Disclaimer: The Bourne Identity, Supremacy, and Ultimatum © Robert Ludlum and Universal Pictures. I am simply borrowing the characters.
A/N: I was watching The Bourne Ultimatum tonight when this plotbunny bit me in the arse so I wrote it down before said plotbunny let go and scampered off with my inspiration. I think this scene (Jason and Nicky after the fight with Desh) has been done before, but I wanted to give my own spin-off on what really goes on in the mind of our favorite amnesiac assassin. This is my first foray into this fandom so...YAY!
Null
It's dark out, the lights dimmed, as voices and distinct, not necessarily pleasant exotic odors waft through the window, ruffling the curtains. Nothing, however, can quite disguise the musty, used atmosphere of the room, rented for a night with no intention of returning. All of that is secondary, though. The ache of joints and muscles is more prominent, as is the broken, enflamed skin of his hands. The red has faded to an ugly rust now, and he wonders how much of it is actually his.
Stop it.
The words are forceful, but he doesn't blink, his mouth fixed in a grimace. He says those words a lot, but never out loud. He already questions his sanity; the last thing he needs is to advertise the fact. A sane person can piece things together, using both the past and present to build a future. He can't. It frustrates him constantly, but he doesn't slow or break down. They already broke him once, and though he doesn't know exactly how, he'll be damned if he lets them do it again.
And yet, those words remain a constant, a repetition that fails to do what he wants it to. Fragments come to him, maddening in their lack of detail. He wants to know so badly. It's become an obsession, and he knows it. Each step brings him closer to the truth which he so desperately craves. He's afraid of what he might find, but at the same time, he has to know. He has nothing else, there is nothing else. Maybe there was before, but there isn't now. She's dead.
A damp cloth drops gently into his hand, and he holds it loosely, not bothering to look up. He knows she's there, can feel her eyes seeking his. He knows what she wants from him: acknowledgement. Recognition. Some sign that the man she knew still exists somewhere, a man he doesn't even know.
She wants what he cannot give.
Images flicker across his mindscape—faces and events he can neither place nor connect to anything concrete. A patchwork of faded, tattered memories are all he has—the only thing he has to show for his life prior to three years ago, that damnable blank stetch of forgotten time. Years of extreme service and extreme taking, a paradox he can't unravel. How did it happen? Why did it happen?
He can't help it; he speaks to her. He doesn't mean to at first, but the words come, anyway. This bizarre alliance is strained enough without him giving her the wrong idea, but...he hasn't talked—really talked—to someone in a long time.
"Marie used to try to...help me remember the names."
The words sound abrasive somehow as his thoughts translate into sound, but he doesn't stop. Somehow he knows she'll take the verbal slap in the face, and she does, silently. A hand on his is her only reply. It's then, and only then, that he finally looks up. Their eyes meet, a strange emptiness spreading in his stomach as he sees the sheer feeling reflected there and recognizes it for what it is. It sparks nothing within him, no warmth, no memory, no feeling, nothing—a void.
He no longer knows her, if he ever did before.
"They're gonna come for you again." A beat. "You're gonna have to run now."
Her expression remains unchanged, but something in her eyes dims at those words. She stands without a word and leaves the room. He watches her go, unmoved. His lips twist slightly, unpleasantly, and he wonders if he's always been such a bastard.