MIRROR IMAGE
Rating: R, for language this time.
Timeline: Mid-season 3, at least after "Blowback."
Part III, Act 3
Sark closed the door on Sydney's temporary accommodations and, after a detour to the kitchen, met Irina downstairs in the study he had set up for her use.
"You know," she said conversationally as he entered, not looking up from the papers she was reviewing, glasses perched delicately on her lovely nose, "your total assets, even after two years in CIA custody, number far in excess of anything you could ever spend. And yet you're so concerned about this 800 million."
"It's the principle of the thing," he told her. "The money is mine. And I want it back."
Irina smiled at him, as mysteriously alluring as ever, and it was hard—so hard—to remember they were equals in this, partners, that he was no longer her loyal lackey, she no longer his mentor in the strictest sense, though he of course still respected her abilities greatly, and knew there was much he could still learn if he could remember to pay attention in her presence.
"I haven't forgiven you for giving me up to the CIA, you know."
"I wouldn't expect you to. But I do appreciate your cooperation in this, Julian. Very much."
"It's a mutually beneficial business arrangement, Irina," he said, unreasonably irritated, "not a favor."
"Still," she said.
It was very rare that affection overwhelmed Irina's sound judgment, even where her daughter was concerned—therefore Sark knew never to rely on it's likeness, even genuine, in her expression or her tone, at least when predicting her motives or behavior. Still, he was somewhat gratified to sense that she was pleased to be working with him again. He felt similarly: pleased to see her, but far from ready to allow that pleasure to lull him into a foolish sense of security. She had that effect on men—making them foolish. He wondered if she'd been yet to see Jack Bristow. He didn't dare ask.
"Your daughter is restless," he said instead.
"Did you expect otherwise?" She seemed unconcerned, turning back to her work.
"I tell you this so you won't be surprised when you learn I drugged her tea."
"Julian, honestly." She pulled her glasses off. "Was that necessary?"
"I felt it was."
She looked as if there was more she wanted to say, but knew as well as he that there was nothing to be done at this point. She shook her head. "You're the one who has to work with her."
"I'll let her know it was my idea, not yours," he offered, feeling generous at her capitulation.
"No," she said, distracted, fingers brushing across the bottom of her frighteningly delicious mouth. Her eyes fixed on him. "No. We must appear to be united, to function with one set of intentions: mine. She must believe you are entirely loyal to me. If she believes that, she will be more willing to trust you."
He sucked in his cheeks, feeling, oddly, dismissed. Inconsequential. Out of control.
"And what if I take advantage of that trust?"
Irina's smile was merciless. "I wouldn't recommend that, Mr. Sark."
"I'm not yours to order around anymore, Irina," he reminded her, ice in his eyes and voice.
"That wasn't an order," she said. "It was a threat."
He lifted his eyebrows. Her gaze remained steady—she'd taught him the expression, after all—effortlessly in control of herself, and nearly him. She couldn't back down; neither, he told himself, would he.
"Perhaps you ought to look in on Lauren," Irina said finally, less a dismissal than a gesture of peace.
"Perhaps I should," he agreed.
Lauren sat restrained, in the darkness, still in her soiled clothes, shoulder bandaged with tape and gauze. They hadn't given her anything for the pain, he realized, noting the particular dilation of her eyes. Irina was obviously unconcerned about the comfort of her daughter's body—but of course, physically, Sydney could take nearly anything. And by the time the real Sydney inhabited it once again, the pain would be only a distant throb, a memory in someone else's head.
"Come for another taste of Sydney Bristow's cunt?" Lauren asked in a low, biting voice.
The light from the hallway outside glinted on her hair and in her eyes, and it seemed for a bare moment Sydney herself sitting there, possessed by some demonic force, not her mirror image, the woman who'd taken over the life she'd left behind and been unable to reclaim upon her return.
Lauren sneered. "What would Mommy think?"
"Irina," he emphasized her name, "does not concern me."
She had at first, when he had passed Sydney over to her care—she had wanted to see to her personally, which had surprised him and then not surprised him, really, once he recalled with that same subtle envy he often felt the way Irina had spoken of her daughter over the years—but after examining Lauren's slack features, the slightly coppery tinge of her mouth, she'd commented, amused, "And did you enjoy seducing my daughter?"
Her tone had been light enough that he had risked responding, "She was rather easier than I thought she would be."
"Or her opinion of your paramour isn't very high."
He'd made a face at her. "I do wish you wouldn't call her that."
"Give my best to Jack," she'd said, and left, and he'd quite satisfying interpreted that to mean her best left cross, and delivered it with a fair amount of relish. Jack Bristow irritated him. And he'd been attempting to escape from Sark's custody, after all.
That very Lauren look, disgust and cool superiority, spread across Sydney Bristow's so-malleable features, bringing him back to the moment. "She concerns me."
He frowned. "You know I wouldn't let anything happen to you," he said.
"Yes?" she asked. "And what do you call this?" She pushed her chin in the direction of her injured shoulder.
"Barely a scratch," he said. "You were in no danger. When you leave this building you won't even bear a scar."
"If I leave this building," she muttered darkly. Pessimistic of her.
"You have my word," he offered by way of assurance, but her eyes flashed.
"And you think that's enough?" she snapped. "After everything I've done to Derevko's daughter, do you honestly believe she'd let me walk?"
Suddenly, he felt uneasy. He couldn't allow it to show.
"She will if I order it."
"Then you are a bigger fool than I thought."
"I came," he said, carefully polite, "to inquire after your welfare."
"Don't waste your manners on me, Julian. I know you." She spit at his feet. "I wish I didn't."
He was contemplating his next move—she was angry, very angry, but he could bring her around, since cooperating with him was the safest way to save her life—when his cell phone vibrated where he had attached it to his belt. He checked the number—McKennas Cole.
"Excuse me," he said to Lauren, who glowered at him, and stepped out into the hall.
"Yes?" he answered.
"Julian, baby! Where've you been? You missed your meet time." The note of warning was clear and strangely menacing from a man whose predominant projection was that of incompetence.
"Some trouble," he told Cole authoritatively. He had prepared for this. "Ms. Reed's situation has been . . . reversed."
"What?"
"You can imagine the difficulty, with Ms. Bristow suddenly free and my partner forcibly restrained. Ms. Bristow was able to escape."
"Oh, man. I cannot believe this."
He'd better, or none of this would work.
"We're on Bristow's trail now." Sark paused, then added, painfully, "I was going to contact you."
"Of course you were, Julian," Cole said. "But who cares? Forget Bristow. I need you both in here. Now."
"Of course," Sark said reasonably, really meaning, Bloody fucking hell. This was somewhat ahead of schedule. He wished now he'd used something lighter in Sydney's tea. Irina was going to give him that look, the one that, if they had been in grade school, might have been interpreted as I told you so.
"Tonight."
"As soon as we can," Sark said, allowing it to serve as either counter offer or confirmation, as the listener chose.
As Sark suspected he would, McKennas Cole chose the former. "You do good work, Mr. Sark. Don't push me." There was a click on the line.
Sark found it singularly unpleasant, being hung up upon.
"Move up the time table," he said to Irina as he entered her office without knocking.
She stood, calm but bemused, behind the desk.
"Something's come up."
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A/N: Another huge thanks to all reviewers. You guys continually make my day.
Annie, very sorry for the appearance of Lauren in this chapter. :) That should be it for her for awhile.
Sarandipity, do you know, I hadn't even stumbled upon SD-1 yet? Thanks for the tip. The thread format gives me fits, but I'm looking into it. :)
ETA: and thanks to skyeasinsark, for pointing out my 80/800 million typo!
