MIRROR IMAGE
Rating: R. Just in
general.
Timeline: Mid-season 3,
after "Blowback."
Part IV, Act 1
Given his way, Sark would have preferred to have been knocked unconscious, dreaming perhaps of a villa in the south of France, his inheritance back in his proverbial pocket and his current partner, long-limbed and naked, in his bed.
Most unfortunately, he had no such luck.
He remained painfully aware for the duration of his transfer. The men Sloane had hired handled him roughly—nothing he wasn't used to, though it never ceased to rankle him—as they pushed him further down the hall. He caught just a fleeting glance of Sydney, Lauren's chin lifted, stepping with a dignity that bordered on arrogance into the office Ana had just vacated.
Good luck, he wished her silently, but if anyone could handle Sloane, it was Sydney. If a man like Sloane could be said to have a weakness, she was it. Remarkable, Sark thought dryly, how many otherwise formidable agents that was true for.
He was shoved into an elevator; one of the men who accompanied him pressed the button for the basement. Why, he wondered, was it always the basement?
"I'd prefer the penthouse, if you don't mind," he said, recalling with fondness he and Lauren's recent exploits and earning himself a backhand across the face.
That, he reflected clinically, was going to bruise.
Clearly this had not been his best idea ever. Perhaps he shouldn't have contacted Irina in the first place. He could have toyed with Sydney—fed her classified Covenant data for his own amusement, stolen a kiss or two, perhaps coaxed a bit more—had his fun and acted shocked, just shocked, when it was discovered that Sydney Bristow had somehow managed to infiltrate their organization. There would still have been Lauren to contend with, of course, and he wouldn't have had the same opportunity he did here to regain his inheritance, but he felt confident of his ability to deal with Lauren Reed, and surely another opportunity would have arisen.
Instead, here he was being summarily deposited into one of the less pleasant holding rooms he had ever graced with his presence. Certainly it was not as comfortable as the CIA's antiseptic "glass cell." As much as he'd come to loathe the excessive, colorless cleanliness of that space, some antiseptic would have been an improvement here; the space reeked unpleasantly of mold and disuse.
The door was slammed behind him—his guards hadn't even removed the cuffs before abandoning him, though he supposed in their position he would have done the same—leaving him to his own devices. Thankfully, he had quite a few.
He set about scanning the room for possible escape routes, a tool with which to pick the handcuff locks, something at least to use as a weapon. He came up empty. The room was small, boxy, and unadorned, with no windows and a single bulb suspended far to high for him to reach. He could throw his shoe at it, potentially producing a suitably sharp sliver of glass, but odds were he'd simply shatter the glass into fragments too slight to be usable, leaving himself no better prepared but far more likely to cut himself in the ensuing darkness.
There was nothing for him to do but wait for Sydney—presuming she was able, and willing, to come for him. Sloane had obviously arranged this meeting for a reason, and he was fairly confident that killing Sydney was not it. Sark had been forced to listen repeatedly to Sloane's praise of the woman he considered the daughter he'd never had, once Sloane had managed to get past the intensity of his feelings regarding her and Jack's betrayal. Sydney would be safe. Sark, on the other hand, was by no means in an analogous situation. Sloane regarded him no more highly than he regarded Sloane.
If, he decided, given a suitable length of time, Sydney had not yet appeared, he would give the shoe plan further thought.
Choosing to remain standing rather than risk the floor, he centered his weight evenly between his feet and began reciting times tables in his head.
He had just begun his 46s when the door burst open. Lauren Reed's slim silhouette stood in the doorway, backed by the glow of the brighter hallway light, her hair tousled about her grim, set face. She strode purposefully over to him.
And then she slapped him.
"That," she said, "was for earlier, you bastard. Now give me your hands."
He held out his cuffed wrists obligingly. She inserted a key and jiggled it until the lock mechanism gave way.
"You're later than I expected," he commented, rubbing his slightly raw wrists and ignoring the sting in his left cheek as she tucked the cuffs at the back of her hip.
She glared at him. "I couldn't get away. Would it kill you to be a little grateful?"
"Oh, I am," he assured her as they moved towards the door.
It was only now that she was here, now that his confidence in her arrival had been rewarded, that he realized he had been less assured than he had been pretending. If it had been him, he would have left her there. Sydney Bristow, obviously, was not him—though she could stand to emulate some of his sense of self-preservation. Still, in this case it was better for him that she was not. He almost wished, for a spare second, that he might attribute his rescue to some modicum of affection for him on her part, or even just respect. But her actions had nothing to do with him. They had to do with her sense of honor, her idea of partnership—because regardless of who had paired them together, or why, they were partners. For now. And she would treat him accordingly, despite her personal feelings, despite the fact they both knew he was not reliable and should not be trusted, even in this. Being Sydney's partner meant the security of her protection. And as relieved as he was to be correct in his assessment, he had rather hoped for better from her than that.
"Here." She reached into the waistband at the small of her back, and handed him a firearm.
"You brought me a gun," Sark said, absurdly touched.
"You suck at hand to hand," Sydney snapped. She produced her own weapon from the top of her boot. "I don't think we'll need them, but just in case. Come on."
They moved through the hallway much as they had upstairs, low and against the wall, but this time with the added security of being adequately armed. They reached the stair well and descended quickly, nearly silently, and Sydney was first out the door that would return them to the open space of the club at which they'd began.
"Shit!"
She whirled back around the corner, pressing her back against the wall. She was trembling; fascinating. And a bit frightening.
"Sydney?" he asked.
Her lovely eyes were haunted as she focused on his face. "It's Vaughn."
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A/N: Okay, so a little bit of a delay on this last chapter. I've been keeping myself busy with playing catch-up posting on SD-1, which on the upside has given me a chance to refresh myself on what's already happened (and correct some pesky typos). Look for the next chapter in a week or so, maybe less—it's already half done. . . .
