Wants and Needs
Summary: Weiss has a crush. Jack/Weiss.
Spoilers: Up to early season three.
Disclaimer: Characters, settings and concepts belong to J.J. Abrams; borrowed for entertainment value, not profit.
Author's Note: Written for the crack pairings challenge at alias500, before you ask.
So, okay, Weiss has kind of a man-crush on Jack Bristow.
It started back before he even met the guy, when Vaughn related the story of their meeting in the Chinese restaurant. And by 'meeting', he pretty much means 'Vaughn getting smashed into a wall'. Which, no matter how much he likes Vaughn, is hilarious. And awesome.
Crushes rarely survive contact with reality, but Jack turned out to be even more badass in the flesh. And when he was stalking around, vibrating with tension over the Derevko affair, he was both extremely scary and also kind of-
Yeah. So. 'Hot' is a term that kind of throws doubt on the manliness of your so-called man-crush.
Not that it matters, since Jack Bristow is not the kind of man you approach. With anything. Ever. And Weiss is pragmatic about this sort of thing. He's rarely the guy who gets the girl, let alone the middle-aged male superspy. Let it be.
But then comes Sydney's funeral.
It's tragic as much for the starkness as the occasion. Six people attend, and that includes Kendall. Weiss himself can't claim to have been very close to Sydney. It just seems so inadequate.
The fact that they're all men is a tragedy of its own, because it means no one offers a comforting touch to Jack Bristow. It's the man code. You can only hug your buddy after he gives you a signal. Vaughn does; Jack never would.
The man code kind of sucks, actually.
One gift Weiss has is that he's always been good at knowing what other people need. Even when they can't see it or say it.
Another trait he has is that if he can see a need and no one else is filling it, he's exactly the kind of idiot who might, say, turn up on Jack Bristow's doorstep after the funeral. With beer.
Jack stares at him as if he's shown up wearing a tutu.
A lesser man would quail, but hey. Weiss is not CIA for nothing. "I thought you might want some-" he veers away from the word 'company', "-alcohol."
They sit side by side on the couch, drinking to Sydney. Well, Weiss is drinking to Sydney. Jack is just drinking to drink. And exuding such devastating loneliness that it suddenly doesn't seem insane to reach out and grasp his shoulder.
Jack looks at him for a long moment. Jack is a lot of things, but he's not slow.
"Mr. Weiss," he says, with perfect diction, "I think you've had too much to drink." And it sounds - and looks - totally icy, but there's a terrible ache underneath, a hint that if Weiss pushed this, even one tiny little fraction of an inch, then all that ice would shatter and release the drowning man trapped beneath.
Instead, Weiss sits back and swigs from his beer. "Yeah," he says. "You're probably right."
He's always been able to tell the difference between what people want and what they need.