Disclaimer: For reference, please see Bourne Vengeance.

The Bourne Pilgrimage

Chapter I

Frayed Strands of Life

There were many things that Jason D. W. Bourne preferred to do over other things. Some of these were simple activities, such as reading, sleeping, eating, going for a walk, and other basic functions. Then there were more complicated things he enjoyed doing: solving mind puzzles that were ranked hard, forcing the car into a 1080 degree turn through the parking lot, going for a run through the outdoors, and the occasional forage into the woods with nothing more than a blanket and flint and steel. Nicky didn't prefer him to do this, especially out of the blue with only a note.

Finally, there were the things that he enjoyed most out of what life had to offer, and it was often nothing more than eating breakfast, going for a drive to the store, and other mundane or exciting events or errands. What made these so much more exciting than outrunning a forest storm was the simple connection all of these had in common: Nicky Parsons was without doubt nearby. He would rather go with her to watch a sunset, something he never would have done on his own, than solve the most ludicrous puzzle he'd come across. It wasn't hard for him to figure out why, and he wasn't in the mood to object to it.

That was why Bourne tensed when Nicky walked back into the house with a sense of fear in her stance. His hand began to creep towards the handgun holstered to the underside of the table. His face took on a more inquisitive expression, wondering what had frightened her so suddenly out of the blue. Two weeks since Venice, and after migrating for three days Bourne had returned her to a city that had painful memories for her, but was a city she insisted that she loved above all of them save New York. He purchased an apartment, using funds still left over from Treadstone—he could likely live in a quiet retirement somewhere with what he had—and set himself up as a personal accountant, while Nicky had insisted on securing a job as a clerk for a company here in Paris.

Nicky shook her head; whatever it was that had scared her wasn't a threat. His hand let go of the gun. Preparing himself to speak, Bourne stood up, meeting her eye. Her face brimmed with emotion that spoke volumes about how she felt. It wasn't true fear, the type he had expected. It was more of a horror or terrible thing that had unnerved her. Either way Bourne didn't like it. "What?" he asked softly.

"I had to deliver some records to their archives," she replied, her expression frozen. She stood upright and rigid, like she did when hesitant to say something, for fear of fear or pain. Bourne felt a silent rage coming. If someone there had done something to her, he would hunt them down and… "It was the old Treadstone safe house."

Bourne's anger dissipated as he understood the true reason behind her fear. Nobody had done anything to her…in the present. Jason Bourne coldly recalled all the memories he had of the safe house, from when he would receive missions, to his first fight with Castel, to Conklin's death, and the most painful one of all: getting there right after Nicky had been threatened, and after the nightclub incident. The assassin persona barely felt the emotional pain, but was certain it was tearing at Nicky, remembering how memories were tightly tied with emotion. David Webb was sympathetic with the pain she felt, feeling it more than the other persona, and took over Bourne's movements to comfort her. He approached her and gently embraced her in a move that was normally unlike him.

Nicky rested her head against his shoulder. It wasn't often that the man she loved, literally in two pieces, showed affection. It was difficult for him to incorporate the two, with one far weaker than the other. But when he did manage it, she loved him all the more for it. So she continued the embrace, living in the moment where she was in the arms of Bourne. Her posture unconsciously changed to become more content. "What did you do today?"

Bourne went stiff, and Nicky became alert. If she didn't know any better, something had unnerved him just as badly as it had her. He had been keeping buried within him, like he oft to do, and which she had ignored in search for a shoulder to rest on. The former agent needed just as much affection, she knew, as she did. She didn't need to be a major in psychology to know that. She stroked his neck, getting the reaction she was looking for, and asked, "What's wrong?"

The man didn't relinquish his stiff body language, and she could have sworn that his cheeks went the faintest shade of pink. He was embarrassed? Jason D. W. Bourne, the greatest assassin, soldier, fugitive in the world, was embarrassed of something? Curiosity arose of its own accord, interested now in what could have embarrassed and unnerved Bourne. "What is it?" He hesitated, a rarity. Nicky's interest became lined with fear suddenly: if it could unnerve him like this, what could it do to other people? "Jason, what's wrong?"

David Webb wanted nothing to do with it, and so he washed his hands of the conversation. That left Jason Bourne holding the ball, and Jason Bourne, the cold calculating persona that felt practically no emotion except for Nicky, didn't want to say it either. But with David Webb conveniently gone, there would be no tag-team to deal with one of the most embarrassing moments he could remember. Bourne licked his lips and began to speak. Nicky obviously hung onto his every word. "Today, at work…" he began, not wanting to say more. But he didn't want to disappoint Nicky. Had she said once talking was good for healing? He didn't think so at the moment. But he pressed on regardless. "The electrician… made a pass at me today."

Nicky came close to frowning, confused by the subject. A woman had made a pass at him? Why would that be a cause of discomfort? Did he for some reason think it was betraying her if he talked with another woman? Suddenly his expression, demeanor, and words all clicked together, and it took Nicky several seconds to have a coherent thought. She looked up into his eyes with new understanding, and found a strange bubbling within her. "You were hit on by a man?" she asked. Bourne didn't move, didn't nod or shake his head, but kept his stiff posture. She felt the bubbling rise, and found herself laughing for the first time in a long time, burying her face in his shoulder again. The world's deadliest man was beaten by a foe that wasn't even armed.

*****

"Do you have them?"

"Yes, boss."

"Good. When you're ready to move out, tell me. And for your life don't wear anything identifying."

"I won't boss. Your man was very specific."

"Of course he's specific. You should see what his daytime job is."

"And that's—?"

"None of your damn business. You're the hitman, not the boss."

"Yes, Vincent."

"Now go bring me back his head. We can worry about the girl later. She's about as dangerous as a freaking infant."

"Call you when I'm done."

"You better."

The man put down the phone. Strange, he joked to himself, that didn't sound like a casual conversation between friends. Unless those friends were in the mafia. It amazed him how blatantly arrogant Mafia men were. Come to think of it, many people he had worked with had been overconfident. Bourne was one of the few exceptions, which might be one of the reasons he had survived so long. The other CIA assassin, Paz, bore a similar attitude. He was now working as a consultant, if his intel was correct.

He reached for a briefcase; time to head to Paris. Before leaving the room, he donned a mask, similar to the one in the Phantom of the Opera, and added a silencer to a Glock.

*****

There were activities both Jason Bourne and David Webb hated doing as well. That didn't include the activities that one liked and the other didn't. A fair example would be Jason Bourne enjoyed hunting in the wilderness, getting into fist fights, getting into gunfights, getting into high-speed chases, killing people, blowing things up, avoiding detection, tracking down a target, covering his tracks after the target was dead, and in general any of the things he did while an agent; David Webb enjoyed none of these.

But both personas had similar dislikes. Neither had any love for watching idle television, anything that put Nicky in danger or frightened her, lots of cameras, the color pink, cars with a low max speed, police, the CIA, people trying to kill him, coffee with too much cream or sugar, people with dark senses of humor, running all his life, nightmares, fear of losing his memory again, Nicky by herself, and having to swim; he'd lost enjoying that after being blasted into the river in New York. And neither still liked plane rides.

A new one that could be added to the list was plumbing. The sink in the apartment had broken once before, spraying Nicky with water and terrifying her. He had nearly broken the door racing in with a gun to find her trying to battle a raging sink. It had been enough to draw a smile. At first he'd thought she'd overreacted, but now when the sink had broken a second time, on him, he realized that either the sink had terrible pipes or it was possessed. At least he hadn't shouted or screamed.

He was lying on his back under the sink, up to his chest in the cabinets with a wrench in his hands. Nicky, against his concern, had gone out to get a newspaper and walk the streets. It was getting dark out, and Bourne wasn't completely certain the mafia, or the CIA, would have given up on them that easily. He hadn't received any contact from Paz or Landy yet, so he assumed the CIA was going along nicely. That left him with less paranoia that was usual, but he hadn't given up on it yet. Paranoia had saved his and Nicky's life more than once. So had that mysterious gunman, who Bourne still didn't have the identity of. It was irritating; he had been saved by someone he didn't know and couldn't find. Who would know him and could have saved him?

Footsteps reached his ears as the door opened. He continued to work on the plumbing, wanting to get it finished so that Nicky could use it and so that he might not have to explain that he had been surprised by the sink as well. But seeing as how she could read his posture and expression that might not work out so well. The footsteps ended in the kitchen. "Nicky, hand me the flashlight," Bourne asked. There was a shuffling noise ahead and he could see the flashlight handed down.

Bourne took it and turned it on, aiming it up. As the assassin flinched from the LED light in his eyes, Jason Bourne wondered how stupid this people thought he was. He kicked up at the man's groin, making him stagger and shoot off a misfire. Bourne gripped the edge of the sink and swung out onto his feet. The assassin was armed with nothing more than a 9mm, silenced. He grabbed the man's gun hand and kneed it, making him release his grip on the gun. Then he proceeded to smash the wrench into the man's head.

To his surprise, and Jason Bourne's delight, the man ducked beneath it and slammed Bourne in the jaw with his fist. He shoved Bourne away and came up with a cooking pan. This assassin was better. David Webb became wary. Jason Bourne became excited. Finally he had a challenge to fight. Bourne moved first, coming low and swinging the wrench at the man's leg. He jumped over it and swung the pan down. Bourne deflected the blow by re-angling it, absorbing the impact. He continued with his roll and ended up on the other side of the table.

The assassin swung at him with the pan, and Bourne backed away. He put his back to the wall and kicked hard at the table; it shifted and slammed into the assassin's gut, pinning him against the sink. The assassin snarled and threw the pan at Bourne, who dodged it. Then the assassin located the gun under the table and yanked it out, pointing it at Bourne. Bourne ran behind the wall, keeping low. Fast bullets tore through the wall above him.

This man was different, he realized. He couldn't be an asset; the man was too wild and forceful. Assets were reserved and calculated. This assassin acted like they were in a cage match. He could use that against him. He waited for the gun to empty and then returned to the room. The assassin was in the process of shoving the table away when Bourne threw the wrench at him. It struck the man in the temple and made him hesitate, dazed a second. Bourne moved back behind the wall as the man came back and threw both the wrench and the gun at him. The wrench hit the wall with a clang and the gun skittered past him. Bourne reached for another hidden gun when he heard a thud; the man was throwing knives at the wall. Bourne let a knife fly again and then turned and shot. The bullet caught the man in the stomach as he was raising a knife. Bourne fired twice into his throwing arm, and then again into his other arm.

He crossed the room and kicked him in the stomach to drop him. The wild assassin coughed up blood. "Who sent you?" Bourne asked, pressing the gun to his head. He struck the man's stomach. "Who sent you?"

"Guess, the only one trying to kill you," the assassin replied. Bourne knew who he meant: the Italian Mafia. So they had taken the hard route after all. He began to calculate how to kill Vincent De Luca when another thought entered his head.

"How are you finding us?" Bourne demanded. The man looked at him with a blank face. Bourne pressed his foot down into the man's stomach, creating a groan. The door opened and out of the corner of his eye he saw Nicky drop the newspaper onto the ground. "How are you finding us?!"

"I don't know!" the man shouted back in agony. "The boss said something about an inside man somewhere who can track you, but that's all I know! He said something like the man was specific! Like I know what that means!"

Bourne grabbed the gun by the barrel and struck him across the head, knocking him out. He knew exactly what the man didn't. "What?" Nicky's quiet voice broke the silence, filled with fear and confusion.

"We're being tracked," Bourne explained, grabbing another magazine for his gun and adding a silencer. He put another into Nicky's hand. "The mafia found us. We need to go eliminate their tracker." He put an arm around her waist for comfort rather than taking her arm as usual. She didn't feel very comforted. Once again she had been plunged into the deadly game assassin game of cat and mouse. He wished there was somewhere he could send her while he took care of this. He kissed her forehead as they went outside, heading for their car. When this was over, he would take her somewhere where she would never have to be afraid again.

"Who's their tracker?" Nicky asked, with a tint of anger in her voice. It surprised him. Was she close to snapping? At him or the mafia? He opened the door for her and helped her in.

"Somebody in the CIA," he replied, climbing in and starting the car. He revved the engine and drove off.

*****

"Get to it, men. The hitman failed."

"You sure, boss?"

"I expected it. Now go finish the job. Bourne's likely still uninjured. Use all six cars."

"We'll get him."

The line clicked dead again, and the man was left with new things to ponder from his phone bug. Vincent had improved his knowledge of Bourne it seemed, and was attempting to set a trap. The man touched his Phantom mask to make sure it was secure, and sped up.