Is it the wicked or the weary that get no rest?
Which is she?
Nicky gives up the pretense of sleep, the morning light warming her face as she opens her eyes. She hates that the sun is out, hates that light filters through the window sheers, bright and cheerful. Why isn't the world more attuned to her feelings? Why isn't there a dark and raging storm outside? Will there ever be respite from the wreck that is her life?
Rolling onto her back, she stares up at the white ceiling, absently noting some cobwebs in the corner that need to be brushed away. She stretches out her long limbs, wincing as muscles protest painfully, the effect of being curled in fetal position for hours on end. How much "sleep" did she get? An hour, maybe? Her eyes feel like grit is coating the undersides of her lids. The last time she cried that long and that hard was…uncomfortably she pushes the thought away.
She can smell the fresh brew of coffee; her neighbors, she thinks, beginning their day. She doesn't drink coffee; tea is her métier, but the roast smells so good to her sleep and peace deprived mind, she considers brewing a pot. She wonders if there's any coffee in the apartment.
Not since Dav-
She cuts off that thought, too. Enough. No more. No more memories, she decides. She's already expended enough of herself in the night.
She has so much to do in the next four days, to set up the distraction Cross needs to keep Byers' focus off the NRAG system so Cross and his hacker can sneak into Byers' network.
Nicky's not certain Cross' plan is enough. Byers is already on alert. However badly he wants them, he's too smart, too devious to accept a break in pattern. Byers deals in arrays: how things align and repeat, how configurations display and arrange themselves. That's why his programs are masterpieces: randomness is bred out, leaving consistency.
"Does it matter if we get his attention?" Cross wondered.
No, maybe not. But Nicky's not comfortable with what feels like a weak premise. For Byers to buy into their distraction, there has to be more. There has to be something viable, something that makes the distraction a truth.
"We need at least half a day, maybe less in their network to take what we need," Cross determined. Half a day is a really long time in the parlance of their profession.
She needs to get up and get things started.
Throwing back the duvet, Nicky gets up and stumbles into her bathroom, enticed by the strong smell of coffee. Fuck it, she thinks. She'll go pick some up some beans later.
She brushes her teeth while running the shower so the water warms up. Eyeing herself in the mirror she frowns. She's way too pale, her eyes are puffy and she looks like utter shit. Perfect, she thinks. She looks exactly like how she feels.
Fifteen minutes later, her skin stinging from the blazing hot shower, she doesn't feel any better.
Which is why, when she pads into the central room to find Jason Bourne at her dining table reading the morning paper with a cup of coffee in hand, she cannot stop the enraged shriek that erupts.
"WHAT THE FUCK PART OF 'GO AWAY' DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?"
Jason, who looked up at her entry, is startled by the scream; emotions chase across his face before he settles back into passivity. He looks away from her, returning his attention to the newspaper, but not before Nicky catches the heated interest in his blue eyes; and she realizes that she's barely dressed: she's wrapped in a short robe that's way too low at top and too high on her thighs. Without a word, Nicky pivots on her heel and double times it back to her room, slamming the door behind her. She is flushed, mortified.
He's seen more than this, she reminds herself as she pulls on a fine cashmere pullover and loose jeans.
Nicky pauses at the door, her hand wrapped around the handle. Why is he still here?
Her head explodes with pain, the urge to weep suffusing her senses. Why is he still here? She'd assumed he'd left. Has he been here all this time? Did he hear her crying last night? How much more torture is she expected to endure? She considers turning the lock and staying in this room until he leaves. But if he doesn't leave? This room is its own torture chamber.
Then she gets mad. She's done with the self cutting that is Jason Bourne in her life. This is her flat. She's not ceding it to him. With renewed ferocity, she opens the door and marches back out, ready to deliver the mother of all tongue lashings. She's pulled up short when she sees he's no longer at the dining room table; but the whistle of a tea kettle draws her to the kitchen. In the kitchen, Nicky finds the Moka coffee pot on the range, steam rising from its spout; so that was the source of the rich coffee she smelled.
Jason is at the stove, lifting the kettle from the burner next to the coffeepot. He pours the hot water into a teapot and sets the kettle back on the range. Crossing the room, he extracts a crimson Harvard mug from a cabinet, sets an English tea strainer over it as if he does this every day. Nicky finds his unerring ease in the kitchen deeply unsettling. Does he know where everything is, or did he search the cabinets and drawers before she came out?
The scent wafting from the steeping tea is her favorite blend. She glances at the counter and spies the black tin with its marigold label. He must have found an unopened tin of loose tea leaves in the back of the pantry. But as her gaze takes in the other items on the counter, Nicky's stomach lurches. There's a box stamped with the name of a nearby patisserie; ice slides down her spine. The pastry shop they used to frequent together, as a matter of fact.
Is he remembering…or is he impelled by instinct? Is he aware of what he's doing?
For a few moments, they stand in silence, she too dumbfounded to speak, he deliberately keeping his gaze on the tea pot. Finally he pours tea over the strainer with practiced ease. Dark liquid flows through the holes, and bits of loose tea leaves gather in the strainer.
"I got some pain au chocolat and some croissant," he says, nodding at the box.
The vise squeezing the life out of her eases fractionally. She doesn't care for either of those. So he doesn't remember.
He sets down the teapot and continues: "…But I thought…" He frowns, stops, reaching for a second open pastry box on the counter. He holds it out to her and Nicky's breath catches at what's inside. "…you might like this."
It's a puff pastry twist encrusted with almond, sugar and pastry cream called sacristain. It's a specialty of Provence, and it was Nicky's favorite thing to eat for breakfast.
I can't breathe. I can't breathe.
She should have thrown him out last night. Out the door, out the window. Whichever was expedient.
He's watching her carefully; that he doesn't react make Nicky grateful for the training which keeps her facial expressions neutral. Nicky ruthlessly marshals what remains of her composure to take the box from him, noting that her hand does not shake. He jerks his chin toward the door.
"I'll bring…the…" He gestures at the tea cup and the coffeepot.
"No."
She sets the pastry box down on the counter, hard.
"Get out," she demands, her voice harsh.
Jason draws himself up, and inhales deeply. He's not much taller than her; but the breadth of his shoulders, the lean frame, and that vigilant bearing intimate a forceful presence. Everything about him demands notice.
Then
"There's nothing more to say," David says unequivocally.
Nicky wants to scream. Her nerves are taut, her brain is fried. Her heart is pounding so hard she can feel the staccato beat at the pulse in her neck. "You don't get to say that and walk out. I need…I need space, I need a moment – what you – what you –" Her voice sputters, her train of thought derailing again, as it has been for the last hour. She literally can't think straight.
David gets directly in her face, blue eyes hard, his voice harsh. "And that's why I'm telling you we're done talking."
Everything is pressing in on her and she needs distance from him. He's not having any of it.
In all their time together, she's never seen David as angry as he is now. Jason, yes. At work, she's seen Jason lose control, but only once, when an op went pear-shaped. He'd lashed out at her during their debrief. Or rather, an asset censured his handler for her management of his mission. It had been deserved: she'd made a strategic error that could have been more costly had Jason not been so deeply experienced. He'd driven her to tears, actually, before storming out of the room; fucking Conklin had come in to offer her some words of comfort and reassurance.
"You fucked up," Conklin had said. He'd agreed with Bourne's assessment of the mission and the critical mistake she'd made. "But you're good at what you do, Parsons. You're a good handler for Bourne. Don't fuck up like this again."
She'd swallowed her tears, schooled her features into the impassive mask expected of all Treadstone assets and bobbed her head. She'd scuttled out of the room, making way for a restroom where she spent thirty minutes getting her shit together. The rest of the day, Bourne had avoided her.
But as soon as she'd come back to the flat that night, David had been waiting at the front door, ready to pull her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, his embrace tight.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he'd murmured against her neck.
It was like emotional whiplash; it had taken her a moment to relax, to recall this man and juxtapose him against the person she worked with.
"I'm sorry," she'd answered, her voice shaking. "I fucked up."
He'd kissed her hair, her ear, her cheek, her lips, his mouth loving and gentle against hers, hands cradling her jaw. Bourne had been right to excoriate her; any other agent would have. Not doing so would have raised red flags.
There isn't going to be any kissing this time; David is furious.
"David, this isn't your call," she argues, her voice quavering. Fear is shredding everything inside, driving her intense need to flee.
"Fuck that," he all but roars at her. "Do not leave."
"You need to go," she informs him.
He snarls.
She grabs his wrist and points at his watch. "You're going to be late."
He yanks his hand back. His movements are jerky, erratic; he's burly, big, and suddenly in her face. But she's not afraid of him, and he's not trying to intimidate her; he's simply planting himself where he feels he belongs: with her.
For a moment, they're frozen in place, both of them highly agitated and breathing hard. Then he turns to her again and it's all Nicky can do to stay upright; the look on his face is pleading and poignant.
"Nicky, as soon as this mission is over, I'm coming back for you." He exhales slowly, stretching out a hand, cupping her face, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, eyes fixed on her face as though he were memorizing every detail about her. "I'll come for you."
Now
Jason looks at Nicky steadily, blue eyes dark.
"We're not done talking," he says unequivocally.