feeling the air around them change would be an easier way to calm his lost-toe fears. That, and he had found out as soon as he put his foot on the table that Sark had a fear of bare feet, and would cringe each time he moved.

Which was probably the reason Weiss had insisted on him keeping it there. You see, Weiss liked feet. A lot. And having Vaughn's foot right there in front of him was nice. Very nice. So nice, in fact, that he had lost three hands in a row and was finding himself on the loosing end of the clothed-not clothed battle he had previously been winning.

And he was slowly realizing it was a little cold in the room.

Sark shifted in his seat so that he could look at Vaughn and not at his foot, which had wiggling toes again. The leather jacked he normally wore was on the floor, along with his over shirt. But his shoes and socks were still on, and he would fight to the death before he looked at even his own feet.

"Why do I have five of the same card?" Vaughn continued, turning them around so the room could see. Indeed, he did have five red 2's nestled between worn and tired fingers, spread out as only an anal and organized person would have them. Will started giggling, his hand coming up to rest in front of his mouth.

Weiss broke the silence: "That's not right."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Will managed through his trip through elementary school behavior.

"Does that mean I win?" Vaughn asked innocently.

"I think the real question here is why you have five," Sark stated, as to take the blame away from himself. Of course, everyone else at the table, except for Vaughn, knew the cards were indeed his, and thus it was a pathetic attempt at keeping face.

"Are you sure there are five? I mean, what if there are more?" Weiss said, his voice getting somewhat panicky. Oh, he was good. Let's pass it off as something none of them did. Sark smiled a bit, admiring Weiss' acting talents. "What if someone came in here and messed with our cards!"

After that exclamation, and Weiss' bold move that sent Vaughn's foot crashing to the ground with a painful thud, Sark wasn't so sure he was acting anymore. Vaughn, however, howled and doubled over, examining his foot. The rest of the players leaned over as well, not wanting anything to happen to Vaughn at all. Unless it was less clothing.

But with Weiss' boneheaded move, it seemed the undressing was coming to an end. Sark was slightly thankful since in a few rounds he would have had to start revealing his feet. Will, who happened to be perfectly all right with all parts of himself (including his feet), shrugged and crossed the room to close the window. It was chilly, and cold was not good when your clothes were scattered about the table, knocked off after he'd tried to diagram….something – what was it again? Oh yeah, his escape. But the salt shaker was rejected as an appropriate form for Sydney, who he'd put off on the edge of the table, and the argument that had erupted was loud. Annoying. And the only good that came out of it was "Sydney" falling off the table. They cheered.

"Are you ok?" Weiss demanded, eyes wide. Sark stood and rushed over, leaning over Weiss' shoulder to look at Vaughn's foot without getting too close.

"Look what you did, Mr. Weiss. That's the second time you've injured him!" Sark exclaimed, whacking him on the back of the head.

"Me? It's always your fault! You were attacking me with straws! You were cheating with the extra cards to get him naked! Not me!" Weiss defended himself, standing. Sark, being the super secret assassin he was, *almost* lost his balance, but quickly regained it. The chair tumbled to the floor.

Will didn't know if he should get out a referee's whistle or get involved in the fight. He was truly torn. So, he decided to get the best of them, and ran to the kitchen in search of some kind of bandage. He would be the hero in this story! The knight in shining armor. The victor!

Wait, since when did his think like this?

"Will! Bendy straws! I *need* them!" Weiss screamed at the top of his lungs, no doubt waking everyone else in the building up from their slumber. Will, who was easily sidetracked despite the outward appearance that he was sober, rummaged quickly through the drawers letting perfectly placed utensils clamber to the tile below.

Outside, it was getting ugly.

While Vaughn had a high threshold for pain while perfectly sober, and would thus be thought to have the same threshold while intoxicated, didn't. Instead, tears were welding up in his glazed green eyes, and he looked like a lost puppy dog. But Sark nor Weiss noticed.

Weiss was still behind the couch, hands on his hips, face red.

Sark was on the other side, grabbing magazines from the table and chucking them at the yelling Weiss.

"Will! Where are the bendy straws?" Weiss cried, looking over his shoulder. That was the mistake of the night, and Sark hit him square in the head with a thick IKEA catalogue. Now, the fact that Weiss was still standing surprised Sark, who thought furniture catalogues were supposed to double as deadly weapons. He had clearly never been introduced to the IKEA methodology, and after the lightweight and fully functional book hit Weiss, it folded into a nice small and easily storable shape that was aesthetically pleasing while remaining practical. All for the low price of $5.95. Incredible.

As most people seem to lose most of their attention spans and intelligence while intoxicated, even when it is cheap beer that had been sitting in various refrigerators for the last week or so, Sark succumbed to the wonder that is IKEA and suddenly decided he was needing a new black leather couch for his Den of Evil (the chicks dug the name).

And at that exact moment, the clattering and clambering of Will in the kitchen ceased and he jumped out in true secret agent style, chucking the unopened box of bendy straws in Sark's direction.

He missed.

Weiss turned to him, his hands dropping down to his sides, a look of confusion drawn across his face.

"Great one, Will. Really," he deadpanned. "Throwing a box at him really hurt. The bendy straws are still inside!"

"And now I have them!" Sark yelled, holding the box victoriously above his head with one hand, the IKEA magazine in the other. Why couldn't he find nice furniture like this over where he lived. And why the hell did Vaughn have items from the Martha Stewart collection when he had an IKEA magazine and the means to purchase from it?

Of course, then again, he was a government employee. And that meant he didn't get paid as much as, say, a freelance assassin. Sark pondered this. Maybe some kind of donation was in order. Didn't he say something about a lost credit card and a compulsive gambler ex? That could be why, he surmised. And why the hell was his arm hurting, his mind asked him as he looked over the specs for a nice bookcase on page 78. It was a nice tall bookcase that came in black – what the hell! – the mind said. Look at your damned arm, then look over some new purchases.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he shrieked, ice blue eyes wide. Will, attempting to atone for his mistake with the closed box of bendy straws, was pulling down on Sark's arm, almost hanging mid-air as he attempted to retrieve them. Weiss was trying to take advantage of his close proximity to Sark, and stood, trying to get the box of bendy straws open.

Buffoons, both of them.

The straw box suddenly opened, sending a shower of multi-colored bendy straws down on Sark, followed with the box, as Will gave up and fell to the ground.

Sark just glared at Weiss with the Most Annoyed Look Ever plastered all over his face.

Now, imagine for a moment that you yourself are stuck in this exact same situation. Just sit back and think about it. A man who is known to kill people with no reason at all just had a box of bendy straws of a variety of colors (the 100 multi-color pack) fall all over him, a man (who was not at the time fully dressed) attack his arm, and another – oh, who had fought against him ever since he walked into that sandwich shop and ordered a chocolate shake. He's more than a little pissed at the moment, and has given a very threatening look.

So, based on previous behavior, you'd expect Weiss to glare back and shout about defending Vaughn's honor. And you're sitting there, waiting for the reaction.

He screamed.

Will was surprised – for he thought he had the girlest scream ever. But Weiss' loud, shriek had him beat, and he returned to bandaging Vaughn's apparently injured ankle. Because of this, he missed Weiss high-tailing it out of there with interjections from Vaughn the entire way, knocking over a lamp –

"Hey! That's my $30 lamp!"

- a stack of books –

"I was pretending to read those!"

- a bag from the mall –

"I'm hoping you didn't break that. It was a present for Sydney!"

- and stopped dead in his tracks. The only sound heard in the apartment was the shifting of straws under Sark's feet, crunching as he turned his attention to the bag lying near the door.

It was a non-descript bag, a brown one – wait!

"Norstrom! You went and got her something from – " Will exclaimed, letting the bandage hang off Vaughn's ankle as he stood.

"You were able to get her something from there, yet you shop at K-Mart for your home?" Sark interrupted the reporter turned analyst, picking a bright pink bendy straw from his golden locks. He bent it out of annoyance, the straw making that crinkly sound as he did so. Then, it broke, because he was too mean to it.

"There is a reason I shoppeded at K-Mart," Vaughn defended himself after stumbling over one of the more simpler of words in the English language. He pointed a finger skyward, as if his explanation was to be a grand and awesome proclamation of some kind. They all awaited his answer, Weiss inching ever so sneakily towards the bag as if it were second base and he were about to steal it.

"Alice," was all he said, and let his hand fall limply to his lap. Sark let out a little laugh, just a small one, then flicked the broken pieces of the straw to the ground.

"Alice what?"

"What?" Vaughn asked, picking at the end of the bandage around his ankle.

"What does Alice have to do with your poor sense of consumerism?" Will shouted, pulling himself from the ground, chewing on a purple straw. It bounced up and down in his mouth as he spoke at an odd angle, having already been "bendied". By now, Weiss had a bare toe around the top handle of the bag and was struggling to lift it quietly to get a look inside. As soon as he did, his face went white and he pulled his foot away as fast as he could, as if there were some viral disease inside the simple looking bag. Sark sent him a question through a somewhat less threatening look than before, but Weiss just shook his head.

Could you really get things like that at Nordstrom?

He didn't think it possible, and looked over at Vaughn. Drastic measures had to be taken in order to save him before all this "Sydney" love got to his head. She was already telling him who his friends could be as if he were still in kindergarten.

Ironic that he thought that, because at that very moment, Vaughn was pulling at the bandage and flinching at the same time, his mind unable to connect that the pulling was causing the pain.

"Consumerism?" Sark asked. "That man," he continued, pointing at Vaughn, "is so drunk that he probably doesn't remember his own name, let alone what the hell the word consumerism means."

"I do," Will said simply.

"You, Mr. Tippin, obviously hold your liquor better than him."

"Hell, anyone does," Weiss commented, walking over to meet them. Will leaned over to whisper in his ear, but Weiss pushed him away. "No one but Mike can do that, buddy," he said.

"Ouch," Vaughn sobbed. "It hurts." And he pointed to his ankle, which had, indeed, swelled. He was so cute, sitting there, in only a sock and a nice pair of boxers, pointing to a swollen and half-covered ankle. The others just stood there, unmoving, absorbing the scene. It was – wait.

The three of them turned to look at each other.

"Well…" Will started. He was not heard.

"Why are you looking at him like that?" Sark asked of Weiss.

"Why are you?" Weiss retorted to Sark.

"He's clearly mine."

"Was mine first."

"Was not."

"Was too!"

"Was not!"

"Oh, shut up already! He's mine!" Will yelled, and grabbed the closest item he could grab a hold of – the IKEA catalogue, and chucked it at them.

He missed again. Well, not entirely.

Because at that moment, Sydney walked through the door. And the book made perfect contact with her face. Will whimpered, and ran to hide behind the pillar on the edge of the small kitchen. Sark and Weiss didn't move, frozen like deer in headlights, jaws slack.

"Hi!" Vaughn smiled, moving his arm up to point at her. His brows furrowed. "you're not supposed to be here."

"Not. Suppose. To. Be. Here?" she asked, making sure to add extra emphasis to each and every word. Her gaze was dark, evil, fire. She turned to Sark first. "You! Are not supposed to be here!"

Sark, too frightened to fight against her while in his state of undress and her state of wrath, quickly mumbled some words of apology and scuttled to gather his clothes. He jumped out the open window to the depths below, his footsteps heavy on the ground as he ran away like a scared little boy.

She next directed her attention to the pillar, and Will, who kept peaking out from behind it like a complete idiot.

"Will! I can't believe you! Get out of here!"

"I…um…need a ride?" he retorted, still chewing on the straw.

"Fine! I won't be long," she growled, looking straight at Weiss. He gulped, inching backwards towards the hallway and preferably, a door with a lock. Of course, Sydney had to have her gun on her, which meant not even a lock could save him at this point.

"Umm…I'll…" he muttered, grabbing his clothes. As he passed her, Sydney ripped the straw from his mouth and threw it to the ground before pushing him out the door. He waved as he disappeared into the hallway.

"Eric Weiss," Sydney then said. Weiss looked around him, hoping there was someone else in the room, someone else named that, but found the only other person was Vaughn, who had started to play solitaire with the cards face down. All of them.

"Hiya, Syd. Listen, I've got a really hectic day tomorrow, so I'm just, ya know, gonna – " and he edged towards the door, not even caring about his clothes at this point. She jumped into his path like a praying mantis.

"You are a bad, bad man," she said, "and I – "

"Sydney," Vaughn spoke up before she had the chance to disembowel Weiss on the spot.

"Yes, sweetie?" she asked, her voice nothing like it had been moments before.

"Please don't kill my best friend," he pleaded with her. "I need him because he makes good pizza."

"Awe, but I told you what would happen if you were with him."

"I wasn't alone! I had…people."

"People what, hunny," Sydney asked. But Vaughn had already returned to his solitaire game.

"He does that," Weiss spoke up.

"If I ever, and I mean ever see you like…like this again and around my boyfriend, I will kill you. No, I will – "

"Pizza!" Vaughn cried like a happy school child. Sydney sighed and hung her head. There was no way she could really kill Weiss now, even though her boyfriend was incredibly drunk and would probably not remember how those red stains got into his carpet. But he would miss the pizza – something she knew he certainly enjoyed. And so, that was how pizza saved Eric Weiss' life so that he may live another day.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked towards the floor.

"Is that a fleck of evil? Where'd that come from?"

Neither Sark, nor Will ever found out exactly what was in the bag. And they doubted they ever would.