Now
Jason blinks. Once, twice. Pain spasms across his face and he stumbles to the kitchen table, as if drunk. His hands come to rest on the table, he stands half-bent, head down, staring at the pregnancy test.
"The baby?" His voice is harsh.
"Six weeks after the Paris safe house...after you disappeared, I had a miscarriage. I lost...her."
"Her."
He sways.
Someone else he couldn't protect, couldn't save. Promises he made, promises he couldn't, didn't keep.
A woman he'd loved as Jason Bourne. A woman he'd loved as David Webb. An almost-daughter.
"What you told me about Wombosi, about his kid. That's what you said to me - 'brown-eyed kids.'"
His eyes squeeze shut, his jaw clenches. Yes, he's reliving that moment on Wombosi's boat, when he conflated a terrorist's child with his own unborn child, innocent brown eyes staring up at him, fear starkly etched in them. Someone's child, someone's baby.
And Nicky, waiting for him, with their child, their baby. She can see it, the recognition of his failure, of his broken conditioning.
An assassin sent to kill a man, an assassin who would have had to kill that man's entire family, including an innocent brown-eyed little girl.
An assassin who might have been sent to kill a woman he loved, a murder that would have included an innocent unborn child, who could have been a brown-eyed little girl.
His breathing is labored. "Look...at what they make you...give," he murmurs. His hands are clenched around the table sides, knuckles white, the grooves around his mouth pronounced with strain.
That's the second time he's uttered this phrase. She doesn't understand what it means.
His right hand curls into a fist, the knuckles of his other raised as he grips the table. He throws his head back, his face twisted with agony, those blue eyes brilliant, hard. The only warning Nicky gets is a harsh, "Get out," delivered from behind clenched teeth.
Nicky is used to - not necessarily obeying - but following orders. She beelines for the kitchen's double-width entrance. As she passes him, Jason flips the kitchen table. She whirls, gasping as it smashes against the fireplace, the table splintering in half. The glass fragments of her tumbler are scattered across the floor. She doesn't know where the pregnancy test has gone. A chair follows, the impact snapping off a leg. Another chair follows. A third.
Jason's not moving with anything resembling grace or efficiency; only raw power and speed, driven by an animal grief.
Jason Bourne is out of control.
Nicky rushes from the kitchen, doesn't look back as she makes her way across the hall to the back door. Behind her is thunderous carnage. She hears the protesting scrape of a heavy armoire against the stone floor just a moment before the cabinet crashes to the ground, the sound of ruptured wood punctuated with the jangle of shattering ceramic platters, bowls and plates, the crack of glass vases and pitchers, of a porcelain tea service. She winces.
Her hand is on the knob when Jason howls, a long, inhuman bellow of sonorous rage and misery. Nicky hastens out the door, her throat aching as tears well in her eyes. She closes the door and almost misses - goddammit, why couldn't she have missed this? - the sound of a ragged, indrawn breath which breaks, becomes a sob.
Nicky follows the path from the house down to Omaha Beach, past the tall grass and rush, carefully avoiding the raised dunes. She rubs her arms, warding off the chill of the brisk Normandy night air. There are no lights to mar this hallowed stretch of moonlit sand and water. Nicky approaches the Channel and takes a seat on the sand, fifty yards from where the tide surges and subsides.
It's windy, the gust and the surf in synchrony. Nicky draws up and wraps her arms around her legs. She gazes out at the incoming breakers.
As long as I have breath, I'm yours, Nicky.
Nicky rubs her eyes against her skirt, drying her tears, then rests her chin on her knees.
She senses him coming before she sees him.
Bourne takes a seat next to her on the sand, mirroring her position, arms resting loosely on his drawn up knees. She doesn't look at him; just notes him from her peripheral vision.
It's been a little more than hour since she left him in the house.
Long moments pass before he finally speaks. His voice is hoarse, raw. "I'm sorry about the kitchen."
"It's all right," she says serenely. "It's actually your house."
He turns his head, confused. "My house?"
"David's…Your grandparents met here during World War II," she explains. "Your grandfather was part of Operation Neptune. He landed with the 2nd Ranger Battalion on D-Day. Climbed Pointe-du-Hoc. Your grandmother was from a little village not very far from here. Her father had an apple orchard. He made Calvados. Anyway, your grandparents met, fell in love, he took her home to America. Later on, he bought her a house in Normandy so they could spend time here. David inherited…you…inherited that house and everything in it from her when you were nineteen."
His ignorance of his own history underscores once again how far removed Jason Bourne is from David Webb.
"Nicky...I'm not your David," Jason says, his voice low, so impossibly sad.
"I know. But I'm not David's Nicky either," she responds with equal sorrow.
It seems so odd to speak about themselves as alternate beings; but in fact, aren't they?
Who are you?
The unspoken question lingers between them as it always has, ever since Jason Bourne burst into Treadstone's Paris safe house.
And then there's nothing more to say. Nicky surrenders herself to the Channel, closing her eyes to feel the sea spray, feeling the pulse of the thunderous surf. She expects Bourne to get up and leave; but he does not. When she opens her eyes, it's to find him staring at her, his expression shuttered, but those eyes are so intense, as if the study of her will return to him some modicum of their past.
Nicky's no longer uncomfortable with Jason Bourne staring at her, no longer afraid he'll discern her truths. The burden of secrecy now lifted, she gives herself the luxury of looking back, unafraid of what he'll see in her face; looking at that beloved visage and cataloging the similarities and differences. It's around his eyes that she notices the primary change: born in darkness and pain, Jason Bourne doesn't have a history to guide his demeanor; he's perpetually alert, disturbed, and apprehensive. David Webb's distinct sense of belonging informed his confidence. There lurks in the depths of Jason's eyes none of David's easy humor, none of the love softening David's eyes and smile. Jason Bourne does not smile. But there is a knowing glimmer in those eyes, an unexpected tenderness.
Nicky sighs as she breaks their mutual scrutiny to look back out at the water. Jason remains beside her. Nicky pulls her long sweater over her legs. The biting cold doesn't seem to bother Jason as he too, gazes at the Channel.
They do not huddle together for warmth, maintaining their distance; but when clouds cross over the moon, and darkness settles over Normandy, when only faint starlight penetrates the pitch that surrounds them, when it's hard to make out features and expressions, Jason moves toward her at the same moment her head tilts and drops in the cradle of his shoulder. A heartbeat later, Jason's head lowers to rest gently against hers.
They are neither Webb, Bourne, Parish, or Parsons. Not even Nicky and Jason – or David. They are just a man and a woman, damaged by time and circumstance, but resilient, and drawn to the lure of the other.
It's a quiet shift, barely a motion for them to turn their faces toward one another, a soft sigh before their lips touch. His hand moves up to cradle the back of her neck, the other brushing against her cheek, fingertips smoothing across her soft skin, his lips touching hers again and again before he deepens the kiss, their breath in symphony.
Could this be love?
Nicky can't say. Perhaps he can't either.
But he kisses her like a man who could love...
It's the sound of the surf that wakes her, the rhythmic roll and ebb of the Channel. She opens her eyes, considers her surroundings, the soft, cozy bed, the solid body behind hers, the muscled thigh wedged between her legs, the heavy arm draped over her hip. Then comes the press of lips against her bare shoulder, a lazy string of kisses along the curve of her neck, the quiet murmur of a satiated and contented man.
She stretches, ignoring his annoyed grunt as she displaces him from his position nestled against her back. Before he can voice his displeasure, she's rolled over on top of him, her body aligned to his, her head resting on his sturdy chest. Her favorite position. Callused hands slide up her hips, coming to rest at the small of her back. She can hear that strong, driving pace of his heartbeat, almost in time with the rush and fall of the surf outside the bedroom window.
The English Channel is visible beyond the window of their room and she sighs with pleasure.
"We cross tonight and find you a home, Doc," Aaron murmurs.
Marta smiles. She presses a soft kiss to his bare chest, love in her eyes as she takes him in. "I'm already home."
It's the sound of the surf that wakes her, the roar and crash outside the window. Nicky opens her eyes. The shades aren't drawn; the bedroom is slowly brightening.
The thought comes to her that she has not slept so well or so deeply in years, her slumber undisturbed.
Her last memory was of drifting off as she leaned on Jason's big body. She has vague impressions of being picked up and carried, cradled against a solid chest, and moving through darkened rooms, of coming to rest on the bed, a blanket draped over her.
Nicky takes stock: she's still in her clothes from last night, less the bulky sweater. The grit rubbing against her shins is sand from the folds of her long skirt. She's under a blanket, but the heat she feels isn't from the light wool coverlet; it's from the warm body behind her.
She knows he's awake, too, although neither of them move or alter their breathing.
He shifts and she stiffens when his hand comes to rest on her arm, warm and heavy, fingers curling gently into her skin. She can hear a comment coming by the indrawn breath; but is unprepared for: "I see you in a field of purple flowers. Your hair is long. It…smells like lavender."
Nicky can barely breathe, her body sprung with tension. "There's lavender in Provence."
Jason's hand slides over her stomach; Bourne pulls her until she is flush against him. He tucks her head under his chin, lacing his fingers with hers. They listen to the roll of the waves, and the soft clicking of the clock until the stiffness ebbs from her body, and she is pliant.
"Did that happen?"
Nicky nods. "Yes. A long time ago."
"I can't remember it." Jason's voice is soft. "I don't have very many memories."
Nicky slowly raises her arm behind her head, brushing her hand against the scruff on his face. Jason turns and presses a light kiss on the inside of her wrist. Her fingers curl into his hair. Jason draws his leg over hers and drapes an arm over her breasts, his weight cradling her against his body.
"We can go and make a new memory," she offers.
"I'd like that," he whispers.
They listen to the pounding surf, the windows affording them a lovely view of the frothy water washing up on the sand, and the blue sky of a new day.
-end-
A.N.
Holy smokes, dear readers, we're finally at the end.
I am so grateful to you for your encouragement and enthusiasm, the incredibly kind comments and even kinder PMs. I'm also deeply appreciative of the beta readers who took time to keep me on track, fix my weirdo typos (I waver between British and American spellings and measurements), and were just there when I was like, "AAAAGH I can't do this!" especially AVLM, Belladonna78, JBNP.
I never intended for this story to be anything but a one-shot featuring Cross and Marta. I know a lot of people didn't care for "Legacy" or for Marta; I get it. But I'm a huge fan of Tony Gilroy, the original screenwriter for Bournes 1-4, and there was a lot about Cross and Marta that I found appealing (also, huge fan of Rachel Weisz and Jeremy Renner, so I could forgive so much).
Then "Jason Bourne" happened. I don't know about you, but I lost interest in "Jason Bourne" about 34 minutes into the movie. I think I might have actually uttered "What the F***?" really loudly in the theater.
Chapter Two was more or less written in a fit of rage because Nicky had been so ignominiously erased from the Bourne continuum. Here was one of the more intriguing minor characters in the canon - and so much left unsaid and on the table in the second and third movies. Raise your hand if you were like, "TELL ME MORE," after Nicky asks Jason, "You really don't remember anything, do you?" in the Spanish cafe. So I began with "Who is Nicolette Parsons?" because I wanted to know.
I also wanted to write a story that leads up to the meeting that Jason and Nicky have in the last movie, amidst the backdrop of Athens in flames. In the initial previews (a scene which doesn't show up in the released movie), Jason tells her: "I know who I am; I remember everything." And later, he scolds her: "I told you he [Christian Dassault] would get you killed." The intimation is there then, that they were something to one another in the aftermath of "The Bourne Supremacy," even without his memory.
So I thought: well, why not use that and create a story that could bridge "Supremacy" and "Legacy" to "Jason Bourne"?
Like I said: I'm a Gilroy fan and I thought Gilroy might have intended something more for Jason and for Nicky after "The Bourne Supremacy" and never got a chance to tell the story he wanted. I always thought that Nicky was the end game; that Nicky was Bourne's redemption. So I ended up writing Tony Gilroy fanfiction as much as Jason/Nicky fanfic.
You are seriously wonderful and PATIENT readers and supporters, and I hope the last few chapters make up for the lag in the first 2/3 of the story. Real life and my "real" book took up an inordinate amount of time! (An agent asked for a book draft back in 2015; that sucker was a lot harder to finish than I expected).
I wanted to answer some PMs I got and explain that I just couldn't see Jason suddenly remembering his past; it felt like a cheap shot, and inorganic. I wanted this story to stay as true to canon as possible, and as accurate (Heidi is actually Nicky's mom, as can be seen on Nicky's record; the guns are the same ones used in the movies, etc..) As an avid reader and a huge fan of fanfiction, I get unsettled by too-large leaps of faith, and literary convenience and I didn't want to inflict the same (Heidi was hard to write because she always felt like a deus ex machina, but I hope I conveyed her in a way that was believable and enjoyable). I didn't want you to shout, "WHAT THE F***?" while reading this story.
While the ending isn't rainbows and unicorns, I hope it had heart and optimism; here's how David and Nicky end, and how Jason and Nicky begin. I love the idea of them in a suspended moment between finding each other again, and before something tears them apart at the beginning of "Jason Bourne." I love Cross and Marta finding their own peace for however long she's got. Hopefully, you do too. Thanks for your praise, your reviews, your cheer and support. This was my first (posted) fanfic piece and it was a lovely and rewarding experience because of you.