Falling Slowly
A/N: Just a random one-shot (I doubt I'll make this chaptered) that popped into my head after watching the trilogy for the first time – I definitely have a new addiction. :) Hope you like it – please let me know if I've horribly skewered all things Bourne!
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Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back.
Glen Hasard & Marketa Irgova, from the movie, "Once."
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The night was colder than usual, and Nicky Parsons (Aimée Dupont, if anyone asked) pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck as she made her way home. She had spent the evening at a nearby café, reading a book and sipping her latte, a day entirely unremarkable. Unremarkable, except for the fact that Jason Bourne's name had come up on the small television in the back of the café. It was just over a year ago that he had evaded authorities once more, and a little more than that since Nicky had seen him.
She'd heard about him before this evening, of course, but nothing recently. For a while, there had been reports reminding the public that Jason Bourne was still wanted by authorities for questioning, but they had died down after the first couple of months. Nicky wondered if the news stations had finally realized that no 'normal' civilian would ever catch Bourne. No one would find him, not unless he wanted them to.
The report had revealed nothing new; it had been just a brief update on the situation, and then a picture flashed across the screen. Nicky had recognized the shot; she had seen it in his file so many times during his training, and watching in on the television screen brought back memories she had been trying to avoid thinking of since she had begun hiding. Unfortunately, unlike Jason, Nicky's skill didn't lie with escaping things, and she had been bombarded by thoughts of him.
The first day she had met Jason Bourne, she had been terrified. She wasn't sure how you couldn't be; one glance at his file told her more than she'd ever wanted to know about how an asset killed his target. But after a while, the things she learned about him in person took precedence over what she had read.
Nicky discovered he only liked his coffee black, and that he would never mention his headaches unless she pressed him to. She could tell you his favorite color, and that if you wanted to ask him something about Treadstone, you had better be prepared for a few chilling stares. She had learned what it felt like to kiss him, and after some time, she knew what it felt like to love him.
More recently, she had also learned what it felt like when you lost him.
She had gotten him back – in sharp, shattered pieces, with eyes that held hatred, and with his heart belonging to another woman – but Nicky could at least see him. Then, she had lost him again.
He told her it would get easier, but so far, it was only getting more painful. Nicky had never known him to be a liar, but it looked like that was what it was coming to. She imagined what it would be like if things got better though; she imagined what it would be like for him to hold her again, and always, she imagined him remembering her.
A sharp gust of wind brought her mind away from thoughts of him, and back into the present. It was getting late, nearly eleven, but Nicky was more tired than the time actually warranted. She was used to sleeping very little, that was nothing new, but this sort of exhaustion was something much more.
She was tired of running, tired of hiding. She was tired of being Aimée Dupont, a young woman traveling across Europe and staying in Belgium to visit a distant relative.
Mostly, though, she was tired of missing him, and tired of being reminded how much she did everyday.
Once, when in a rush, she had nearly introduced herself as Marie, the name springing to her mind unexpectedly. It had caught in her throat as she spoke, bringing with it a mixture of memories Nicky wanted him to remember, and ones of her she was jealous he could.
It was always too much.
The wind blew coldly once more, wrapping itself around her. Nicky was almost back to her apartment, only a few more turns to go. The street she was on was deserted, something that hadn't bothered her until that instant.
She could feel someone's eyes on her; a sensation she had more than enough experience with. A million thoughts crashed into her head at once, a jumble of warnings and thoughts –whowasitweretheydangerousdidsheneedtorun? One, though, stood out clearly, and it was that she had blown her cover. Maybe she had waited too long in one place, or maybe she was just not as careful as she had been in the beginning. Whatever the reason, she had ruined her anonymity, and more than likely, there would be consequences.
She could almost hear Jason's voice, chiding her, saying, Nicky, how could you let your guard down? Don't you know better than this?
Nicky silently cursed, wondering why something like this would happen on the day she had thought about him so much. Wasn't that pain enough for now? At this, she shook her head slightly and tried to refocus. No good thinking of him– whoever was following her was gaining ground. She couldn't hear any footsteps, none at all, but instinctively she knew there was someone in the shadows nearby.
They were closer, closer, closer. And then, Nicky felt a viselike grip on her arm. Her voice was nowhere to be found, and though Nicky tried to wrench away, she was only successful in moving a centimeter or two.
The grip loosened and the hand began to turn her around. Fear was shooting through her in paroxysms, and had she the chance to run, Nicky was fairly sure she would have remained rooted to the spot.
Slowly, her pursuer came into view. Again, Nicky found herself unable to speak, and really, unable to breath. She shut her eyes tightly and opened them again, as if trying to wake herself from a dream.
The man in front of her, however, did not disappear. No, Jason Bourne was definitely still standing there.
"I remember," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "I remember everything."
And in an instant, Nicky was in his arms.