A/N: I just saw Ultimatum yesterday, and while I'm pleased the trilogy is wrapped up and everything, I feel that they...I dunno, there was too much action and not enough depth. I loved Supremacy because Greengrass created the perfect balance between action and drama. Here, though, it was more like "QUICK, let's go to Morocco!" and then "QUICK let's go to Paris!" than anything else.
Don't get me wrong, of course--the film was bad-ass and the fight scenes were very cool (book vs. candlestick, book wins which means reading can help you defeat kung-fu masters), and I absolutely adored the interaction between Bourne and the leading cast of Landy, Cronin, Nicky, Noah What's-his-face and the others, but something was missing. It didn't feel complete. Nice ending (yay for surviving a great fall and swimming away to live about it!) but something is still...holey.
I'll love the trilogy, but this last film was more action than drama. Just a head's up.
Anyhoo, when it comes to MY story...
I was going to wrap this up in just a few chapters but looking back and reading over it I'm realizing that I need more action, more suspense and more character ties. I've only introduced our new hitman maybe three times, poor Landy has only been here once and everyone just kind of fell off the map. Loose ends need to be wrapped up, if you know what I mean.
What this means to you, dear reader, is that I need suggestions as to how to push this out beyond, you know, three or four more chapters. Any advice would be greatly and highly appreciated, so feel free to cough it up.
And thanks yet again to my lovely, fantastic readers. To G.A. Clives, ThTornado, Alymra, Rei Tamashii, and BalrogsBreath--thank you so much for your reviews and your advice. It makes writing this a helluva lot easier and fun.
Okay, here's a filler chapter. Give me your crit. Pile it on a platter with my head, if you want to.
Voila!
When he slips through the front door at 1:14 AM, careful to make sure the lock doesn't thud when he closes the door behind him, he expects darkness and an apartment that's sleeping.
What he gets is the click of a lamp (he freezes at the click, expecting a gun and thinking to himself jesus, Jason [David was WRONG) and a wife sitting on the couch, staring at him.
Legs crossed and arms folded.
Gordon is no mind-reader, but he knows the signs. Every husband (every human being, for that matter) does.
Exhibit A: Unblinking, clear eyes.
This signifies rage and suspicion.
Exhibit B: Folded arms, crossed legs.
Defensive position–don't piss me off. I'm looking for a fight.
The two stare at each other for a long moment, caught in a Mexican stand-off, before Maris blinks.
Slowly.
"Where have you been?" she asks.
Gordon clears his throat.
Finding my long-dead brother.
Finding out I'm going to be used as bait.
Finding out I'm a liability.
Nothing, honey.
"Work."
The arms tense, the eyebrows raise. Gordon wonders vaguely if Jason (David! his mind tries to yell at him, it's David now!) and Maris have met before, maybe exchanging interrogation techniques and how-to-scare-people-shitless manuals, but then he remembers something odd, something that Jason (David! his mind screams, and he tells it to shut up) told him as he tried to give Gordon a watered-down summary of what was happening to the poor man of thirty-seven.
"You mentioned a wife," Jason says, raising his eyes from one of the files and staring at Gordon calmly. "Are you sure you are willing to go through this for her?"
Gordon considers this for a moment, flinching as he recalls the fear he felt in the subway and the dread he feels now, knowing what Jason Bourne has in store to get him and his family out of this alive.
"Yes."
Bourne blinks.
It's an odd gesture–one that Gordon grasps that David used to do when he was thinking through his words carefully and trying to speak as succinctly as possible–and for a second he hopes that David is back, and this frightening shadow that masquerades as him has disappeared.
But then the voice comes back. The quiet, low monotone that says more without emotion than it would with it.
"She can't know I exist. You understand? She can't know that I'm alive, and she can't know what's going on." Bourne leans forward in the chair, eyes intense, as he continues. "You're alone, now," he says, emphasizing each word carefully. "This is something no one in your family can know about. You tell them, they die."
Gordon nods slowly, though he feels his hands shaking in his lap.
It's eerie; he sees David in front of him but the man isn't talking like David and it's disturbing. Everything is or isn't a liability, everything can or cannot have the probability of killing him. It's so black and white. So frighteningly simple.
Some part of Gordon wonders, then: What the hell did they do to you? but instead he only opens his mouth and asks, "What do I have to do?"
Jason winces, showing something that Gordon connects to his brother, and breathes in deep through his nose.
"You're going to have to trust me," he says after a long moment. "Can you do that?"
There are a variety of answers to that question, Gordon realizes, but unfortunately he's probably going to have to say yes, even if he isn't quite...sure...what's going on.
So he nods.
Bourne's shoulders slump slightly (again, a David movement of relief but now seemingly mimicked by a shadow playing on the wall) and he motions for Gordon to get up.
"Let's go to your car," he says. "I'll tell you what we're going to do along the way."
"Are you fucking some woman, Gordon?"
Gordon's eyelids flutter as he tries to pull himself back and abruptly he realizes that Maris is glaring at him with a look that should be able to crack stone.
And she's asking the question that–if answered incorrectly–has the power to break the marriage in seconds.
Fortunately, Gordon has not been out with a woman, cheating on his wife.
Unfortunately, however, he is involved in something that sounds like it's out of an old Ludlum novel. And there's a high chance his ass might get fried.
Personally he thinks that cheating might not be nearly as bad as him dying, but the look in Maris' eyes almost makes him rethink that.
But he has an excuse. So that's good.
"Your wife?"
Webb looks over at Bourne across the elevator. "What about her?"
"You ran into an old college buddy you hadn't seen in years," Jason says, and something that barely resembles amusement flickers on his face, "and you went out to have a couple of drinks. Time flew by and before you knew it, it was–" he glances at the watch on his wrist "–almost one in the morning." He glances up at Gordon and abruptly grins. The effect is shocking, turning off the scary-super-assassin switch and making Jason look like...David.
"You're going to apologize sincerely, and act convincingly."
Gordon only stares at Bourne, dumbfounded.
His voice finally comes back. "How did you know tha–"
"–she'll be bent out of shape about your late arrival?" Jason shrugs (a frighteningly human movement), and then that grin vanishes. "You called her around ten-fifteen. It's twelve-thirty now."
Webb won't ask how Bourne knows when he called his wife–it's a waste of air to even raise the question. Instead he tries to move the attention to patching up an alibi.
"My wife went to school with me," Gordon says after a minute. Jason looks over at him with mild interest and Gordon continues. "She'll know whether or not I actually saw someone. Hell," and then he gives a dry snort, "she'll probably call them."
No snide comment on Bourne's side. Rather, he blinks as an acknowledgment of this fact and waits patiently for Webb to continue his musings.
It's terrifying to think that someone is human when their sense of humor is so dark and so hidden that it's barely even a distinguishable blob on the personality radar. The man grins when he tells Webb he'll have to apologize to his wife but suddenly becomes dead-serious when Gordon mentions the naggy-spouse predicament that most married men suffer from. It's supposed to be a joke, an invitation for a light deprecating jab at someone.
But Bourne doesn't take it.
Something is wrong with you, Gordon thinks quietly to himself. You're not human.
"I doubt," Jason suddenly says, "that you introduced Maris to everyone you met in college."
Scary, but true. And both of them know that.
So then Webb plows on, trying to find something else they'll need to focus on besides tomorrow. Besides what he's going to have to do tomorrow to ensure his family's safety and his–if that's possible.
But nothing comes to mind.
Bourne looks faintly amused but says nothing. He looks up at the floors and then abruptly the amusement vanishes. Shoving his hands into his jacket, he feels around for something and then jabs forward, presses the emergency stop button.
"What's going on?" Gordon's grateful his voice doesn't give out and he sounds somewhat composed.
"Do you know how to fire a gun?" Jason asks him, looking through his pockets and then suddenly swinging his backpack around as he goes into a crouch.
"Um..."
Jason extracts the woman's (what was her name? Hailey Pike?) Colt and rests it gently on the carpet floor before shooting Gordon an irritated look at his response.
"Didn't that teach you that as a kid or something?" The question is tinged with mild contempt and exasperation.
Gordon responds accordingly.
"I was twelve-years old at a YMCA camp, for Christ's sake," he snarls.
"So that means you shot a .22." Matter-of-fact, straight to the point. Bourne still hasn't look up from his rummaging and is now burrowing for something more.
"Yeah."
Jason looks up fully, now, eyes serious. "That's gonna have to work."
He rises, zipping up the backpack and picking up the Colt before handing it over to Gordon.
Gordon reluctantly reaches forward to take it and then, suddenly, Jason stops him, motioning for him to watch.
"This is a good gun," Jason says, "Good accuracy, enough caliber to stop someone and not as loud as other models." He points towards various parts of the gun, continuing. "This is the safety–" he thumbs it to the left for locked and right for unlocked to demonstrate–"and this is the magazine release."
Another flick. The magazine clatters to the floor. Bourne ignores the drop and moves on.
"You're not going to worry about the magazine," he says frankly, looking up from the gun to stare at Webb, "because you hopefully won't have to fire anything. The magazine's full, giving you about eight shots with one in the barrel. Use them wisely."
It's now that he stoops down and picks up the magazine, sliding it back into the gun with an audible click.
"To aim," and Bourne goes up into the Weaver stance, "line up your front and rear sights, breathe in to steady your shot and fire." He drops back down and moves to hand Gordon the gun.
Gordon takes the gun slowly, nervously putting the firearm into a pocket.
Jason continues speaking as Gordon puts the Colt into his pocket."It's a good weapon that should keep you safe in the event that anything happens before it's supposed to," he says, and then the eyes go flat, dead and cold, "but that doesn't mean it's going to save you."
Gordon freezes and the two stare at each other.
"Be smart," Bourne says. "Don't fuck things up."
Silence.
Jason punches the emergency-stop again, and then they're moving, going down. He reaches into a pocket, comes out with a cell-phone and tosses it at Gordon.
Reflexes Gordon doesn't know he has startle. He snatches at the phone and looks questioningly at Bourne.
"It's likely," Jason says, "that your phones are tapped. This is going to be your communication with me. I'll call you if anything comes up."
Words worm themselves up Gordon's throat before he knows what's happening.
"And can I call you?"
Bourne blinks, seemingly put off-balance by the question, and then shakes his head.
"No. I'll be close enough that you shouldn't have to." Suddenly he turns and punches at the second floor button. Again, Gordon looks at him, alarmed.
"What now?"
Jason glances back from the doors.
"You're going to have to leave this elevator alone. I don't exist, remember?"
Fear–which had been staying quiet for a while–fights back up in an almost sputtered reply: "what, so I have to go out there alone?"
Bourne nods. "I'll be behind you, but you have to act like nothing is wrong."
The doors slide open and Bourne slips out. He turns.
"Count ten Mississippi before closing the doors and moving to your floor. I should be there."
Gordon looks away at the floor panel and then turns back.
But Bourne is gone.
"No," Gordon says, and he's relieved to say that with a straight face (because it is, after all, the truth).
Maris shifts only slightly, but Gordon knows he's passed the first test; his voice didn't waver, his eyes didn't startle, and he sounded like he was telling the truth.
But that was only the first test.
"Why weren't you home at eleven?"
Next excuse, this time true, too.
"Something came up."
Maris' eyes harden again–flint solidified in the cornea.
"Care to elaborate?"
..act convincingly.
He doesn't know where they come from, these acting skills, but suddenly Gordontenses up his shoulders and begins transferring weight from one foot to the other.
They are actions that signify anxiety...guilt.
Now just find a decent excuse.
"I, uh..." he runs a hand through his thinning hair, "I saw an old friend from college. We bumped into each other as I was walking out of the buil–"
Maris' impassive stare chills him, and Bourne's words coming flooding back in a rush. "This is something no one in your family can know about. You tell them, they die."
He has to pull this off, has to make it convincing. For their lives and his own.
"Oh, shit, Maris," he says, and suddenly the lie he knows had been lying motionless on the carpet--dead--is breathing, slowly rising to its feet. "We went out to get drinks and I just..." his voice breaks, and the liar in him smiles, pleased, "I just lost track of time."
Maris glares at him but the flint has melted down into lava.
Sure, it's not exactly better but it's change–he has to run with it.
"I'm...I'm so sorry." he takes a step forward, hands held out in a placating gesture. "With work and everything and then seeing an old friend..."
Pause. "I made a mistake, honey." Gordon looks at his wife with the widest, saddest eyes he can put on and a look to his jaw that has to make his guilt palpable. "I'm–I'm sorry."
She stares at him a moment longer, eyes sharp but shoulders more relaxed.
"You didn't kill anyone, did you?"
It's an odd question, but the smart part of Gordon recognizes it as humor.
He shakes his head, trying not to smile. "No."
"And you didn't whore yourself out to any women, maybe go for a little prostitute shopping?"
He shakes his head again.
"Hmm," is Maris' only response to the shaking of her husband's head. For a long moment she sits, biting the inside of her cheek, before clearing her throat and standing. Eyes still angry (though they're softer than before) and chin held high, she blinks once before speaking. .
"You're sleeping on the couch tonight," Maris says quietly. She makes a move towards him then stops, considering.
"I don't know what's gotten into you." she murmurs. "I don't know what's going on, but I hope you get a handle on it." One more confused, sad look at her husband, and then Maris is off, striding down the dark hallway in her robe and slippers.
Gordon waits to hear the click of the bedroom door as she shuts it behind her.
And then he sighs heavily and staggers over to the couch.
Gordon turns off the light and lays down.
But he doesn't sleep.
He doesn't know if he can.