A/N: Well, this would have been an entry into a competition, but that fell through. The challenge was to incorporate song titles (from Garbage's Bleed Like Me) into a story. Voila. It’s a missing scene, set in or after 1.14 The Coup, after Sydney has gone to Russia. It's probably rampantly out of character.

Song titles: Why Don’t You Come Over, It’s All Over But The Crying, Bad Boyfriend, Why Do You Love Me, Happy Home, Boys Wanna Fight, Sex Is Not The Enemy, and Right Between The Eyes.

Disclaimer: I own not a single element of Alias, or any of the song titles mentioned above and below. They belong to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions etc, and Garbage respectively.

The Naked Chef

“Boys suck!” The statement was venomous; bit out almost before the phone had made its way to his ear.

His reply was immediate; “Yeah they do, the hairy little bastards!”

Her laughter, reluctant and wet, dribbled through the speaker. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about, Will.”

“Who cares?” he shot back. “Solidarity, sister!”

She laughed again, and he smiled until he heard her choke back a sob. He sat up straighter in response, and clutched the phone more urgently.

“Oh, Fran, what’s wrong?”

She smiled at the concern in his voice. “It’s nothing…” Her masterful attempt at nonchalance was undermined by a hiccup. “Well, fine, it’s not nothing,” she admitted. “But I don’t wanna talk about it over the phone.”

He frowned. “No, come on,” he urged gently. “You sound really upset. Tell me.”

There was a long pause. The seconds slid by, painfully spent listening to her carefully controlled breathing. “No,” she said finally, “I really don’t wanna talk about it over the phone.” She paused. “Hey, why don’t you come over? Please?” She sounded pitiful. She grimaced and slammed her palm into her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to block the tears.

“Yeah, yeah of course!” His voice sounded tinny in her ear. She could hear faint noises in the background; papers being shuffled, drawers being opened, and then he seemed to be talking from further away. “I just need to finish up some-”

She gasped. “Oh, God, you’re still at work! I’m sorry, stay. Stay there – I never would have called, but I’m not talking to Syd, and she’s gone and the house is so quiet-”

“Fran, relax,” he commanded, mercifully cutting off her babbling. “I’m coming, and I’m bringing tequila.”

“Bless you,” she sniffed, and laughed.

“Bye.”

…

Almost twenty minutes of unbearable silence later, the doorbell rang. Francie leapt off the couch where she’d spent the entire afternoon, and winced at the feeling of blood rushing back into her legs. She hobbled quickly over to the door and opened it with a pained smile. “Hey.”

“Hey!” Will replied cheerily and held up a brown, liquor store bag. “I got the big bottle,” he said by way of explanation, looking at her tearstained cheeks in concern.

“Great,” she replied, attempting enthusiasm. She almost succeeded this time. She leaned forward and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He hugged her back, unconsciously making soothing noises when he felt her shudder at the contact. “Thanks for doing this,” she whispered, pulling back and letting him inside the house.

“No problem,” he said sincerely. He wandered awkwardly into the living room, feeling as though it were unfamiliar territory. And it was; there were wadded up tissues strewn over every surface, at least three stale glasses of water, and the rumpled throw-rug on the big couch looked as though it had only been recently vacated.

His eyes widened and he began to feel vaguely panicked; he didn’t know how to do the comforting-weeping-girls thing. That was strictly girl-territory – or in this friendship, it was Sydney-territory. He’d never done this before. There were so many things he could say wrong, or do wrong, or, or look wrong and-

He was going to make an ass out of himself. It was just… inevitable.

Somehow coming to this conclusion gave him the courage to open his mouth. “Ok, so what’s wrong?” he asked, taking out the tequila and setting it on the living room table.

Francie came in from the kitchen with shot glasses. “It’s just… Charlie,” she began, and abruptly stopped. She blinked. She had just realized that she was talking to Willabout a boy. Will about a boy. Will was a boy! How could she have overlooked that fact until right now, when he was standing in her living room in all his boy-like glory? She couldn’t talk to a boy about a boy!

Could she? This was Will. He was her friend – albeit only because his secret, all-consuming love for Sydney had made him a permanent fixture at their apartment; poor soul thought that the ‘friend’ route was the way to go – and it shouldn’t matter that he was a boy. He still cared about her; he still had feelings. It’s just that, over the course of their friendship, they’d never really discussed them with each other before. Alone. With large quantities of tequila.

She mentally shrugged. There was no going back now.

“What did he do?” Will was asking carefully. “Is it about the wedding? Did you guys-”

“Sydney told you about Stella.” It was not a question.

He swallowed guiltily. “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to kn-”

“It’s over,” she interrupted. He fell silent, and swallowed. “It’s all over…” she repeated, voice wavering. She laughed, and tears spilled out of her eyes. “But the crying…” she chuckled bitterly, “oh, that’s not over.” She choked, and was abruptly silent, looking at the floor in contemplation. “I want it to be over,” she said almost thoughtfully.

“I’m sorry,” Will croaked out, immediately wincing at the redundancy of his words. He held out his hand, and led her to the couch. She still held the shot glasses loosely in her hands, as she sat down slowly. He followed suit, and followed her gaze to the diamond ring, glinting mockingly in the soft light.

“Yeah, me too.” It was said on an exhale, so quietly that he wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it. “God, Will, why are all men such jackasses?” Francie demanded, suddenly angry. “You’re a man, right?”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, slightly uneasily.

“Then you tell me,” she commanded, wrenching the cap off of the tequila bottle and pouring shots. “Why do all men suck?” She held out a glass.

He took it. “Not all men suck,” he said defensively. She threw her head back, slamming down the tequila. He did the same, gasping a little as the alcohol burned his throat. “Don’t turn into one of those bitter, man-haters just because Charlie was a bad boyfriend.”

She sent him a death-glare. “I’m not even going to respond to that statement.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, it came out wrong.” He threw back another shot. “I just meant that you shouldn’t give up on all men. There are some of us good ones still out there.”

She choked on her third shot, and sprayed tequila all over the table. “‘Us good ones’?” she snorted, wiping her watering eyes and giggling. “Good one, Will.”

“What?”

She looked him straight in his completely serious eyes and dissolved into giggles again. “You’re not…” she laughed again as his expression became stony. “You don’t seriously consider yourself to be better than most, if not all, other guys?”

“Why not?” he demanded. “I’m honest, I’m… clean; I’m in a relationship-”

“Exactly,” Francie interrupted. “You’re in a relationship with a girl who adores you, for God knows what reason, and you have absolutely no feelings for her!” He opened his mouth to protest but she plowed on bitterly. “You’re leading her on! And that, my friend,” she said forcefully, jabbing a finger in his direction, “knocks you right off your high horse and back down into reality.”

“Hey!” he broke in defensively. “I understand that you’re hurting, and you can take it out on me all you want but you can not say that I don’t have feelings for Jenny.”

“Okay, fine, that was out of line,” Francie admitted. “But you can’t sit there and expect me to believe that you wouldn’t dump her in a second if you thought there was even the slightest possibility of something with Sydney.” Will flinched. “You probably wouldn’t even remember you were in a relationship if there was a chance with Sydney,” she muttered. “Typical.”

“Hey,” he bit out, glaring at her. “I would never cheat on my girlfriend. Never,” he repeated adamantly.

“Oh, come on, Will,” Francie snapped. “You are a guy. If Sydney walked in right now and wanted sex? Just try and tell me you wouldn’t jump at the chance.” She rolled her eyes disgustedly and downed a shot.

“I wouldn’t,” Will replied softly.

“Please,” Francie scoffed.

“I wouldn’t!” Will insisted. “I couldn’t do that to Jenny, and I definitely couldn’t do that to myself. Because what I feel for Sydney? It’s deeper than that. I don’t want something with her to be just about sex… I want it to be something real. And if the only way I can have that is by being her friend, then fine. I’ll do it. Because I love her as a friend first.” Francie looked down, at a loss for words. “And I love you too,” he continued gently. “I love you enough to let you sit here hurling insults at me and drinking like a sailor on leave.”

A laugh forced its way out of her throat, and she frowned in frustration. “God,” she breathed. “Why? Why do you love me? I’m such a mess.”

He put his arms around her and she cried.

…

Some time, and two thirds of the bottle later, they were sitting quietly. He was sprawled comfortably over the couch, now, and she was leaning against him, deep in thought. “You know what I think it is?” she croaked. Her throat was sore from crying, and her head was swimmy from the alcohol. She was feeling very warm.

“What?” he asked lethargically. He was very groggy for a reason that presented itself in the number of glasses scattered before him.

“I think that it’s my parents’ fault I can’t keep a steady relationship,” she replied thoughtfully.

“Why?” he yawned. “Were they unhappy?”

“No. They had a really good relationship,” she mused. “And I think that’s it; I came from an entirely too happy home.”

He laughed. “Fran that’s ridiculous.”

“No it’s not!” she insisted. “I never got to see them fight! I never got to see how they handled it. I have no idea how to fight.”

“Oh, I think you have a good enough idea.”

She ignored that. “I don’t know how to handle conflict. I know I don’t want to fight, and then I think boys; of course boys don’t want to fight-”

“No, no,” he interrupted sleepily. “Sometimes boys wanna fight.”

“Why, because it leads to really hot make-up sex?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it.”

She slapped him on the chest. “Typical,” she muttered. But she was smiling. “Ok, then,” she said after a while. “What’s your theory?”

“My theory?”

“On why you can’t be in a functional relationship,” she clarified. “Is it the commitment thing, the fighting thing, the parent thing; what?”

He was silent for a long time.

“Will?”

“Sex,” he said thoughtfully.

“Excuse me?”

“Sex,” he repeated. “I think that’s the reason I can’t be in a fully functional relationship.”

“So that whole ‘I wanna have something deep with Sydney’ thing was based on performance anxiety? Will, say it with me; Viagra.”

He hit her upside the head. “Shut up. This is exactly what I’m talking about. It becomes this whole big thing, and suddenly a guy’s a wuss because he doesn’t feel the need to go out there and mate with everything that moves.” She snorted. “And you women use it as a weapon!” he added, tugging on her hair affectionately. “The way I see it, sex is the enemy.”

Her head fairly flew off his chest. “You did not just say that!” she shrieked. “Sex is not the enemy!”

He laughed and stretched his arms above his head. “I did just say that, didn’t I?” He winced. “Man, this is a weird conversation.”

She laughed, and sat up. Yawning, she surveyed the battleground that was the living room. The coffee table was a jungle of tissues, lime rinds and shot glasses. “Whoa,” she muttered. “Syd’s gonna freak.” She paused. “Although we’re still a bit mad at her, so that might not be such a bad thing.”

“I’ll help clean up,” Will offered, rubbing his neck tiredly.

“No, it’s fine,” she answered, leaning forward and sweeping the rubble into more organized heaps. “You’ve done more than enough, and besides it’s really late.”

He smiled. “Did I actually help you at all?”

“Yeah!” she answered, turning to smile at him. “Three hours ago I was checking out the real estate in Old Spinsterville. Now the thought of actually trying to have another relationship doesn’t make me want to shoot myself in the head.”

He frowned. “You were really thinking like that?”

“Uh huh,” she nodded and mimed firing a pistol, “right between the eyes.”

“Wow,” he said softly, his concern for her clear in his eyes. “I can’t believe that anyone would do that to you.” She smiled, and pretended to wave him off. “No, I’m serious. Charlie’s a jackass, and you,” he paused and smiled helplessly, “you are amazing. He’s an idiot, is all I can say.”

She blushed, and her smile widened. “C’mere.” He got up off the couch, wincing when his knees cracked. She pulled him into a hug, and they stood together, her face resting on his shoulder, and his arm rubbing circles on her back. She pulled back with a sigh, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You really are one of the good ones, you know,” she said softly.

He grinned. “I am the one who said it first,” he replied. He pulled her close to him again. “Love you,” he murmured.

“Love you too.” They stood in silence once more, until a muffled giggle escaped her throat.

“What?”

“Nothing…” she said innocently. “Just… You’re one of those guys who like to cuddle afterwards, aren’t you?”

“Shut up, Francie.”

End.