MIRROR IMAGE
Rating: R, but not this part
Timeline: Mid-season 3, at least after "Blowback."
Part I, Act 3
Jack explained as she drove. Since Sydney's body had been unconscious since early that morning, it was unlikely that Lauren had been in contact with anyone at all. Therefore they had at present a remarkable opportunity to find out what Sark and/or the Covenant were up to, as well as determine the true affiliation of Lauren Reed. Not to mention, though neither of them had said it aloud, a chance to learn the extent of what the Covenant had wanted with Sydney.
"You'll be going in with minimal backup," he detailed with his usual business-like efficiency, and she interrupted to ask, "Who?"
"Just me," he answered after a moment.
"That should be enough," she said, thankful all over again how it didn't matter whether she was Sydney Bristow, Julia Thorne, or Lauren Reed—her father was always there for her. "Go on."
The Bellvue was the name of a hotel in Anchorage, a former front company for the defunct Alliance, currently under suspicion of Covenant affiliation.
"Whose intel was that?"
When Jack answered, his tone warned against any reply she might have had. "Your mother's."
She would go in as Lauren: no disguises, no weapons other than a shoulder harness and the microphone that would be embedded in the replica of Lauren's wedding ring waiting for her at the gate. She'd be bluffing her way through, something she'd done often enough—and recently, with Simon—but never with someone who knew her as well as Sark. Simon had known Julia but not Sydney. Sark knew Sydney and Lauren. But then, so did Vaughn.
Her father would be able to hear her, but she wouldn't be able to hear him.
When the plane landed, she transferred to a town car, which drove her from the airport to the hotel. Through the tinted windows she could see shadows of the city outside—she wondered why Sark had chosen this place over all the others in the world, if indeed this had been his choice, and not Lauren's, or some other unknown master's.
When the car stopped she pulled Lauren's suit jacket on, and then dismissed the driver.
"Ready," she said into the phone, sliding the dark glasses from her face. What good was a disguise she didn't use? Headlights glared behind her, and the hotel was lit up like a Christmas tree store
"I'm pulling up behind the building now," Jack replied, voice even. "Proceed."
She disconnected Lauren's cell, tucked it into her bag.
The walk up the front plaza was long and open; businessmen in dark suits and long wool coats gave her glances she ignored, following a direct path to the entrance through the sparsely populated square. Lauren was always businesslike at work. Direct. To the point.
She pushed through the double doors to a rush of heat. The crisp chill of the wind gave way to mellow warmth. She smiled at the doorman and moved into the lobby. The bar, where she could just see the artfully ruffled blond top of Sark's head, was tucked in towards the back. He stood out, looked out of place. As, she assumed, did she. But she wasn't dressed for anyone here—the doorman, the concierge, the tourists and temporary businessmen folded into chairs, laptops humming. She was dressed for him.
She knew the moment he spotted her. His gaze, unfocused, sharpened momentarily, and he lifted his glass: wine, of course, and red. He was predictable to the point of foolhardiness, and she found herself absurdly comforted. This was only Sark. Nothing new.
"Good evening, Ms. Reed," Sark greeted her cordially, a tilt to his head that made her feel dissected, rawly appreciated,
"Julian," she returned crisply, coolly.
And he inclined his head as if to concede the point to her. Otherwise, his face remained neutral.
"Shall we proceed, or would you like something from the bar?"
She weighed her options. She was safer here, but unlikely to get anything she could use.
"I had something on the plane," she said.
"Excellent." He lay his largely drained glass on the bar. "On to business, then." He offered her his arm, and she scorned it.
Right move; he chuckled and followed after her, murmuring, "I see we're back to this." She couldn't, however, stop the hand that pressed lightly to her lower back, guiding her towards the long bank of elevators at the lobby's rear.
Sydney wondered at the difference between Vaughn's Lauren and Sark's: Sark appeared to expect acidity; seemed, in fact, charmed by it. Suddenly all her previous meetings with him took on a new, extremely creepy dimension. She steeled herself and pushed him further; she needed to see what her boundaries were, how much he would put up with.
"I'm surprised," she remarked as he pressed the button for sublevel three. "Or have they started building penthouses in the basement?"
It wasn't her best, but the corners of Sark's mouth still curved. No hint of annoyance, or suspicion. "Nothing's too good for my girl." The doors opened again, on a wide concrete and black piped control room—or the shell of one. It smelled of dust and disuse, and the walls were dingy, unwashed gray. "Ladies first."
She allowed him to guide her again, that same hand light against the fabric of her jacket. She imagined it was a gun pressed there against the small of her back instead. Oddly, that was much less disconcerting. She knew the proper protocol for that.
"There's something I've been wondering," she said, turning to him, fingering the replica of the wedding ring Vaughn hadn't given her. She hoped the reception held up: the mic wasn't CIA issue, though her father's contacts were reliable. "Why here?"
Sark shrugged, something elegant that barely ruffled the line of his shirt, an isolated movement of a single shoulder. "You said you hadn't been here in a few years, and thought of coming back. It's as good a place as any."
"Thank you for thinking of me," she said, and his lips pursed just slightly.
His tone, though, when he spoke, was affectionate and light. "Come now, Ms. Reed, where is the characteristic cut of your tongue? I've been in your presence whole minutes and I've yet to even bleed a little."
"You miss my tongue?" she replied coyly, all innocent eyes, and he tipped his head back to laugh. Then he took her hand, pressed his mouth to her palm.
"No more than you miss mine."
Heat lanced through her, and she couldn't help stiffening.
"All right?" he asked instantly
"I'm fine. Just a chill." He smirked, and Sydney took her hand back. "You had information for me?"
He shifted mood and subject with her, seamlessly. "Not the way I would have put it, but yes." He directed her to a seat in front of a dimmed console. "The Covenant's latest communiqué arrived."
He bent over her to type in a series of pass codes, and the screen sprang to light—black typewriter print on white, the same format she'd been seeing for seven years, even when she slept. She was buoyed, at least, that the bad guys had nothing better.
"You could have just sent me this," she said, scanning the screen.
"Ah, but that would have denied me the pleasure of your company."
She didn't answer, studying the information in front of her instead. Largely disappointing; no wonder the Covenant needed a mole in the CIA. There was very little here that was news, even to her, whose position in the Agency was still tenuous at best. (She was turning out, she suspected, much more like her father than was comfortable for anyone.)
"Also," he continued, "there is the mission."
"Yes?"
"In Tokyo. Plane leaves in the morning."
She met his eyes briefly, then returned to the screen. Sleepover with Sark, she thought. She suspected toenail polish was not on the agenda. Hopefully, her death wouldn't be either.
He pressed his lips to her shoulder (Lauren's shoulder, Lauren's ribbed gray sweater) as he read over it—such a small, warm, intimate thing that her breath caught.
"Sark ," she began, turning her head towards him, and that was when he kissed her.
She'd known it might come to this from the beginning. "But Dad," she'd said, "it's Sark," and he'd been silent on the other end, as if he were actually less pleased by it than she was. Also unspoken was that it was her choice—but that they both knew, given the situation, what her choice would be.
It was a lot easier than kissing Simon. But a lot more . . . invasive. He tilted her head back and opened her mouth with his own, tongue thick and tasting faintly of very, very good wine against hers. And he was dragging her to her feet, chair discarded, freeing the hem of the sweater from where it was tucked into her pants, hands startling warm (for someone so often outwardly cool) on Lauren's skin and she forgot it was Lauren's, forgot where she was, forgot what she was doing here.
When he broke the kiss, she was dizzy. The swell of Lauren's lips was an unfamiliar feeling, but the low ache could have been her own.
Linking their fingers, he drew her left hand up and took the fourth finger into his mouth. Eyes locked on hers, he drew the ring off, slowly, and spit it into his hand. She shivered.
"Upstairs?" he asked.
"The penthouse?" she asked.
"Nothing's too good for my girl," he replied, as earlier, but this time his voice was low and blurred and full of promise. And the promises of sociopaths weren't things that usually affected her like this. She felt light-headed.
"I'm Michael Vaughn's girl," she told him, haughtily, tamping down on the feeling. "Or didn't you remember?"
Finally: a flash of irritation lit his face. He lifted the ring up for her inspection, then threw it. It skittered across the floor, out of sight, and she thought, Shit.
"Not anymore," he said, thrusting his hand nearly violently into her hair, tilting it back.
"Shouldn't we talk," she said as he kissed down her throat, stretching the neck of Lauren's sweater as he went, trying to ignore the scrape of his teeth and the softness of his mouth, "about the mission?"
"No," he said, curt and final, the sound muffled in the crook of her neck as he found a spot at Lauren's collarbone that made the light dim in her eyes and her knees buckle.
Then, thank God, her phone rang.
"Vaughn," she said, and it must have been the magic word, because Sark stepped back, and gestured almost gallantly to her purse, abandoned on the table.
She flipped it open. "Lauren Reed speaking."
"Lauren, it's me."
"Michael!" she exclaimed with Lauren's customary enthusiasm. She shot a look at Sark, who was leaning on another table, arms lazily crossed and one eyebrow cocked. His mouth twitched in amusement.
"Are you busy?"
"No, not terribly. Not for you."
"It's Sydney."
"Sydney?"
Sark leaned forward almost infinitesimally, but she couldn't miss the change in him, a coiled sort of tension that made her suspicious. He wasn't smirking anymore.
"Her body—it's been stolen."
"What?" Her attention wrenched back to Vaughn.
"They were moving her to another hospital when they were intercepted. A team took her. We're not sure who. We suspect Covenant, but . . . . And we can't get in touch with Jack."
She was silent, shocked straight through. When she didn't answer, Vaughn said, awkward now, "You said you wanted to know."
"I did. Thank you." Her body was gone. Her father was incommunicado. "Michael—"
"Lauren, I have to go. There's—Kendall's calling. I'm sorry. I miss you."
"I miss you too, love."
Sark turned on his heel and headed for the elevator.
"Be safe."
"You too."
She reached the elevator, entered just before the doors slid shut.
He flicked his eyes in her direction. Smoothly, he asked, "Going up?"
She could slip out when he slept. Or she could stay, and try to find out what he knew about her body's disappearance. Either way, step one meant going upstairs with him. Although she could always knock him unconscious and exit at the lobby. She shouldn't forget that option.
She looked straight ahead. "Of course."
