Wow, it's been a while... Got caught up in some other entanglements, and just haven't been able to return full attention to this piece. Part of me wants to portray Jason Bourne, now David Webb, as a sympathetic character. That's how Shelly feels. Yet, I, myself, am with Tom. Bourne is a highly trained dealer in death, who ultimately is responsible for his own actions. He should be held accountable. But as it is through Shelly's eyes we seem to be looking, here is a furthering of her interactions with an assassin. And thanks for taking the time to read.


Something woke him. He was being watched. Slowly opening his eyes, he took careful note of his surroundings. He was still in the Cronin house. Still on the futon in the guest room. He remembered lying on the floor, feverish and hurting. He remembered returning to bed. He glanced at the single window in the room. Dim light streamed through the holes in the blinds. The window had been dark the last time he had looked at it.

He rolled over carefully, moving cautiously, taking stock of the condition of the various parts of his body. There were general aches and some pain from his side, but nothing he couldn't handle. He turned his head toward the door, which was open. The woman named Shelly was watching him from the doorway, hand on the doorknob.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. How long…?"

"How long have you been sleeping? Nearly 'round the clock," Shelly informed him. "Tom and Pam brought you here mid-evening yesterday. The fever woke you around 11 last night. You haven't moved since, and it's nearing four o'clock. PM."

"I slept," his voice held a note of disbelief.

"I think you were beyond tired," she commented as she pushed the door farther open. "How do you feel?"

He stretched, finishing his internal inspection. "Tired. Sore. I'll live."

"May I come in?" she asked.

He nodded as he eased himself to a sitting position.

Shelly stepped into the room and offered him a bottle of water. "Thirsty?"

She had read his mind. He took the bottle and twisted the cap. The water was cold and vanished quickly.

"Still running fever," Shelly surmised.

"Maybe a touch," he replied. "Nothing I can't handle. I – uh, last night, I didn't hurt anyone when I…" he let the words trail off.

"When you fell off the bed? No. You were pretty tangled in the sheet and blanket, like you'd been wrestling. You were hallucinating. Tom warned us."

Webb nodded once, relieved that he'd caused no damage.

"Do you mind if I say something here that's really trite and probably quite foolish?" Shelly folded her arms across her body and leaned against the wall.

The young man looked at her, puzzled.

"Pam filled me in on a lot of your story. You – you don't look like an assassin," she commented.

"I think that is the idea," he told her.

"Fair enough," Shelly smiled. "I washed and dried the clothes you had on yesterday," She directed his attention to a pile of neatly folded garments on a chair against the wall. "You arrived here with no shoes. I've got some old pairs after my son in the closet, if you wear size 10 1/2 or 11."

"Thank you," he said as he pushed the blanket away from his torso, swinging his legs over the edge of the futon. "If I remember correctly, the bathroom is down the hall on the left."

"Yes," Shelly answered. "Help yourself to a shower if you want. Towels are in the drawer. Tom left some fresh dressings for your injury. They're on the counter. Let me know if you want some help." She moved back as he passed, noticing the faint hitch in his step as he favored his injured side. She and Tom had discussed Webb's presence in their house until the wee hours of the morning. Tom was not thrilled that she would be alone with this stranger if he left with Pam for CIA HQ in Langley. He explained some of the things that had gone down in Berlin and Moscow, tried to impress on his wife that their guest was a highly trained assassin, a kind of living weapon.

"Pam believes that the people who might have reason to come after him think he's dead," Shelly had pointed out. "You know me, Tom. I've made a hobby out of reading people. From what you and Pam tell me, he's not exactly sure who he is. He was someone called 'Jason Bourne.' Now he's David Webb. He's got a lot to sort out. I suspect he needs some serious time to think. He doesn't strike me as dangerous, just a little uncertain. Besides, he hasn't been contracted to take me out, has he?"

Tom had eventually given up trying to convince her to leave the house.

"Truthfully," Shelly had finished, "it's Pam I'm worried about, she's the one getting herself into some hot water. Go with her. Do what you can. I'll be fine."

So Tom and Pam had packed up and driven back to the New York office earlier that day, leaving her alone with David Webb. She'd only had office hours scheduled at the university for the day, and a meeting or two, all of which was easily canceled. She'd spent the day catching up on some reading, and doing a bit of cooking and baking – things she usually ran out of time to do on a normal week day. Time had passed quickly and without incident. Her attention returned to the present as a timer on the oven beeped, calling her back to her work.

Nearly an hour later, Webb emerged from the bathroom and stood in the entrance to the kitchen, jacket in hand. Shelly had been listening for his return, but was still momentarily startled by his sudden appearance. One second the doorway was empty, the next he was standing there. "Feeling better?" she asked as she turned from her work at the counter, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Yes, thanks," he replied. "I left the clothing and towels in the bath. If there's something you need done with them…"

"That's fine, I'll deal with them later," Shelly told him. "You're not planning on leaving immediately, are you? I would think you must be hungry."

Webb glanced around. The kitchen smelled of fresh baked bread and the evidence sat on a cooling rack near the stove. A small television on the counter in the corner of the room displayed the current CNN feed.

"I should keep moving, but – yeah, I'm hungry," he admitted.

"I've got some cold chicken and fresh bread here for a sandwich. Please. Sit down," Shelly invited.

Hesitating only briefly, he laid his jacket over the back of a chair. "Kinda quiet here," he observed as he sat down.

Shelly placed chicken and bread, cheese and lettuce on the table in front of him. "Pam got called in by the Senate Intelligence Committee.," she informed him, adding water to a pitcher of ice. "Certain documents were faxed to the chair of the committee, and all hell is breaking loose. The news networks are having a field day. Tom went with her, to back her up."

Webb cocked his head and Shelly answered the question before it could be asked, "I chose to stay here. It would have felt strange to leave you – our guest – here, by yourself. Per Tom's instructions, I've kept the doors locked and the security system on, but I'm thinking that people with your, um, talents, would probably make short work of these devices."

"It doesn't make you nervous, being alone here with me – knowing what I am?" Webb was genuinely curious.

"Should it?"

Webb looked at her and shrugged as he busied himself making a sandwich. Shelly took a chair across the table, glass of ice water in her hand.

"You are welcome to stay here, stay as long as you like," she told him.

"You don't even know me, and yet you seem to trust me," Webb observed.

"I trust Tom. And he trusts Pam. She's concerned about you, you know. She feels a certain responsibility for your safety. She sends these along with her compliments." Shelly pushed a small bag toward her guest. He picked it up and pulled out the contents. It was a prescription bottle, labeled 'penicillin.'

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Guess I should use them," he commented, popping open the bottle and downing two of the capsules. "Give her my thanks. You said she's been called in front of a senate committee?"

Shelly nodded. "The documents she faxed shed light on a program that was apparently targeting U S citizens with assassination."

Webb frowned as he concentrated on his meal. Shelly seemed content to sit and wait, sipping her ice water. The only sound for several minutes was the ticking of the kitchen clock on the wall. When the sandwich was gone, Webb picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth. "So, is Pam planning on bringing me in front of this senate committee?" he asked.

Shelly shook her head. "Tom thinks that if you tell your story, you'll wind up in more trouble than you've already found yourself. Pam feels she owes you for bringing this mess to light. She's more than happy to let someone named 'Jason Bourne' die." She watched as Webb absorbed her words. "Pam figures it was a long fall off that roof. And someone fired a gun at the guy. Probably killed him, or he was killed on impact. Or drowned. Hard to say."

"Yeah, hard to say," Webb echoed, blowing out a breath. "Thanks for the meal. Again."

"I hope you can keep this one down longer than the last one," Shelly smiled. "Is the headache gone?"

Webb blinked, realizing that for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the constant background throb that had been a part of his daily life, that dull ache to which he'd become accustomed over the last several years. He nodded slowly, "Headache's gone. Completely."

"I couldn't help notice that your memories triggered some rather severe reactions earlier," Shelly commented. "Whatever you've got going on can't be too pleasant."

David Webb sat quietly for a moment, running another internal check. "Doesn't seem to be a problem any longer," he informed his hostess. "I think everything is in place. I remember being David Webb. As a child. As an adult. I remember training to become 'Jason Bourne.'" He stared at the table, "and I remember – things that I did." His last words were barely above a whisper.