Then
"…Heidi Parish is like that…" Nicky says, nodding toward the ocean. "Beautiful, expansive, enveloping. But don't ever fuck with her because she'll drown your ass."
She feels David's chuckle in the way his chest lifts and pushes against her back rather than hears it over the booming tide.
"But also immutable. If I have one guarantee in life, it's that Mummy will always be there for me."
"I'm here," David says.
Nicky doesn't remind him that by the very nature of what he is and what he does, his fate is rather capricious. Such statements are at best, a platitude.
But David does the unexpected. He doubles down. "I'm here, Nicky. As long as I have breath, I'm yours."
Staring out at an ocean once run red with the blood of fierce young men like him, Nicky allows herself to believe this.
Now
Nicky approaches the apartment in Montparnasse, a punishing knot in her chest, restricting her breath.
When she and Marta parted ways this morning to make this rendezvous with Cross separately, the pending return to this flat filled Nicky with a dread unmatched by anything she's had to endure in the last week since her life was upended.
It feels at once as if no time has passed since she slipped down this narrow, quiet street to the five story fawn-colored building with the whimsical arched wooden double doors. It feels like forever since she slipped her key into the lock, stepping inside.
The sounds, the smells – the familiarity of it all – assaults her, soothes her; cradles and punishes her simultaneously.
Nicky takes a few deep breaths. She just needs to get those computers, deliver them to Cross. Make their plans for breaking into NRAG's system with his contact in Berlin. Then she can leave this place and its haunting imprint on her soul.
She winds her way up the stairs, round and round; the floors are double height so four flights later, she arrives on her floor, to find three extremely agitated people on the small landing. She stops on the top step, stunned.
What the fuck is Bourne doing here?
Bourne and Cross are keeping their distance, standing on opposite sides of the landing. Too much testosterone, too much high functioning alpha maleness in the close proximity of the hall; Marta stands between them, an exasperated and harassed expression on her face. She looks like a school teacher who's trying to keep two bad boys from fighting.
Nicky's flash of humor is superseded by sheer, blinding panic. She hadn't expected Bourne to come to Paris. After he'd left without a word that night in Ho Chi Minh City, she had fully anticipated him departing Vietnam and going his own way. Hopefully never to be seen by her again.
Why is he here?
They're staring at her. She's just standing there, not moving. Trying to figure out how to get Bourne to leave. To get all of them to leave.
"Nicky, we can't stand out here," Marta says softly. Her hazel eyes are wide, concerned.
They must not have been here long; there's now way Cross nor Bourne wouldn't have picked the lock to get in instead of exposing themselves by staying on the landing and waiting for her.
"Parsons, I need that computer," Cross says urgently. Clearly Marta has told him.
Bourne's gaze is steady, focused, curious.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
Nicky feels unsteady as she goes to the door, her agile mind failing to find a plausible reason to deny them entry.
Her heart is pounding so hard she can hear it drumming in her ears as she slides the key into the lock. She hasn't been…home…
No, she corrects. Here. Not home. Here. She hasn't been here in three years. She opens the door and steps into the small foyer. The fresh lemon scent indicates a recent cleaning. The building's manager clearly got the message that Nicky was coming. She makes a mental note to send money to Brigitte.
Stepping through the French double doors into the main room, Nicky freezes. Walking into this flat is like ripping off a healing scab, letting the wound gush blood.
Oh God no.
Even though Brigitte cleaned the entire apartment and removed the dust covers and sheets from the furniture, she left certain things exactly as they were when Nicky last lived here.
The flat is a time capsule, frozen in the moment she and David Webb were last here together.
To mask her frazzled nerves, Nicky strides across the wood chevron-patterned floor and opens both sets of windows against the far wall. They are nearly floor-to-ceiling and open out to the wrought iron balcony which runs the length of the apartment. A fresh breeze ruffles the sheers and filters out the slightly damp and stale air.
She turns to find the others stepping into the room, looking about curiously.
It's a typical second-floor Haussmann apartment with high ceilings and natural light that makes the open, white room seem bigger than it is. Original boiseries and moldings adorn the ceilings and walls. A hall leads to the bathroom and bedroom on one side of the apartment while on the other, another set of French doors lead to a small, light strewn kitchen.
The room is appointed with furniture from the Saint-Ouen flea markets, mostly found during their leisurely strolls together in the marché Dauphine and the marché des Rues. One wall houses a large oak biblioteque display cabinet, filled with books. A Louis XVI-style fauteuil is placed between the bookcase and an antique campaign table, underneath which are stacked several laptops. The wall opposite hosts a carved wooden frame sofa, painted dove grey and upholstered in grey velvet. Over it is a small white shadowbox, at the center of which is a pressed daisy.
On top of the round, hammered steel coffee table, there's a picture in frame with an extreme close up of Nicky in profile, a half smile on her face, a hand partially up as if trying to stop the photographer from taking her image.
Jason Bourne is looking around, cataloguing everything about the flat, at once where he should be, and not belonging at all to this place. His eyes zero in on a crimson jersey tossed over the back of a second fauteuil facing the sofa. It's emblazoned with the word "Webb" on the back.
David's rugby jersey from Harvard.
Bourne locks eyes with her.
The look on his face. It's certainty.
Nicky's nerves riot and her stomach revolts.
It happens so quickly she barely manages to race down the hall to the bathroom in time to heave her guts out in the commode. The jambon sandwich she had earlier comes up along with the bile that's been roiling inside her ever since Jason Bourne re-entered her life.
"Nicky?" Marta blocks the door way, her voice soft and concerned.
"Go away," Nicky snarls. Marta doesn't leave though. She steps in, closes the door and crouches to hold Nicky's hair as Nicky finds herself convulsed with another humiliating surge of retching. Marta's hands are gentle, resting on Nicky's neck. When Nicky is finished, Marta gets up and runs water in the faucet; Nicky next feels a cold compress against her forehead. Marta's touch offers comfort; for Nicky, it is too much, recalling Heidi's similar succor, just yesterday.
She whimpers, "Leave, God just leave."
Marta quietly obeys, removing the compress and standing up.
"I'll be nearby if you need anything," Marta says quietly.
Nicky closes her eyes, can't take Marta's kindness; she is so raw, so exposed. Marta leaves and pulls the door behind her, for which Nicky is grateful.
She stays in the bathroom another twenty minutes; not because she's still sick, but because she can't find the strength to face Bourne. There have been enough clues along the way that he could not possibly be so dim, that he had pieced enough to know they weren't just a handler and an asset. But to be confronted with evidence that they were so much more?
Nicky opens the cabinet, pulls out an unopened package of toothbrushes, and brushes her teeth. When she leaves the bathroom, she moves across the hallway to the bedroom. Opening the door to the room, she blinks back the onslaught of tears.
The bedroom, like the rest of the flat, is simply furnished: two bergères against the windows that lead to the balcony, a Louis XV-style wrought iron bedframe which houses a queen size mattress, two mismatched nightstands and lamps. The scarcity of furniture and the high ceilings makes the room feel airy and open.
Reaching behind, she unzips her dress and allows it to fall to the floor. She turns to the custom built, walk-in closet that is so unusual for a Haussmann apartment; the previous owner had preferred the convenience of a closet to the charm of authenticity. She pulls on a pair of washed out skinny jeans and pale blue linen button down shirt. Putting these clothes on is like donning the armor and the identity of Nicky Parsons, Sorbonne grad student and intelligence officer, again.
Her eyes stray to the other side of the closet; to the neatly folded Henley shirts on their shelves, the collared shirts, jeans and khakis slung over hangers, blazers, jackets and ties; the other accouterments of a man's casual and formal wardrobe. Nicky ducks her head, staring at the floor, finds herself looking at the men's trainers and loafers mixed in with her pumps and flats and boots. Unable to stop herself, Nicky reaches for the top drawer of the dresser against the wall. Pulling out a faded blue T-shirt emblazoned with 1st SFOD-D's logo on the front, she lifts it to her face. There's no scent of him any longer to comfort her; but that's not why she buries her face in his shirt. It's that she needs something to staunch the tears.
When Nicky walks out to the empty living room thirty minutes later, her first thought is, Where are Cross and Shearing? A movement at the window draws her attention to the balcony. They are outside, Marta sitting in Cross' lap, her head resting on his shoulder. Nicky's next thought is, Where is Bourne?
She finds him in the kitchen. It is relatively modernized though in keeping with the apartment's 19th century aura. Nothing is out on the counters except for a Moka coffee pot on the small gas range.
On the fridge, several white notes are tacked with magnets, on which are scrawled brief lines of writing.
Bourne is standing front of the fridge, staring intently at them. She knows without approaching what he sees on those slips of paper. His own handwriting.
The Sun Also Rises. I'll be at the bar. Whenever.
La Jaconde. Come smile at me, too. (But don't forget: they close at 18:00.)
Marché aux Puces. I need a desk. Find me. Or I'll find you.
Impasse des Arbalétriers. Be my Isabeau? Underneath this message is written in a woman's neat script: Stay in bed with me, Louis. Let's avert the Hundred Years War.
David's oblique playfulness in composing those notes had been part of the lure; it had delighted her to figure out the clues he left to determine where he'd be. La Jaconde: the Mona Lisa, at the Louvre. The day he'd won his kiss. Impasse des Arbalétriers, the narrow passageway where the French king's brother had left his mistress' bed one morning and been assassinated, leading to a century of war.
She'd written her response below his scrawl the morning after they'd made love for the first time.
He turns to her, his impassive expression at odds with the turbulence in those blue eyes.
"Why won't you tell me?" Bourne asks quietly.
"It's all there in front of you. It always has been," she answers wearily, her voice catching.
He touches the notes, pushes the top ones aside to look at the slips underneath. He taps one that is a simple pen drawing of a daisy with a DW + NP inscribed next to it.
"I don't remember any of this."
"I know, Jason," she says, amazed at how calm, how cool she sounds when everything inside is writhing in agony.
Then
"Why?" Nicky whispers.
She and David are lying in bed, facing one another, legs entwined, arms draped over each other's hips. The dawn light is only beginning to filter into their room, enough so she can make out his features, the slow smile that tugs at that beautiful mouth, and warms those eyes. Even after a year together, she still marvels at the tenderness in his eyes.
"Because you made me feel something," he replies just as softly. "Because I didn't feel alone around you."
"You're supposed to be alone," she reminds him. "It's what Treadstone agents are designed to be."
He reaches out, pushing her hair away from her face, stroking the smooth brow, his thumb brushing across her lower lip.
"I don't want to be alone anymore." His hand cups her cheek. "I want to be with you."
Her generous mouth curves into a smile which fades slowly, replaced with worry and sadness. Such dangerous words. He and his ilk are highly trained, highly specialized. They are meant to be solitary, to function like perfect killing automatons who wake, sleep and wait for orders.
He's leaving for another assignment in a few hours. The target is a deposed Nigerian dictator. A routine job.
"David, what are we going to do?" she whispers, not yet ready to name her fear.
"When I get back, we should run away," he suggests.
Her eyes widen. "You think they're going to let a $30 million dollar weapon walk out the door and never come back?"
He doesn't answer, just curves his hand around her neck, his thumb caressing the line of her jaw. They stare into each other's eyes, the gesture deeply intimate.
"You're safe with me," Nicky asserts, never looking away.
"You're safe with me," he repeats, holding that gaze.
That thought binds him to her, places her well-being above every thing else. The hand around her neck tightens gently, and Nicky moves towards him, her mouth pressing against his. The kiss is tender, loving. She rubs her nose against his playfully, looking into his eyes.
"If we had kids, they'd have your eyes," he observes.
The sharp pang that goes through her is crippling. Nicky doesn't want to engage in this daydream; it's too hard, too painful. It's not the first time he's alluded to a future. They're fantasies, though, constructs that can never happen. His world is narrowed and confined solely to what Treadstone dictates; what Jason Bourne – or David Webb – wants is irrelevant. But she doesn't let that fact interfere with this early morning fancy.
"What a pity," she comments as lightly as she can. "Your blue eyes are so much prettier."
"Brown eyes are dominant." He sighs. "What do you think, Nicky? A posse of little brown-eyed kids running around? White picket fence?"
"No white picket fences," she protests.
"Okay, then let's get a boat and sail away into the sunset with the kids."
The alarm on his watch beeps. They both freeze, then David gives her a quick kiss before he gets out of bed.
Several hours later, he'd left.
That night, he'd arrived on Wombosi's yacht and holed up for five days before completely failing his mission. He was shot, nearly died, lost his memory, and in Conklin's immortal rant, became a malfunctioning, total goddamn catastrophe.
Because he was never debriefed, no one really knows what happened on that boat, what caused him to go haywire. She wonders if he knows himself what caused him not to pull the trigger. She recalls when he was in the Treadstone safehouse, confronting Conklin; it seemed he'd remembered something about the Wombosi assignment. But what?
Nicky goes to the cabinet nearest the sink, opening it and reaching in to pull out an etched whisky glass and a nearly full bottle of bourbon. Pouring herself a healthy splash, she takes a quick gulp, concentrating on the fiery burn in her throat.
"What do I need to know about you, Nicky?" That question again.
You need to know that being near you is killing me in slow degrees.
That's not what she says, of course. "What do you want to know, Jason?"
"Why do you call me Jason?"
Nicky's short laugh is completely devoid of humor. "It's funny. You're not even the Bourne I knew. That Jason Bourne – he was…different than you."
"My things are here."
"No," Nicky says harshly. "David's things are here."
"I am David Webb."
She shakes her head again, almost angrily. "No. Your name isn't your identity. It's what you do. What you do now is Jason Bourne. What you are…now…is also Jason Bourne."
"What was our timeline?"
"We became lovers almost a year after we met and were together right up until the Wombosi assignment."
"Do you know what happened to me?" He doesn't address the revelation of their relationship. She pretends it doesn't sting.
"I don't, not all of it. You left, went on the mission, came back like…" She waves a hand up and down, gesturing at him. "There was a break in your conditioning. I just don't know what the trigger was that led to everything that happened with the Wombosi assignment…and after.
"After all my training, why would that happen?"
She can see the reflection of herself in the mirrored backsplash behind him, the stricken expression on her face.
"When we were together…I was with David Webb, not Jason Bourne. I've always wondered if that caused dissonance, if David Webb's existence where he shouldn't have been weakened the initial conditioning." She pours another dram of whisky. "And…there was that unsanctioned protocol to protect me."
"What else, Nicky?"
Nicky tosses back the remainder of her whisky. I can't. I can't. She points at the fridge, at the notes. "That. There."
She cannot, absolutely cannot, tell him everything; that he was the love of her life; that they'd talked about running away together; that they'd talked about a family, a life, a world beyond the reaches of Treadstone. It's too crippling to say these things to a man who looks, sounds, smells, moves exactly like that love, but who in every way that matters, isn't him, and likely never will be again.
Let him discover it on his own, let him couple his grief over losing Marie Kreutz with her sorrow at losing David Webb.
She needs to bury her love and her past.
"I need you to leave," Nicky says, her voice trembling, her throat aching from the crying and retching. "Please Jason, you have to go. I can't…I just…"
She breaks off, tears welling in her eyes. She tries to stuff it all down, shove it away where he can't see how much it breaks her that he's here and not…himself.
Jason takes a step toward her, the expression on his face at once confused and compassionate; as if he understands her grief, wants to assuage it and is confounded by that urge. She's already explained to him why he is compelled toward her; and she knows he understands that his response might be trained, not instinctive. But there are things he doesn't know, that not all responses are studied, that some reactions are instead, ingrained. He takes another step, reaching for her.
Nicky's eyes widen in alarm and she retreats, presses back against cabinets. He stops, his arm still outstretched, holding her gaze, those blue eyes intense with feeling.
If he touches her, she is lost.
"Please," she whispers. "Please go."
Bourne studies her face, his expression edged with frustration and concern. His arm drops. Nicky turns her head, clenching the glass in her hand.
Cross clears his throat. He's standing at the French doors, Marta behind him. Their presence dispels the charged moment, though the tension remains. Cross looks warily at Bourne before he enters the kitchen, and eyes Nicky's glass.
"Tell me that's Kentucky bourbon."
Nicky pours a splash and extends the tumbler to him. "It's Kentucky bourbon."
Cross makes a reverent sound and steps forward to take it, downing the liquid quickly. He hands back the empty glass with an appreciative whistle. His gaze sweeps from a pale Nicky to a stone-faced Bourne. "All right?"
Nicky doesn't look at Bourne. She pours herself another two fingers of whisky and knocks it back, then caps the Bourbon and puts it away. "Let's get to work," she says, leading the way out of the kitchen, looking straight ahead.
She is not surprised when Bourne follows behind them, then walks out the front door without another word.
What does surprise her is how she remains standing, as if she were unaffected.