MIRROR IMAGE
Rating: R
Timeline: Mid-season 3,
at least after "Blowback."
Part III, Act 4
Sydney was dreaming.
She could tell because her mother was there.
They were having a tea party, Sydney and her mother and several stuffed companions, bears and a bunny and Weiss and Dixon and Marshall, and a tiny dormouse, looks of horror stitched on their fuzzy faces. Sydney, seven, poured the tea.
"It's so lovely that you were able to join us," she said, filling her mother's cup.
Laura Bristow was wearing gingham and smiling. She inclined her head as if to say, Of course.
Sydney hummed to herself and uncovered the crumpets. Inside the basket, where she couldn't see, was the shiny black metal of a gun.
"I want to be just like you when I grow up," she said.
Laura Bristow's head turned, mouth lax, eyes sad.
"There's so much you don't know."
There was something, some sound, something happening, beyond the edge of the yard. Sydney turned her head too.
"Will you tell me?"
Her mother didn't answer.
The noise began to coalesce. If she just listened carefully enough. . . .
"Use the adrenaline." Her mother's voice. Brooking no arguments.
"Irina, it's a risk—" Sark.
"I won't send her in there unprepared. Use the adrenaline."
"Sydney, no." Her father. She looked down. Saw her hands on the fence, small gubby fingers gripping razor wire. "Don't pay attention to them. You're safer here."
"Sorry Daddy," she said, and turned and ran back to him.
She put her arms up and he lifted her into his embrace. She felt dizzy with the change in altitude, the way he spun her. It felt like the world was falling over. She felt . . .
She felt sick.
She woke and promptly rolled over to one side of the bed, vomiting up everything she'd managed to get down along with a healthy amount of stomach lining. The drug's aftereffects were acid in the back of her throat.
"Would you stop doing that?" she rasped, sitting up and doubling slightly to protect her still-distressed stomach. She took the cloth Irina offered her and wiped her mouth, then turned on Sark. "You cocky son of a—"
"She's well enough to insult me," Sark commented to Irina, as if Sydney weren't in the room.
Irina's mouth quirked. Suddenly, it struck Sydney that she didn't know anything, really, about her mother's sense of humor. For all she knew, Irina was where Sark got his. That was a dismal thought.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Irina murmured. "It was for your own good."
Sydney didn't bother putting her response into words. For her own good, for Irina's: did it really matter at this point?
"Do you think you can stand?"
"Sure," Sydney said. "As long as you don't expect me to go anywhere after I do it."
"No time. You have to leave now. Sark will brief you on the plane."
And then she was helping Sydney swing her legs off the side of the bed, making room for Sark to assist her to her feet.
This was not a dignified way for a CIA agent of Sydney's caliber to leave on a mission, even if said mission was being run by . . . what did her father say her mother was now? Sixth on the CIA's most wanted list? Sark's arm was steady around her waist, and her fingers dug into his wrist and opposite shoulder, holding herself up.
"You were lighter when you were unconscious," Sark observed. Also, his hand had moved a little lower than she was comfortable with.
"Bite me," she said.
"Oh, I have."
She lifted her head in order to glare at him more effectively, and found his eyes lidded and his expression almost open, caught up in recollection. Creepy.
Noticing her looking at him, his mouth moved into a lazy smirk. "How ever will you explain the marks to your Agent Vaughn?"
"That's enough, Julian," Irina said, opening the door. "At least let her finish getting her bearings first."
Sydney stumbled as they moved out into the hall, and grasped even tighter on to the fabric of Sark's shirt.
"I'm not carrying you," he told her, righting them both.
"Thank God," she snapped back.
At the elevator, Irina held the door while Sark assisted Sydney in.
"This is where we say goodbye, Sydney," Irina said.
Sydney blinked at her, dumbfounded. Goodbye? Already? Again?
"Do stop with the dramatics, Irina," Sark said. To Sydney, he explained, "You'll see her when we return."
"Take care of Dad," Sydney whispered as the doors closed.
Leaving her alone, again, with Sark.
"A car is meeting us out front," he said to her as she squeezed her eyes shut a few times and worked steadily on concentrating on his words. "It will take us to a plane. The plane is bound for St. Petersburg—Covenant headquarters. Or McKennas Cole's, at least. Are you getting this, Agent Bristow?"
"Car. Plane. St. Petersburg," she repeated dutifully. "Cole. I hate him."
"In that, you and I are in perfect accord."
"He called me pigtails."
"And you let him live," Sark marveled. "Your restraint is humbling."
"Go to hell," she mumbled.
"You first, darling," he replied as the elevator settled smoothly at the ground floor and he nudged her forward. Her stomach lurched around a bit but steadied fairly quickly. Now if only she could manage to focus. And get her feet working properly.
By the time they reached the plane—private jet, of course; the bad guys' toys were always a cut above the good guys', and even the CIA had it's own planes—her vision had cleared and she was more sure on her feet: sure enough to mount the stairs without assistance, but not so sure that she wasn't glad Sark followed behind her in case she slipped—it would serve the bastard right to have to break her fall. By the time they reached the plane her mind was also sharp enough to receive the details of why she'd been so summarily awakened—and what she would have to do in order to secure her and her father's safe release.
"Be on guard with Cole," Sark told her, and she just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I don't know how close they are; Lauren's been cagey on that particular subject. I have very little to give you that will be of assistance there."
"So you do have something that will be of assistance in some other part of this?" She sounded doubtful and she knew it; it was her prerogative. She wouldn't just be an errand girl in this, not if she could help it.
"Very much so," he confirmed. He handed her a paper, which she unrolled. "Blueprints of the building."
She traced her fingers along the lines, committing them to memory.
Sark continued, "It's not exhaustive. Rather, it's a record of what I was able to recall from past visits. I suspect there are many, many parts of the building I have not seen. For some reason they've been very careful with me. Something about my not being entirely trustworthy."
She snorted, and looked up in time to catch a ghost of a smile on Sark's face. She bent back down, quickly. A little unnerved.
"Once we're in, we'll have to play it largely by ear. Cole called for a reason."
She looked back up at him.
"One he chose not to share with me," he said. "It may be in our best interests to go along with whatever he wants and make a play for the disk when we return.
"Now, it's likely he'll dismiss me and ask you to remain. Not, I presume, for anything illicit."
"I managed kissing you; I can handle anything," she said, returning to her study and feeling the familiar sense of readiness start to come over her, clearing her mind, relaxing her body.
"Yes. Thank you," he said dryly, and she glanced up at him and smiled, forgetting for a spare moment that this wasn't just another op. Forgetting who she was with.
Sark seemed surprised as well, but covered by continuing. "He may simply want to check up on me. Lauren's never said."
"There's a lot it seems Lauren's never said," Sydney observed.
He shrugged, and handed her a folder. "Here's everything Irina or I have been able to find out about the Covenant. The parts in red are what you are likely to be expected to know. The rest—names, possible security apparatus—are information only."
"Got it," she said. "Anything else?" Her voice was clipped.
His mouth stretched wide and taut—a chilly, condescending smile. "Do try to be nicer to me, Agent Bristow. I am supposed to be your lover."
And then he reclined his chair and shut his eyes, and after a moment of furrowing her brow for no one's benefit but her own, Sydney turned to study the contents of the folder.
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A/N: If anyone's still there, sorry for the delay. :) (I was actually working on another fic, something properly Sarkney—for which I blame Sarandipity, because she sent me to SD-1 and I ran into the Holiday Sarkney Challenge and . . . well.) Thanks for hanging in there. My too-ambitious plan is to finish this up before season 4 starts, but I'm not holding my breath.
