h a n d s . e x c i t e . o b l i v i o n

Hands Excite Oblivion
[by victoria p.]

Rating: R

Summary: Another meeting of the Men Who Loved Sydney Bristow comes to order.

Spoilers: Through The Tell (end of season 2)

Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete/Melissa, Dot, and Meg. Written for Cherry Ice for Project Ficlet. She gave me this sentence: "His hands are scarred from the fire (long writer's fingers stained 'round and 'round with pink), and he never seems to know what to do with them any more." She asked for Will/Vaughn. This is sort of Will/Vaughn, but also Syd/Vaughn, Syd/Will, Vaughn/Weiss, Syd/Weiss. Even a little Will/Weiss. Um, yeah. And I loved the sentence and used it, but not as the opening line. But look! Addams Family reference!

Takes place early on in the missing two years. Title from Anne Sexton's When the Glass of My Body Broke.

Date: October 28, 2003

"Vaughn."

"Will."

Weiss fades from Vaughn's consciousness when Will appears at the bar. That's as it should be, Weiss thinks. Another meeting of the Men Who Loved Sydney Bristow comes to order, and he isn't even on the list as far as the other two are concerned; he lags behind Jack and Marshall and Dixon. Even Sloane was closer to her, in his sick and twisted way.

Which is fine, as far as Weiss is concerned. He likes -- liked -- Syd. She was good for Vaughn. But he was there before Polly and Alice and Sydney. He'll be there for Vaughn long after Syd's memory has faded, and this... thing with Will is a distant memory.

Will and Vaughn embrace; nothing untoward there, not in public. Vaughn thinks Weiss doesn't know about what happens after they drop him off, when they're alone, clinging to each other, each closing his eyes and coming with Syd's name on his lips.

Will takes his drink from the bartender, not even noticing the flirtatious smile she gives him. It's Absolut and tonic -- transparent, simple. The way his life isn't any longer. Weiss still feels bad for him. He didn't sign up for this, after all, the way Weiss and Vaughn did. Will takes a sip, puts the glass on the bar and returns his attention to Vaughn.

His hands are scarred from the fire (long writer's fingers stained 'round and 'round with pink), and he never seems to know what to do with them any more. He touches Vaughn, almost as if he has no control -- Weiss has a flashback to The Addams Family, a show he loved as a kid, featuring a hand with a mind of its own.

That's how Will's hands are now, seeking contact, connection, stability. He doesn't know Vaughn can't give it to him, that Vaughn is riding his own downward spiral of booze and madness. When he's not with Will, Vaughn is curled up on Weiss's couch, in his bed, in his arms.

It takes three men to fill the space of one woman. Weiss is sure there's something profound to be said there, but he's never been one for profound statements, not until after the second shot at least, and he's only nursing a scotch tonight, on guard because Will and Vaughn are not.

These nights have a strange, staccato rhythm, and Weiss always knows from the moment Will walks in, from the way his hands flutter like featherless birds, who will be going home with whom. On some level, it pleases him not to have to pour Vaughn into bed, not to have to see his strong and confident best friend reduced to this. On the other, the flare of jealousy he never felt toward Sydney or Alice or any of a dozen women whose names he can't remember, burns hot and bright on the nights they drop him off. Vaughn was his, first, and on nights like these, he wants to make sure they all know that.

But he does nothing beyond slamming the door with excessive force when they drop him at home. He huddles alone in his bed, smelling of scotch and smoke, hand curled around his cock, imagining long-fingered writer's hands wrapped round with scarred flesh, deft and deadly spy's hands, skilled with knife and gun and that super action kung-fu grip so useful for jerking off.

Weiss thinks he must be drunk after all, because the name on his lips when he comes isn't Will, isn't Vaughn.

He's fallen prey to it, too, the myth of Sydney Bristow, and he sees her face behind his eyelids as he finally falls asleep.

End

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Disclaimer: All Alias characters belong to JJ Abrams and Bad Robot etc.; this piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.