MIRROR IMAGE

Rating: R
Timeline: Mid-season 3, at least after "Blowback."

Part II, Act 1

"My thanks," Sark said to the man he'd tasked with letting him know Agent Vaughn had departed. No use distressing her so early; calling while Vaughn was still present, as entertaining as Sark found it, never failed to irritate her, and he needed her in a softer mood for what he was planning.

He dialed Lauren's number.

"Hello?" Lauren answered.

Already awake, he thought. Excellent.

"Ms. Reed."

He thought of her mouth, how exquisitely formed her lips were. He was still pondering them when she demanded, "What?"

No hope for a soft mood there, he supposed, and sighed inwardly. "Just calling to confirm our plans for this evening."

Prickly, unpredictable woman. It was one of the things that intrigued him about her. He had a certain fondness, he knew, for women who . . . challenged . . . him. This was, however, somewhat excessive.

"This evening?" Her cultured tones sounded startled.

He closed his eyes a moment, trying to focus back on his mouth. It helped his outlook immensely. "Tedious, darling," he replied, but couldn't help nettling her. "Or is loverboy still there? Your video feed showed him on his way out the door five minutes ago."

"He went for a run."

Well, if she wanted to play it like that: "Keeping in shape for you, I presume. Or perhaps for the lovely Ms. Bristow?"

The silence on the other end was terse, and he smirked.

"Goodbye, Sark."

"'Til this evening at the Bellvue, Ms. Reed. I do hope your husband won't be waiting up."

He clicked off the phone and held it distractedly in his hand, looking at it as if it might yield knowledge. Strange, but she'd never said his name with such a lovely mix of irritation and derision before. It reminded him of someone; he wasn't sure who. Regardless, it had made him slightly hard, and he mused on what else he could say to elicit a similar tone.

Then, oddly, his phone rang. The number was unfamiliar.

"Hello?" he answered cautiously.

"I have a problem," the voice on the other end hissed.

Sark knew that voice. Sark had occasional nightmares about that voice. "Ms. Bristow?" he asked, startled.

"No. That's my problem."

He was speechless for more moments than he cared to be. "May I ask to whom I am speaking, then?"

"It's Lauren, you bloody pillock. For God's sake!"

"And yet you sound like Agent Bristow," he responded, taking care to sound unruffled, unperturbed. "Fascinating."

"Does Sydney," she sneered on the name, "call you often?"

"No, but she does have a particular fondness for insulting me, so it wouldn't have been out of character. Care to fill me in on the situation . . . Ms. Reed?"

"I woke up this morning in Sydney's bed. I was confused. Then I looked in the mirror, and discovered that I was not only in Sydney's apartment, but actually in Sydney. In her body."

"So that wasn't you I spoke with on the phone a few moments ago," he mused.

"Have you listened to a word I've said?" Lauren half-shrieked. "Wait. You called me?"

"And you answered," he told her. "Which normally would not be so very troubling. Have you spoken to anyone?"

"What?"

"Have you spoken to anyone, Ms. Reed?"

"No." A pause. "I called you first."

"Touching," he smirked. "Does Ms. Bristow have any sedatives?"

He heard the sound of bottles hitting against each other. "Yes," Lauren answered after a moment, cautiously. Unexpected of her to be so willing to be led, and slow to catch on, but she had woken up on the wrong side of the city, stuck in her rival's skin, and he supposed he must make allowances for that.

"Use it."

He could hear the sound of protest start in her throat as she began to argue, but then grasp his train of thought. "I had a pedicure scheduled this afternoon," she said acidly instead.

"I'll arrange to have you picked up," he continued without acknowledging her. "Oh, and you might want to arrange it to look like—"

"I'm not an amateur," she snapped, and hung up.

Sark smiled. He really was quite fond of her. She wasn't Allison, but he couldn't expect every lover to be.

He took a moment to enjoy the anticipation of a job about to be well done. Delicious, really, the situation with which he'd been presented. He felt more like himself than he had in ages; than he had since before he'd found himself in CIA custody.

Then he dialed. "We have a most interesting opportunity," he informed his contact on the other end.