Somnium by Celli Lane 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: NC-17. A slightly tamer version (minus the sex scene) can be found at http://www.fanfic101.com/adult_somnium_r.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. Note: 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. And thanks to Thorne for the wallpaper. 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 (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.

It started with hands on my shoulders, rolling me over. My pillow was a little scratchy
and smelled like sweat.

Those same hands--his hands--smoothed their way down my back. Then my boxers came
off, seemingly by themselves.

Then Mike was on top of me. "Eric," he said into my ear as he trapped his hands between
my chest and the sheets. They inched slowly down to my waist and fucking stopped
there.

"Mike!"

He slid his hands around and down to the outside of my thighs. I was so tangled in the
sheets I couldn't reach his hands, and every time I tried to shift under him he just laughed
and held me still by applying his mouth in new and interesting ways to my neck, my
shoulders, my back...

My fingers were digging into the mattress. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my
ears and Mike's breath right behind me. Then finally--finally!--one hand wrapped around
my cock and the other settled almost gently on my ass.

I bit down hard on my lip at the new rush of sensation. It was a relief to have him touch
me, but at the same time it was more torture. Much more torture. I felt his breath on my
ear, and then he was telling me in graphic detail what he wanted to do to me and with me-
-and I mean graphic, with words you wouldn't think Mike knew--while his hands did what
his mouth promised.

After a couple of eternities, he pulled back enough to let me get up on my knees. I tried
to brace myself and relax at the same time--and when his cock entered me, I had to groan.

His body was arched over me. My hips rocked back into him. I knew I wouldn't last
long, and I tried to tell him.

His free arm wrapped around my chest as we both came. I collapsed onto the bed. Mike
was still mostly on top of me. Just before the dream faded, I felt his forehead drop into
the curve of my neck.

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.

Photos from www.abc.com and used without permission.

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