Feedback: Positive or negative both welcome. celli@fanfic101.com
Category: Slash. Lots of slash. With some humor and angst mixed
in. Weiss POV.
Pairing: Vaughn/Sydney in reality; Vaughn/Weiss in dreams.
Rating: R for language and implied sexual activity. The NC-17
rated version can be found at my adult fic page:
http://www.fanfic101.com/adultfic.htm
Spoilers: All of S1.
Summary: Eric dreams.
Archiving: Credit Dauphine and my site (www.fanfic101.com). All
others please ask.
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various other
people with lawyers. Sadly, this means Vaughn will never be mine.
Eric sympathizes.
Thanks to Kat and Gail for the *amazing* beta and the IPC for
stalking, mocking, and two hours of title searching in the middle
of the night.

Warning: This fic contains sex between two characters of the same
sex. Guys. Having sex. If this is not your thing, go read my
previous story, "Transgression All Night Long," which I promise
you will like better.

This is for Thorne, of course. :) Happy birthday! It's late but
look at the wrapping it's in!

***
Somnium
by Celli Lane

***

Somnium (Latin): a dream, fancy; foolish nonsense

***

When I joined the CIA, they were clear on their policies
regarding...ah...alternative lifestyles. "We're not required to
be fair, Mr. Weiss," a dark-haired man in an expensive suit said
to me. "You will deal on a daily basis with the kind of
sensitive material that can destroy thousands and millions of
lives. If there is anything in your personal life that can be
used to blackmail you or draw your attention from national
security, it will be found and used against you."

He stopped as his cell phone rang. "Yes, Mother. No, I'm in the
middle of an interview right now. No, have I forgotten yet?
Sunday at three." He glared at me as I struggled not to smirk.
"*Anyway,*" he said severely. "As a matter of public record,
your personal life is your own. In reality, make sure any and
all of your relationships are safe. And don't even think about
dating anyone--male or female--within the Company." His face
softened a little. "It's a bad idea anyway, sleeping with
someone you work with. You're better off with a civilian."

Obviously this guy had his own issues. But I took his little
speech to heart. I'm a Company man, and if that means I put
national security above my love life, so be it.

But my dreams are my own. Were my own, before my best friend
walked into them.

***

In my dream, we were sitting on Mike's couch arguing hockey
tactics when he kissed me. Just like that. One minute, it's
high-sticking, the next, his tongue is in my mouth. And goddamn,
could he kiss. At one point, he bit down on my lip, and I kept
rubbing it the next day. It *felt* sore.

***

I remember that he tasted like Miller beer. His brand. I got
hooked on Keystone in college--it tastes like shit, but it's
cheap--but after that dream I started stocking my fridge with
MGD. Mike congratulated me. "You've finally developed some
decent taste, Weiss!"

***

It was a good thing I was stocked up on beer, because work
started getting more stressful. I got to know Director Devlin a
little too well. No matter how hard I tried, I kept getting
sucked into the Bristow operation. And we were good at it, Mike
and me. We kept SD-6 on its toes...and it was even sweeter
because they didn't have a clue.

Lots of late night strategy sessions. Usually at my apartment,
with Alice calling every hour on the hour to see if Mike was
heading home yet. Mike started bringing his own beer and keeping
an extra suit in my closet for all-nighters.

***

In my dream, we were sitting on my couch arguing about FTL ("how
can they be a threat to us when they sound like they should be
delivering Mother's Day bouquets?") before we finally decided to
crash for the night. Except when I crawled into bed, there was
already a warm body in there. A tall, lean, naked warm body.

And nothing happened. We both fell asleep. In my *dream.*

What the fuck is wrong with me?

***

I know I sound like I worship at the Altar o'Vaughn. Not so.
Mike's got issues. And by that I mean he's halfway to nuts in
certain areas. Obviously. "I'll break into the *Vatican* with
you"--? For Christ's sake!

But until recently he was always kind of a surface guy, y'know?
He looked like the dashing secret agent, and God knows he's smart
enough to pull it off. But he just kind of drifted along as a
lower-level handler...flitted in and out of my office every
day...wandered in and out of girlfriends (and you can take that
any way you want). He was there. He was just kind of vague.

In the last few months he's un-vagued in a big way. The guy
who'd never had to question his priorities--I'm not even sure he
had them--suddenly had an agenda. Agent Bristow.

***

In my dream, I woke up, rolled over, and bumped into something.

"Umph. Mike?"

"Shh. Don't move." And he started to touch me.

He ran his hands over my entire body, hair to heels and back
again. Just his hands. When his fingers got to the small of my
back, and again when he traced the line of my hipbone with the
back of his hand, I tried to ask him what he was doing. But he
just said "Shh" and kept going.

Out of all of it--I don't know why--I remember most clearly how
hot his breath was on my shoulder when he ran his fingers down my
neck.

***

"Eric, are you okay?" he asked the next day.

"Huh?"

"Your hands are shaking and you keep rubbing your neck."

"Huh?"

"Do you have a headache?"

"Hu--I guess. Slept like crap last night."

He dug in his desk drawer for a minute. "I've got Excedrin."

"For those Handler Headaches?"

He grinned. "You bet." He offered the bottle.

I just stared down at the bottle and the hand holding it. He had
such long fingers...

"Weiss, what the hell?"

"Huh? Oh!" Christ, out loud? What was I thinking? "I was just
comparing. I have these stubby short-ass fingers."

"They're not that short." He laid his free hand next to mine.
All the blood left my head.

"Urgh..." Yes, that is exactly the sound I made. I grabbed the
Excedrin. "Let me find something to wash these down with."
Battery acid, hemlock... I went flying out of that office (in
the most subtle way possible), and I didn't go near it for about
three days. Never mind that it was next door to mine.

***

In my dream, Mike and I were standing in the Rose Garden next to
the Olympic Coliseum. It's a popular place to get married--maybe
the way the smog drifts over from the freeway is photogenic, I
don't know. Anyway, Mike and I were in tuxes; he was pacing and
I had my yo-yo out. Then Sydney was there, in a white dress and
no shoes. She had one bare foot on top of a wriggling snake, and
the other on top of her father's head.

***

When I told Mike about that one, he gave me a very speculative
look and said something about too much Catholic school warping a
child's mind.

I didn't say anything. And Mike didn't comment when I started
buying Keystone again.

***

That was followed by the usual assortment of freaky dreams where
Mike and I were talking...or playing basketball...or at
work...and he was missing major pieces of clothing. I
particularly liked the one that replayed a boring staff meeting
from the same day, just with Mike stark naked throughout. It
made the staff meeting the next day a little...interesting, but I
could handle that.

***

Then, apparently, my subconscious decided that the shock value of
naked Vaughn dreams had worn off and upped the dosage.

***

In my dream, we were walking down Riverside Drive in Toluca Lake.
I could see the street sign.

Mike was next to me, wearing the denim jacket my mom stole from
my closet and gave to Goodwill my junior year of high school. He
was carrying a rabbit in one arm. The rabbit was purring.

We stopped in front of an Irish pub-looking place. There was a
leather sofa on the sidewalk in front of it. A chicken was
sitting on one end, reading the *Playboy* with Miss America 1984
on the cover.

Mike shaded his eyes and looked up at the sky. "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"Tsunami!" someone yelled--it's entirely possible it was the
chicken. I didn't even have time to turn around before the wall
of water lifted me off my feet.

The next thing I knew, I was on my stomach, spitting out water
and pieces of *Playboy.* The chicken and Mike's rabbit walked
past us and crossed the street.

I stared at Mike, waiting to hear what he had to say about this.

"Where did the couch come from?" he asked.

"Um? Ethan Allen, I think."

"Oh."

***

Okay, and the scarier part? I had driven down that street maybe
once in my life, but the pub is just where I dreamed it was. I
took Mike there for lunch and a 49ers game one Sunday. He would
not shut *up* about Sydney.

I had a chicken sandwich.

***

I was reviewing surveillance data with Mike one day--my first
assignment with the Company was as a peek geek--when I noticed
that there was a picture on his desk again. "You got a new
significant other and didn't tell me?" I aimed for a you-devil-
you tone and kept my eyes on the back of that frame. If he'd met
someone new and *hadn't* told me...well, he just wouldn't. Maybe
he'd decided to put Alice's picture back up and torture himself
some more. Maybe his mom had won out and gotten him to pose for
a family pic with his stepdad. It couldn't be you-know-who,
unless he had completely lost his mind.

He turned the picture around and I thought my head would float
off with relief. It was that damned dog of his.

"Donovan?" He--the dog, not Mike--was curled up inside a
computer monitor box, with just his head sticking out and his
ears reaching for the sky. "Hey, dog-in-a-box."

Mike laughed. "Well, I thought he deserved a place of honor.
Let's face it, with the way my love life's been lately, the only
fun I have in bed is when Donovan climbs in and starts licking my
toes."

***

Please--and I'm begging here--don't ask me what I dreamed about
that night.

***

After Rambo-Vaughn went dashing off to SD-6 and saved the day--
well, you-know-who helped--there was some quiet jubilation at the
office, followed by some *serious* fuckin' drinking at the bar
that weekend. After three--four--uh, several rounds, I found
myself in a quiet booth next to Donna.

Technically, Donna is a general assistant and dogsbody to all the
junior officers on our floor. But since the SD-6 case heated up,
Donna (equipped with the highest assistant clearance) has spent
more and more time working on projects for Vaughn, and the rest
of us have gotten to know the typing pool rather well. In fact,
I once saw two juniors nearly come to blows over the phone-
answering services of a brunette named Tanya. The girl says
"Welcome to the Central Intelligence Agency" and you
automatically give her your credit card number.

Donna and I stared at each other for a minute. Then she leaned
forward until I could smell the rum on her breath. "I didn't
take the call, you know."

"What?"

"When Agent Vaughn called from the--the bank. I would never have
let it get routed to Haladki."

"Of course not." You have to be careful with drunk women--
they're a little scary--but I reached over and sort of tapped the
top of her hand a couple times. "Donna, you're not that dumb."

She giggled.

"And you're the one who told me Vaughn had called," I said. "You
saved the day anyway."

"Mr. Vaughn did."

I snickered. "No. You-know-who did. As usual." I took a long
swig of my beer.

"You mean Jane Bond?" Donna ducked as half my swig came flying
back out at her.

I was still sputtering with laughter as I mopped up the table.
"I can't believe you called her that."

"Well? I'm sure she's really nice and all, but she's not
perfect."

I looked over to where Mike was nursing a scotch and looking
rumpled and pensive. "To you and me, maybe. Hang on a sec."

I slid in next to Mike and slapped him on the arm. "Hey. Stop
brooding."

"I'm not brooding."

"Dude. I can *hear* your forehead wrinkling."

He lifted a hand to his head automatically. "Huh?"

Some unholy impulse made me poke at him. "See? Wrinkle.
Wrinkle. Wrin--"

"Stop it!" He slapped at my hand, laughing for the first time
that night. Our fingers tangled for a quick second. I pulled my
hand away. His eyes didn't even flicker.

"Look, I think Donna's ready to go. I'm gonna take her home."

He narrowed his eyes. "To her house."

"Yes, to her house."

"Then you're going to *your* place."

"Relax, Vaughn, I'm not going to ravish your assistant." Christ.
I got up. "And stop brooding!"

"...not brooding!" I heard as I walked away.

***

"Are you sure you're okay to drive?" Donna asked as we waited for
the valet to bring my car around.

"Oh, yeah." I have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol--all
those late night strategy sessions only helped that--plus, the
little non-moment with Mike had seriously sobered me up.

"I appreciate you taking me home."

"No problem."

"Mr. Weiss?"

I looked down.

She kissed me.

Oh.

It took me much longer than it should have to stop kissing her
back. The only thing that got me away from her was the sudden
conviction that Mike was watching from the window.

I pulled back, smiled weakly, and snuck a look at the window. No
one was standing there.

***

Did I sleep with her? No.

Should I have? Probably.

***

In my dream, I was having sex.

Let me correct that, and add the appropriate language.

In my dream, I was being fucked.

***

The morning after I had that dream the first time, I wandered
into the bathroom and made astonished faces at myself in the
mirror. Then I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the
unopened containers that hold lube and condoms. Then I made a
very pathetic noise.

That's why it's called fantasy, Weiss.

***

In my dream, I walked into what we like to call a "reception
area" and your classic spy novel calls an "interrogation room."

Mike was sitting in one of the chairs, wearing black jeans, a
dark green T-shirt, and--oh yeah--handcuffs.

He tugged on the cuff. It scraped up and down the arm of the
chair. "Weiss! Eric, man, get this *off* me!"

"What the hell is going on?" The key was on a table by the
"mirror." I grabbed it and ran to him. My tie kept falling in
front of me when I tried to unlock the cuffs; finally Mike
grabbed it and held it out of the way.

"Thanks," I said as the cuff came free. "Now are you gonna tell
me why--urgh--" Mike had wrapped his fist in my tie and
*pulled,* until it was choking me. I looked him in the face for
the first time and realized that something was seriously wrong.
His pupils had expanded 'til the black took over his eyes
completely.

"Shit," I whispered. Mike leaned into me (God god god those
*eyes*!) and started laughing.

"You have no idea, Agent Weiss." He stood up, pulling me with
him by the tie until he was practically supporting my weight.
"You have no fucking idea what I'm capable of. Do you?" He
threw me backward until I collided with the mirror. "*Do* you?"

He pressed into me until we were practically inside the mirror,
and I realized to my absolute mortification that I wasn't scared,
I was turned on. I shifted my head, hoping that Mike wouldn't
read it in my eyes.

For a second, as my cheek pressed against the glass, I could see
through it into the field ops room. Jack Bristow was standing
there, loading a handgun.

I opened my mouth to say something to him, but Mike's hand came
up to grab my chin, and the glass went dark.

"Eric," he was saying. "Eric?" I looked up. His eyes were
still black, but something in them was Mike again. "What are
they doing to me? I--Eric, you gotta help me."

He let go of my chin, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the
mirror change again. Now Sydney Bristow was standing next to her
father. He handed her the gun. She raised it and fired.

I must have screamed. I shoved at Mike until he was on my other
side, away from the Bristows. I heard the crash as the bullet
crossed through the mirror, braced myself--

--and woke up. Every muscle in my body was tense. My throat was
raw. And I was still half-hard.

I stared at my feet while I put the dream together in my mind,
noting in passing that while I'd fallen asleep in my clothes
again, somehow I'd managed to work my socks half off during the
dream. Some very strange part of me was amused by this.

Finally I flopped back on the bed and said the only word that
could adequately describe my emotions at the moment.

"Fuuuuck!"

***

I was sitting at my desk the next day, working on my Request for
Transfer Form (CIA-T-179), when Mike just about broke down my
door in his enthusiasm.

"We're going on a mission!" he practically yelled.

"I hope it's not a secret one."

"What? Oh." He dropped into a chair in front of me and lowered
his voice. Not that it matters, because while he nattered on
about ampule this and Khasinau that, I just stared at him.

"I can't go," I finally said.

Mike, who was halfway through a breathless account of how he had
made contact with the bad guys all by his very own self, broke
off and gaped at me.

"Look, Vaughn, I can't do it. I'm not a field agent. You're not
a field agent. This is--"

"I don't want you in the field," Mike said. "I want you working
surveillance and running the op. This is your thing."

And it would look good on my record. Almost as good as the
puppy-dog eyes he was aiming my way. I pushed the T-179 a little
farther away. "And what will you be doing if I'm running the
op?"

He looked away from me.

"Vaughn--"

"Eric." He grabbed my wrist. "I need your help."

Shit. I sighed. "You owe me *so* badly for this," I said
thickly.

He grinned and bounded out of his chair. "I owe you everything
and a beer, Weiss." And he was out the door again. I could
practically feel the air rushing by me as he went.

I sighed again and stuck the T-179 in a drawer.

***

In my dream, Vaughn left Sark in Denpasar to go rescue you-know-
who--yeah, 'cause Spy Barbie is such a damsel in distress--snuck
up on Dixon, and then logic played out instead of dumb luck. The
trained field agent got the drop on the inexperienced kid and
shot him.

***

I should not have taken the blame for Denpasar. Everyone knows
about Vaughn's True Love anyway. All I did was raise questions
about myself, which is the last thing I need.

Which is why I'm not sorry, not at all, for kicking Mike's ass
later. He deserved it on levels he doesn't even know about.

***

Mike left. I...we fought, and...

He just left.

His keys were in my mailbox when I got home, with a note.
"Donovan? Half a can. Sorry. Vaughn."

Sorry? Christ.

Then came the six calls on my voice mail while I was in the
shower. Both Bristows missing. Haladki dead. Property missing
from the evidence room. Could I come in right away? And had I
heard from Agent Vaughn?

It's two in the morning. I think. I just got back from the
office. There's nothing else we can do until someone makes
contact. Nothing but wonder how we got fucked over by all of our
own people. If I hadn't reported him, I'd be under suspicion
myself.

Of course, if I hadn't reported him, maybe he would've talked to
me, and he wouldn't be God knows where doing God knows what he's
not qualified for and...

And this has been going around and around in my head since I got
out of the shower. Along with a lot more panic and freaking and
guilt and anger and...everything.

I got ready for bed. And now I'm sitting on top of the covers.
Donovan is curled up next to me, looking very lost.

No sleeping tonight. I might dream.

No dreams.

--the end--