MIRROR IMAGE
Rating: R
Timeline: Mid-season 3, at least after "Blowback."
Part II, Act 2
He arrived at the Bellvue early. While he didn't expect Agent Bristow for hours yet, it was, as it went in the American vernacular, better to be safe than sorry. And Sark was rarely ever sorry.
The timing had to be precise, lest he risk tipping his adversary off before the round had even begun. And this was one game he was very much looking forward to.
He ensured that the false files had been properly uploaded to his personal secure ftp site. Then he downloaded them to the machine he had chosen, and disconnected the rest. He took the further precaution of disabling the machine he would be employing's access to the Web. If there was anything Agent Bristow possessed that was greater than her skill and tendency towards personal tragedy, it was her professional luck. He would be as thorough as possible; the less that could go wrong, would. Nothing would be left to chance, as chance had never favored him overmuch.
He prepared the suite upstairs, aiming for elegantly lived in, almost as if for a date—an amusing façade of champagne and tranquilizers, rose petals and restraints. No time to set up an audio feed for insurance, but no matter. There was no one he trusted to monitor it, either.
He called in final instructions, "Hold until you are signaled, or as long as you can," and made his way downstairs to the bar, capsules slipped into his inside pocket, fun at his back only in case of extreme circumstances. He didn't foresee any difficulties.
Of all the things he eventually tired of—his various employers, the trying of his machine, the mandate others had always seemed to possess to dress him in blue—a good red wine was singular in its staying power. He ordered a glass, and positioned himself with aclear view of the hotel's front entrance. He'd had the back and side doors preventatively soldered shut, though he suspected it to be a foolish precaution. Sydney Bristow, in full possession of her faculties, did not sneak in through fire doors and abandoned exits. Sydney Bristow breezed in through front doors as if they'd been put there just for her. Of course, the way Rambaldi sometimes wrote of it, they were.
She didn't disappoint.
The woman he knew as Lauren Reed, NSC liaison to the CIA, undercover Covenant operative, and fabulous fuck, strode through the entrance as if this were a television program of which she was the star.
He raised his glass to her, transmitting the intended message to his man at the door. Have them take her now.
She looked like Lauren, but she still walked like Sydney. Sloppy.
"Good evening, Ms. Reed," he greeted her as she slid into the bar stool beside his.
"Julian," she answered him, and that, somehow, was Lauren precisely. But Sydney was, after all, very, very good. He'd simply have to be better. First—
"Shall we proceed, or would like something from the bar?"
"I had something on the plane," she replied, dashing his hopes of slipping the substance he'd procured into her drink. All right, he thought, watching her as she watched him. Tricky, but not impossible.
"Excellent." He placed his glass on the bar, its job completed. "On to business, then."
He offered her his arm. If Sydney had been allowed to be the Sydney he knew, she would likely have felt moved to rip it off and beat him with it, just for his audacity in offering it.
As it was, she scorned him. Risky move; he admired her for that. He chuckled. And to reassure her—no use making her worry—he murmured, "I see we're back to this," as he touched a hand to the small of her back.
He took a perverse satisfaction in the fact that she let him. Lauren never could have, and he took advantage of the fact that Sydney did not know it. Yet it was, indeed, Lauren's back he was touching, Laurent's muscles that bunched in Sydney's no doubt irritation, and their mutual use of Lauren's body felt delightfully illicit.
At the elevators he leaned forward, remaining what he hoped was uncomfortably close to the heat of her body, and pressed the down button. Inside, he chose sublevel three.
"I'm surprised," she remarked. "Have they started building penthouses in the basement?"
His mouth curved. She seemed nervous; how quaint. Or perhaps she was testing him in some way? Looking for his reaction? If she thought this weak taunting was Lauren, she was naïve. Lauren was effortlessly far crueler.
"Nothing's too good for my girl," he said as the doors opened, with what he considered a more than adequate amount of charm. "Ladies first."
He moved his hand to her back once more, guiding her to the proper terminal. She stopped part way there, turning to him, and he kept his expression carefully neutral.
"Why here?" she asked, something almost plaintive in her tone, and it took him a moment to identify the context of her question, the "here" of interest and the potential "there" that accompanied it, silent, between her words. Why not further away? she was asking. Why not someplace warmer? And why not somewhere crawling with Covenant activity she could report back to her precious CIA about?
He noted the way she was touching Lauren's wedding ring, a nervous habit she could not have picked up in the mere hours she had been wearing it, and one she wouldn't have affected in her endeavor to mask her true identity. She wasn't here alone, he realized, but of course he'd already been told as much; the ring, whatever its precise significance, would have to be disposed of.
He lifted a shoulder to show indifference. "You said you hadn't been here in a few years," he lied smoothly, "and wanted to return. It's as good a place as any."
Her mouth parted. "Thank you for thinking of me," she said, and he thought, That won't do. There was no challenge in capitulation, and if there was anything he'd consistently valued Ms. Bristow for, it was the challenge she presented.
"Come now, Ms. Reed," he said blithely, "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."
It was true of both women, the thing other than Agent Michael Vaughn they had most in common, and he found himself somewhat perplexed as how to deal wit h the woman standing before him without it. The real Lauren he could have scolded her, or kissed her, either one sure to get a sharp reaction; with the skittish, undercover Agent Bristow, his options were more constrained.
"You miss my tongue?" she murmured, quite surprisingly. He laughed, genuinely amused, and took the opportunity—her daring, her momentary openness—to pave the way for the next stage. Casually he took her hand, and brought the sensitive skin of Lauren's palm to his mouth.
He smirked. "No more than you miss mine," he said in such a way that even Sydney Bristow could not mistake his meaning. He wanted her to realize what she might need to do to go through with the charade, what he might expect of Lauren Reed—not because it assisted his plans but because it amused him.
But he was disconcerted when she jerked, color flooding her face. "Lauren?" he remembered to ask, not Sydney?
"I'm fine," she said. "Just a chill. You had information for me?"
Curious.
"Not the way I would have put it, but yes." He showed her to the monitor he'd prepared, even put a hand to the back of the seat as if to pull it out for her. "The Covenant's latest communiqué arrived." He leaned over her, letting his suit jacked fall open as he bent to type the codes that would allow her access.
"You could have just sent me this," she said, in a vaguely annoyed tone.
"Ah," he said, "but that would have denied me the pleasure of your company," and slid his hand inside his jacked, over his heart, in a gesture that, if Ms. Bristow had chosen to look at him, she might have classified as mocking. He nimbly plucked the first capsule from the inside pocket, and folded it into his hand. He was almost disappointed she was too occupied with the contents of the screen to not-notice the maneuver he'd just executed.
"Also," he continued, turning to pull another chair up behind hers, "there is the mission."
"Yes?"
"In Tokyo. Plane leaves in the morning."
She glanced over her shoulder at him briefly, and he smiled to himself. Not that he minded, but this should have been more of a challenge.
He tucked the capsule into his mouth, and concealed the act of breaking it open by pressing his lips to Sydney's gray-sweatered shoulder. He let the capsule's contents dissolve, enjoying the tension of muscle under his mouth. Then he waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
She turned her head, said, "Sark—" and he took advantage of the part of her lips to insinuate his own.
He gave her credit: she neither seemed shocked nor pulled back. Instead, she let him open her mouth with his tongue, let the drug into her system. He fumbled her up, holding her mouth to his with one hand at the back of her hand, reaching out with the other, blindly, to wipe the computer screen of its contents. Sydney pressed Lauren's body against him in an entirely delightful way.
Certainly one of the least odious tasks he'd had to perform in the line of duty, kissing Sydney Bristow.
Of course, he allowed that that could be just the drugs making him feel that way. Their initial side effect was rather like a light buzz, or a rush of arousal. He had a window of time yet in which to take the antidote, before the rest of its effects kicked in. In the meantime . . . .
He broke the kiss and, holding her gaze in his own, he brought her hand up, drew her fourth finger deep into his mouth, and removed Agent Vaughn's ring with his teeth. Her mouth was swollen, cheeks slightly flushed. A tremor ran through her he could both see and feel.
"Upstairs?" he asked her, huskily.
"The penthouse?" she questioned.
"Nothing's too good for my girl," he repeated from earlier, this time allowing his tone to be an exercise in unabashed seduction. No need to tread lightly now—he'd done his work.
A gleam came into her eyes that made him wary nonetheless. "I'm Michael Vaughn's girl," she said. "Or didn't you remember?"
She was taunting him; she'd grown too comfortable. Not bothering to hide his irritation, he lifted the ring he'd slid off her finger mere moments before and tossed it behind them. Her eyes widened; it gave him an immense amount of satisfaction.
"Not anymore," he told her, pronouncing each syllable precisely. Then he took the liberty of placing his hands on her hips, and pulling her to him.
Her scent was free of Lauren's thickly floral perfume; to conceal the slight tremor he himself was beginning to feel—from the drug, he was running out of time.—he buried his face in her somewhat awkwardly held neck and inhaled deeply. He nipped her jaw, slid one hand up her back, and began to pull the fabric of the sweater from the side of Lauren's splendid, slender neck.
"Don't you want to talk about the mission?" he barely heard Sydney ask.
"No," he said into her shoulder, and thought to himself, Absolutely not. First because there was no mission, not for her at least, and second because he was really beginning to feel the drug's full effects now and he didn't trust himself to speak.
Antidote, he thought, somewhat desperately. He'd never live down being found unconscious with Sydney Bristow, passed out on a subbasement's old linoleum floor. Hardwood, marble, perhaps; linoleum, never.
His lips found a spot that Lauren had always liked; he grazed his teeth along it and Sydney went weak against him. He had moved back up to kiss her, hand just making its way to the interior of this suit coat, when Lauren's NSC phone rang.
"Vaughn," Sydney said against his mouth.
The timing of that man, Sark thought, and for once was whole-heartedly thankful. He stepped back, dropped a nod and spread his hand out towards her bag, still back at the table at which he'd stationed them. The second capsule was closed in his other hand.
He watched her carefully as she turned to answer. Not enough time—she had evidently decided that the phone call was less important than tracking his movements. Obviously she was still in greater possession of her faculties than he was.
He leaned back against a nearby table and settled in for the duration of the conversation, arms folded and what he'd been told was his trademark smirk in place. He honestly disliked the idea of having any sort of trademark other than a reputation for a job well done, but if it was what Agent Bristow would expect to see, then by all means he would give it to her.
He listened mildly as she exchanged her saccharine greetings with the man whose wife she was pretending to be, wishing the drug would hurry along—he didn't care which of them passed out, but there was only so much of this one could take.
Then she said her name—"Sydney?"—and Sark thought, Bloody fuck. They've bungled it, it's too soon. But no, she wasn't watching him any more closely than before; her face registered only numb shock.
As she began the ritual involved in hanging up—why couldn't Americans simply conclude their conversation and leave it at that?—he turned and headed for the elevator. Best speed this along as quickly as possible, lest she connect him, his presence here, with whatever she had just been told about herself.
With his back turned, he was able to ingest the second capsule, and by the time she had slipped into the elevator beside him, he was already feeling calmer, clearer, more confident.
He shifted his eyes to her, back in total control. "Going up?"
A/N: Just wanted to say a very sincere thank you to any- and everyone who's left me a review. I've officially left my previous review record of, like, ten, in the proverbial dust. :) Also, I promise that the next chapter will actually involve events we haven't already seen one side of! (I know, shock, right?) Thanks for reading.
