Kindred Spirit
Disclaimer: I call neither the Bourne Universe nor the X-Men Universe my own.
Plot bunnies combine with dust bunnies and a prompt from the Bourne Fic-a-thon at LiveJournal's BourneSeries which results in this short piece. Jason's dreams begin to turn bad.
He sat on the edge of the bed, sick and shaking, heart pounding, breathing hard. He rested his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his hands. There was movement from the other side of the bed. His nightmare had woken her up, too. Again. She moved close, rose up on her knees behind him, hands coming to rest lightly on his shoulders. Her fingers flexed and squeezed as she began to massage the muscles of his neck and back. Often this would ease the tension. He would lean into her ministrations and let go. But not this time. This time the dream had been a bad one. This time he held the gun in his hand, felt the trigger beneath his finger and the kick of recoil, saw the woman fall. The woman. He'd killed a woman. It left him shaken, nauseated. "I need some air," he croaked, his voice strangled, his tone more harsh than he intended.
He got up and pulled on his pants. He padded across the room in bare feet, opened the door and slipped outside. She watched him go. The bad episodes like this were few and far between, and she knew from experience that there was nothing she could do for him when he was this consumed. He would go out, take a walk, get some air, come to grips with whatever was haunting him for the time being, and he'd come back. Still, she worried. And she would not sleep until he returned. She got up and set about brewing a cup of tea.
He leaned against the door frame, eyes squeezed shut against the memories. Pushing away from the building, he moved silently along the walk. The room they'd rented this time was on a quiet side street, with a door that opened to a small courtyard flower garden. It was a tiny jewel in a jumble of brick buildings, a diminutive green space that nonetheless brought a smile to her face every time she walked through the foliage. He stood in the middle of the plantings and stared up at the sky. The night was clear and warm, moonless, with millions of stars sparkling from horizon to horizon. He sank to the ground, concentrating on emptying his mind, slowing his breathing, relaxing his tense muscles. Earthy fragrances filled his nostrils, black dirt and compost mingled with the perfume of blooming plants. Night sounds filled his ears. Insects buzzing nearby; farther out, the muted sounds of the town in which they were staying.
Minutes passed as he focused on clearing his mind, allowing the latest batch of memories to wash over him. She was sure they were just bad dreams. But he knew they were real – real parts of things he'd done in the not so distant past.
He heard a door open and close across the courtyard. He remained where he was, unmoving, becoming invisible, becoming one with the shadows.
He was startled when a male voice spoke from the darkness just inside the courtyard boundary.
"Nice night."
"Mmmmm," Bourne responded warily. He had not picked up on any tell-tale movement.
He had not realized the other person had come so close.
His companion in the garden struck a match, touched it to a partially smoked cigar. In the brief flare of the flame, Bourne noted the stocky build, the huge hands and broad chest, the dark eyes, thick sideburns and unruly shock of hair nearly standing on end in spots. As the end of the cigar glowed bright orange, the man asked, "Mind if I smoke?" Bourne shrugged, somehow knowing his movements would be seen in the darkness. He did not believe the man would be one to put out a smoke if requested, anyway.
"Nightmares," the man continued. "Hate 'em. Every time I think I'm gonna get a good night's sleep, the damn dreams get in the way."
Bourne remained quiet, but raised his eyebrows. The cigar smoker walked directly to a small stone bench nearby, settling his stocky frame onto the seat. Bourne was surprised at the gracefulness and ease with which the big man moved. Like a cat. A big cat.
The man took in a lungful of cigar smoke, exhaling a bluish-hued cloud into the darkness a few seconds later. He produced a six-pack of cans, pulling one out and offering it, "Beer?"
Bourne took the can, mumbled his thanks. It was cold. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light and he was able to make out some of the label, a Canadian brew. He popped the top as his companion did the same. They lifted the cans toward each other. "Here's to more restful nights!" the cigar smoker toasted.
"Agreed," Bourne replied as he put the can to his lips and let the cold liquid ease the dryness of his mouth and throat. Up until that moment, he had not realized how parched his tissues were.
"You got a name, bub?" the man asked as he once more chewed on his cigar.
"Yes," Bourne answered, contemplating which one he should share.
The chuckle in response was more of a throaty growl. "Okay. They call me Logan. I'll be damned if that's the name I was born with, though. Memory's a little foggy on some details."
"'Jason,'" Bourne replied quietly. "And I know the feeling."