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Tippin Syndrome

by Jennifer-Oksana

Subject: [glass_onion] Fic: Tippin Syndrome (Alias, 1/1) Date: Tuesday, June 18, 2002 2:19 AM

Title: Tippin Syndrome
Author: Jennifer-Oksana
Website: Rating: R for language and slashy content. Classification: Angst, Slash (Will/Jack) Distribution: CD, my site, others by permission. Spoilers: After Thirty Years

Summary: Will has some feelings for his rescuer. It's probably a syndrome.

Disclaimer: J.J. Abrams, ABC, Bad Robot, et cetera, are the legitimate copyright holders of Alias. This is a non-profit fan story.

Jack Bristow is the motherfucking man.

Will's pretty sure that no one's ever been as much the man as Jack Bristow, though this might have more to do with the fact that Jack saved his life without even breaking a sweat, or even an expression. In either case, Will knows who the man is, and the man is Bristow. Jack Bristow.

"Sydney should have reported in by now," he's saying, maybe to himself, and Will is amazed how something like that sounds so much less upsetting than it should. Sydney--his best friend, the woman he's been in love with for years--is a superspy. Not a banker. She should have reported in by now, and Jack is worried.

All of this should worry Will, but he's too engrossed in watching his new friend, his savior, his own personal Jesus Christ.

Is there a name for this? Will was never in any danger of Stockholm Syndrome--he hopes karma is sufficient in getting that one in five--but there's probably a name for the way a survivor feels for the rescuer.

If not, they can call it Tippin Syndrome, AKA, Will has a big-ass man crush on Syd's formerly bizarre dad disease. It's okay. Francie will understand. Well, Francie would understand if Will ever told her. Hell, does he get to see Francie again? What happens to man crushing Will now that he's out of the clutches of the bona fide bad guy?

"Do you think Syd's okay?" Will says, thinking that he should be more concerned. Perhaps he's doped up, which is okay. It's okay because Jack's the man and it'll be okay.

"I hope so," Jack says. "She's good at what she does, Will. You don't have to worry about Sydney."

"You do," Will says, trying not to smile. This is not a smiling situation, Tippin syndrome or not. Jack is worried about Syd. Will is worried about Syd, but she'll make it out okay. She always does, one way or another.

"She's my daughter," Jack replies. "You should rest. My CIA contact will be here for you in the morning."

Will shakes his head suddenly. No. He won't leave. Leaving Jack--and Sydney--was his first mistake. He'll stay where he's safe and that means with the man. The motherfucking man, Jack Bristow.

"I don't wanna," he says, his voice sounding strange and petulant and childish. "I'd rather--"

"It's not safe for you here," Jack says, walking closer. He's holding a washcloth. Probably for Will. This makes Will extremely happy. "You're not thinking clearly."

"I'm safe with you," Will says and damn, there's the smile. He can't help it, though it fades fast. Jack sits down in the armchair next to Will's bed and puts the washcloth on his forehead.

"No, you're not," Jack replies.

"You're the man," Will says. "You keep savin' my life and now you say I'm not safe with you? You're the only one I'm safe with."

Jack smiles. Will can see it through the nice cool washcloth. But he doesn't smile for very long. It would probably be hard to smile if you were a double agent with a missing double agent daughter having to fend off a half-delirious reporter with an intense man crush.

Jack's hand is on Will's shoulder.

Repeat: Jack's hand is on Will's shoulder and has just given Will's shoulder a squeeze. This is far more exciting than it should be.

"You're Sydney's friend," Jack says gently (is he leaning closer? Will can smell his aftershave). "I don't want her to lose any more friends."

"I love Sydney," Will says, wondering if he's hallucinating the hand. "She's my friend. You're my friend, too."

"I'm nobody's friend, Will," Jack says, taking the washcloth away. "It's too expensive to be my friend."

Will reaches up, he's grabbing Jack's wrist, he doesn't care that he's going to give away everything. It's Tippin Syndrome talking, the delirious need to thank a savior.

"I want to be your friend," Will says. "You're the man to me. You saved me. I'm your friend."

Jack isn't moving. It's probably a superspy trick, hold still until the crazy reporter boy gives up begging for friendship. Will is on to these people. They're full of crazy tricks, but Will is alone and Jack is his friend and Jack is looking at him with this look and.

Will is kissing Jack.

Will, who has never been the least bit attracted to men (Charlie asked him, once--he doesn't know why, but he said no and it was true) is kissing Sydney's father. There is no rational explanation for this. It's like the universe turned inside out and he's not Will Tippin at all, he's some strange delirious man who is trying to jump his best friend's dad.

"Go to sleep, Will," Jack says after Will lets go. "You'll feel better in the morning."

When Will wakes up, he's alone. When he dares to look outside, he discovers he's in Los Angeles. He wonders if it happened. He wonders if he felt high-quality cotton under his finger, stubble burning his cheek, felt his heart thumping against his chest.

It seems so much more rational that he was dreaming, that he was half-delirious from the physical and psychological torture. That his memory is a fever dream, more real than reality itself.

He looks back at the bed. There was a note crushed under his body and Will hurries to pick it up and read it.


Forget any of it happened. It's better that way.


Will puts the note in his pocket. He feels safe, knowing that all of it actually happened but that none of it happened. It's okay.

Jack is his friend. The man is his friend (maybe more than his friend?) and everything--absolutely everything--is going to be okay.

The End

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