Magic All Around

Rating: PG

Pairing: Sydney/Weiss

Spoilers: I’ve seen up to Season 3 “Blowback” so up till then only.

Summary: Weiss and Sydney go undercover in a nightclub.

Notes: So one night my sister is in a bad mood and we watch the Savage Garden concert DVD to cheer her up. The song “Chained to You” come on, and she dares me to write an Alias fic to it. It’s very very loosely based, but just so you know!

 

There are times when I really hate my job.

 

Don’t get me wrong, most days, I like it. Never the same thing two days in a row, the chance of travel (not that I get to see the places I travel to, but you can’t have everything), not to mention the idea that we’re actually doing some good in the world, helping to make it a safer place. That’s pretty neat when you think about it.

 

Granted, it would be nice not to have such a dangerous job, and getting shot in the jugular sucked hardcore, but things could be worse.

 

I suppose.


Then you have the missions that don’t seem like they’re going to be a big deal, and yet manage to turn into one anyway.

 

Like this one for example.

 

On one hand, it really shouldn’t be such a big deal. I mean, it’s not as if we’re in some god-awful, far-flung dive where they don’t speak any English. We’re home, in L.A, in one of the biggest, most popular nightclubs. Though, I gotta say, now that I think of god-awful dives…

 

Anyway, things shouldn’t be so bad, right? Go in with Syd, watch her get some guy eating out of her hand, let her take him outside, follow her and watch her beat the ever-loving crap out of him. This is a job I can handle.

 

This is a job I should be able to handle.

 

Except for the fact that someone decided – and it sounds like a Marshall plan - that there was a better than average chance of Djordjevic being interested in Sydney if she was there with someone. As in, her boyfriend. Something about men always being more interested in women who are taken. I wanted to stop the briefing right then and there, ask him if he’d looked at Sydney lately, and how any man could not be interested in her, but, you know, we were in a briefing. With Sydney. And our boss, and her father and her ex-boyfriend who happens to be my best friend, and you know what they say about discretion being the better part of valour.

 

So I nodded my head and went along with it, sure that they were going to pick Mike to go in with her. But no, that wasn’t good enough for Marshall. He put a picture of Djordjevic up on the screen, a guy who’s nowhere near as good-looking as Mike, and pointed out that no way would a girl like Syd throw over a guy like Mike for a guy like Djordjevic. His exact words were that we needed to send some “poor schlub” in with her to make it look believable.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Eric Weiss, poor schlub.

 

There are days when I hate my job.

 

Not that Syd said anything either for good or for bad about it, though I’ve got to say, I did detect a bit of a smug bastard smile hovering around Mike’s lips. For which I’m going to punish him one of these days. He knew better than to say anything though, just sat in the back of the van tonight, sending us off into the club.

 

Not that there’s any real need for him to be there, for anyone to be there. There’s no surveillance with this op, neither Syd nor I have communications devices. This club is so exclusive, Marshall explained to us with heavy sarcasm, that they have metal detectors at the door, so we were on our own.

 

Mind you, I could probably have snuck something in somewhere, underneath this rather sharp suit that Marshall supplied me with. I think the guy must be developing some kind of tact and restraint, because he didn’t mention the words “Poor schlub dressing up to impress his hot girl,” though I could hear him thinking them. He could have snuck some kind of something onto my person.

 

Syd though? Not so much.

 

Which is, come to think of it, exactly what she’s wearing. Long hair extensions do something at least to preserve her modesty, but her skirt could charitably described as a belt, while her top is basically a handkerchief with bits of string attached, held on her body by, and I swear this is the only explanation, the eyes of every man in the room. Stiletto heels that could double as lethal weapons complete the ensemble, and every man in the room has been looking at her since she walked in here.

 

And the poor schlub theory is also working, because they look at her, then at me, and every man Jack of them does a hard double take.

 

This job is so great for my ego.

 

She needed an excuse to look for Djordjevic, and the only one that possibly presented itself was the dance floor. So off she went on her merry way, attracting more than one lascivious look, and she’s been strutting her stuff there ever since.

 

Meanwhile, I’ve been propping up the bar, sipping water, trying to remind myself that I’m on the clock and that drinking on the job is not appropriate CIA behaviour.

 

Besides which, this is Sydney. My friend. My colleague. Mike’s ex, and good friends don’t go there.

 

They don’t, no matter how much they want to, no matter how long they’ve been wanting it for.

 

Because that’s something that no-one has guessed. Not Mike, not Marshall, and sure as hell not Syd. That ever since she came back from two years of being dead, ever since she moved in down the block from me, ever since we started spending time together, I’ve been developing a bit of a thing for her. And it’s nothing to do with the whole knight-in-shining-armour deal, nothing to do with that at all.

 

It’s that she’s a heck of a woman, and I’d really like to get to know her better.

 

But she’s Sydney. My friend. My colleague. Mike’s ex.

 

So I take another sip of water, recite Lakers scoring stats and think longingly of the long cold shower I’m going to be taking when we get home, and split what’s left of my attention between Syd and the crowd, looking for Djordjevic.

 

It’s a very long night.

 

A very long night that passes with no sign of Djordjevic whatsoever, and by the time Syd takes a break from dancing to Madonna – and showing worrying signs of doing a Janet Jackson – and sashays over to me, I’m feeling like I’ve earned every dime of my government paycheque, and then some. That feeling gets even stronger when she comes up to me, pressing herself against me, which, I guess, as my supposed girlfriend, she’s got every right to do. She takes the glass from my hand, takes a long swallow of water, smiles up at me as she’s doing it. Then – and this is the killer – she leans in closer to me, as girlfriends are wont to do, if I recall correctly, and whispers into my ear.

 

Of course, it’s not words of love she’s whispering. “I don’t see him anywhere… you?”

 

She pulls back, practically batting her eyelashes at me, just in case anyone’s watching, and I lean into her, my mouth close to her ears, hoping that my expression is just as lovestruck as hers. Of course, I don’t have to act so hard. “Not a sign,” I say. “You think we got bad intel?”

 

She shrugs, still doing that doe-eyed stare up at me. Her words are anything but sweetness and light however. “I hope not… I’d hate to think that putting up with all those hands on the dance floor was for nothing.”

 

At that, I actually do frown, no acting required for that either. “Seriously?” Op or no op, she shouldn’t have to put up with that, but she just laughs, her hand going to my chest, smoothing down the lapel of my jacket.

 

“I’ve put up with worse,” she tells me. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

I look at her, really look at her, because I think I’ve spent enough time with her to know when she’s lying, and she’s not now. Still, no matter how blasé she is about it, I can’t be. “That’s not the point. I say we scrub this for tonight… tell Dixon it was a wash, try some other way of getting Djordjevic.”

 

She grins, but I can see the grimace just hiding under the surface. “A wash sounds nice.”

 

I really, really hope that my poker face is staying in place. Because thinking about Sydney and washing after the show she’s been putting on on that dance floor is not good for me. Lakers stats are needed, but unfortunately, she’s looking up at me again, and there’s a look on her face that I’ve never seen there before.

 

I might have dreamed about it. But that’s not the same thing at all.

 

“I meant to tell you…” she says, and though she’s not talking into my ear any more, I can read her lips, and I can still hear every word she’s saying. It’s as if the DJ has decided to lower the music volume suddenly, to go along with the slow song he’s playing. I’m dimly aware of the couples moving closer together on the dance floor, but for all the attention I’m paying, the Covenant could carpet bomb the place and I wouldn’t notice. “That’s a really nice look for you.” Her hand plays with the lapel of the suit some more, and if she flattens it against my chest, she’s going to be able to feel my heart pounding.

 

I shrug, trying to get things back to normal. Friends. Colleagues. Mike’s ex. Poor schlub. Remember?

 

Except that she’s leaning in towards me, and then she’s pressing her lips against mine, and every thought, coherent or otherwise, flies right out of my head.

 

Let’s just clear up one thing shall we?

 

Sydney Bristow, as well as being a hell of a woman, is a hell of a kisser. Just another attribute to add to her long list.

 

When she pulls away, my hands are on her hips, the skin there just as warm and soft as I’ve ever thought. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes shining as they look up at me, and once again, I’m having trouble thinking.

 

She’s not though. “We should go,” she says, threading her fingers through mine, leading me towards the exit, and we’re halfway there before my head clicks back into gear.

 

“Wait.” I stop walking, and she does too, turns back to me, her face a question mark. “What was that back there? Was that for the job?”

 

A touch blunt, I admit. But I have to know, because false hope will kill me.

 

A soft smile lights her face, and she steps right back up to me, her body flush against mine. For an instant, I think she’s going to kiss me, but she just reaches up, cups my face with one hand. “No,” she says softly, so softly that I’m relying on lip reading again. “That was for me.”

 

With that, she pivots neatly on those heels, and she leads me towards the exit again. This time, I fall into step with her, and I don’t stop for anything.

 

I don’t have a clue where we’re going to end up, but I sure as hell can’t wait to find out.

 

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