Now
Her hands hit the ground first, years of training and instinct preventing her from face planting on the floor. Glass cuts into her palms. She doesn't register the pain, barely hears Jason's curse, or feel his hands clasp her arms.
"NICKY!" Jason's growl is deep, startled.
She's light-headed as she turns her head toward the sofa and the round hammered steel table.
Then
From her vantage on the ground next to the round wood coffee table, Nicky can see her prone reflection in the mirrored wall facing the Marais living room. Her skin is so pale against the wood floor, the white of her night shirt soaked with blood. She wonders how they're going to get the stain out of the parquetry.
"Don't leave me, too," she whispers at her reflection. But it's too late.
The baby that was David Webb's is gone. Her soft cry is equal parts loss and physical pain.
It's been five weeks since David…no, he's no longer David…since Jason Bourne fought his way out of the Paris safe house and disappeared after warning them to leave him alone. Treadstone's been in chaos since Alexander Conklin's death. No one's blamed it on Bourne though the implication is made; but they all know what happened and who took him out. Ward Abbott has taken over day to day operations, but several high ranking CIA directors have been in the Treadstone office. She recognized Colonel Eric Byer earlier this week when he silently observed one of her debriefings regarding Jason Bourne.
How many interrogations has she been subjected to? She can't recall any longer. For five weeks, she's been holed up in another Treadstone facility. Between the sleep deprivation and the back-to-back cross examinations, it's all a giant blur. Six days ago, they placed her on administrative leave, during which time she'd checked herself into an out-of-the–way hotel in the Trocadero, and slept with a gun under her pillow. She only got official confirmation yesterday afternoon that she'd been cleared to return to work. The office is in shut down mode. They're moving operations to another location. She's expected to rejoin them at their new center, in ten days.
She'd remained at the hotel until late yesterday afternoon, debating whether or not to return to the flat in Montparnasse. She hasn't been back to the home she shared with him since the morning he left, two months ago.
She doesn't think she'll ever be able to again.
So she came back to the Marais home of Nicky Parsons, part-time Sorbonne grad student, full-time black ops undercover analyst. After the weeks-long, marathon interrogations and the anxiety of wondering if they were going to kill her as they'd killed Conklin, she'd gone straight to bed, intending to take a brief nap before meeting her cousin for dinner.
She'd slept right through her alarm. When she sat up in bed at three a.m., it had been with a yelp of pain. Her stomach had been cramping viciously and she'd stumbled into the bathroom, barely in time to vomit into the toilet. When the spasm passed, Nicky tried to get up, moaning as her stomach squeezed hard. She hadn't been nauseated for the first trimester; she thought the second trimester was supposed to be better? She felt bile rising again. What was happening?
She'd been on her way to the kitchen to get some water when a wave of pain rippled from her lower back to her toes, accompanied by a sudden gush of warm liquid between her legs, blood and matter pooling at her feet. Nicky's frightened scream had preceded her crumpling to the ground, another convulsion seizing her, causing her spine to arch. With each spasm, her body expelled more fluids. Her baby! She'd collapsed between the sofa and coffee table, another contraction undulating. For an indeterminate time, convulsions had rumbled through her body, the miscarriage crippling her on the floor amidst vomit and blood, the mirrored wall providing an unvarnished and desolate view of it all.
It's dawn now.
Her body is battered from the contractions and from lying on the hard floor for so long. Wet tears slide down her temples. She could crawl to her room and get her phone, summon help; but she doesn't. Nicky rolls over on one side, sliding her knees toward her chest, both frightened of dying and ready for it.
She closes her eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. Sleep, when it comes, is welcome.
"NICKY!"
The frantic scream is Alex's voice.
Nicky opens her eyes, sees her cousin's pale and frightened face. Alex is by the sofa, grabbing a blanket and pillow.
"My God what's happened? Nicky!"
Nicky's voice is faint, dull with finality. "Miscarriage."
Her night shirt is soaked, the floor beneath her hips are wet and sticky. She turns her head, looks at the window. Daylight. Bright daylight.
"What time is it?" Nicky croaks.
"It's noon. You missed dinner with me last night. I've been calling you all morning. How long have you been lying here?"
"Since 3 a.m.?"
Alex drops a blistering combination of F-bombs as she crouches beside Nicky. "Why didn't you call me?" Alex shouts before she gets control of herself. "Where the hell is your phone?"
"Bedroom," Nicky murmurs. "Couldn't get to it."
Alex has whipped out her phone, is dialing. "Hold on, darling. I'm gettting help."
Nicky panics. "No hospitals. No paper trail!" When she grabs her cousin's arm, Nicky winces, her muscles sore. "Did you hear me?"
"Shut up, shut up! I heard you!" Alex's voice is urgent, but her hands are gentle as she pushes at Nicky to lie still. Tilting her head so the phone is trapped between shoulder and ear, she drapes the blanket over Nicky's body and lifts Nicky's head onto the pillow cushion.
"Merde!" Alex curses. Nicky hears her cousin speaking in rapid fire French, realizes she's calling their family doctor. He'll be discreet. Except –
"Mummy!" Nicky hisses. "No Mummy!"
Alex looks as if she's going to ignore Nicky but something about Nicky's expression must convince her otherwise because she tells the doctor that under no circumstances can he contact Madame Parish.
A moment later, Alex's hand is on Nicky's face, stroking away the filthy strands of hair. Alex's voice is soft. "The doctor's coming, honey. Can you move? I want to get you to some place more comfortable."
Nicky almost giggles hysterically. She has lost her love and her baby. Comfort means nothing.
Nicky's body shakes with the force of her anguish. "He didn't know me," she moans softly between tears. "He didn't know me."
"Who, darling?" Alex is worried. "The father?"
"He didn't know me. Doesn't know me."
"Shhhh," Alex croons. "I'm here, Nicky. It'll be all right."
But Nicky knows that's not true: nothing will ever be all right again.
A few hours later, Nicky rolls over on her bed, looking out the window. Her bedroom in this apartment does not have porte fenêtres leading out to a balcony. However, the two wide windows offer a breathtaking view of the Paris skyline. Nicky's hair is only slightly damp now from her earlier shower. Nicky winces as she shoves an arm under her pillow. Her skin is sensitive: she's scrubbed herself nearly raw.
She can hear the doctor talking to her cousin, giving her instructions on Nicky's care for the next twenty four hours. Dr. Jean Quang wants to see her in his private office the next morning to make sure that Nicky is in no danger for infection. Apparently, she'd actually miscarried her baby days ago; her body was just following through with removing the remants of the life she'd once carried.
Despite their low voices, Nicky can hear everything he's telling Alex.
"She's young and healthy. Miscarriages are common, but painful – physically and emotionally. For now, she needs rest. It looks like her body aborted all the fetal tissue, but there's always the chance of infection, so someone needs to stay with her. If she develops a fever, I want you to bring her in to the hospital immediately and call me; I'll meet you there. The same thing if you see signs of shock. Otherwise, I'll see you both in my office tomorrow afternoon."
"Dr. Quang, I just want to remind you: there can be no paperwork filed with Nicky's name attached to this miscarriage."
"Je comprends, mademoiselle." Nicky can imagine the grave expression on his face. "But we have protocols to follow –"
"I understand. And that's why your patient tomorrow will be Alexandra Seward, accompanied by her very healthy cousin, Nicolette Parsons."
"Mademoiselle," the doctor begins only to be interrupted by Alex's steely tone.
"That is all, Dr. Quang."
"…Oui, mademoiselle."
"Thank you. Please be sure to prescribe the pain medication and antibiotics for Alexandra Seward. I'll have the pharmacy deliver the medication."
The door opens and closes.
A few minutes later, Alex enters the bedroom and climbs into bed next to Nicky. She puts an arm around Nicky and pulls her close. For a moment, Nicky is stiff, unyielding. But in her cousin's embrace, Nicky's body trembles and she weeps silently, her breath heaving as she crumples into Alex.
"Shhh," Alex whispers, arms tight.
Alex offers no platitudes, simply holds on as Nicky empties her grief, which swells and tapers until it's all depleted. Alex leaves only twice, once to answer the door to get the delivered medications; and a second time to bring Nicky some weak tea. Now Alex is sitting in the bed, Nicky's head in her lap. Afternoon becomes dusk, and the cousins watch the sun set in the distance over Paris, the silence mournful. Darkness settles before Alex speaks.
"Are you hungry?"
"I don't want to eat."
"Okay. Are you in pain? I've got the muscle relaxants and pain meds that Dr. Quang prescribed."
"I don't want anything right now."
Alex doesn't press. They are quiet for another half hour before she speaks again. "Nicky, does the father know?"
"He knew about the pregnancy," Nicky says dully.
David's warm blue eyes. Brown-eyed kids, Nicky.
"Do you need to tell him about the miscarriage?" Alex asks softly.
"No. He's gone."
Jason Bourne's stricken blue eyes. I don't want to do this anymore.
"You said he didn't know you. What…what did you mean? Was it…a hook up? He didn't want to be involved when you got pregnant?"
"No. Just…he's gone. That's all."
"I don't understand. Is he…dead?"
Nicky's laugh is harsh, mirthless. "He may as well be."
She feels Alex's indrawn breath as her cousin starts to pose another question; but then Alex exhales slowly. Alex is no stranger to bad relationships with the wrong man; her silence acquiesces to Nicky's refusal to divulge details.
Alex's hand rests gently on Nicky's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, love. What can I do?"
"Just stay with me." Nicky takes a shuddering breath.
"Of course," Alex says gently. "Nicky, let's go travel. A few months away."
Nicky shakes her head. "I have to…I have to go back to work." I need to find him, I need to find out what happened to him.
Alex is astute enough to hear Nicky's unspoken intent. "Nicky…what are you going to do?"
"What we always do. Soldier on."
Alex sighs.
Now
Bourne pulls Nicky to her feet. She looks dazedly at her palms, at the crushed glass embedded in her palms, the smears and trickles of blood.
"Shit," snaps Bourne. His hands are hard on her shoulders as he spins her around, pushes her toward the kitchen. She's like a rag doll, falling against his body because she's momentarily unable to direct her own.
As if from a distance, she watches as he puts her hands under the faucet and runs the water. Rivulets of blood sluice over her hands, and glass shards wash away, clinking faintly in the ceramic basin.
There are two Nicky Parsons: the one who loved David Webb, and the one who lost him. The former would have folded into his body, allowed him to lead.
But that Nicky Parson died on a wood floor in a Marais apartment, five weeks after Jason Bourne disappeared from the Treadstone safe house in Paris.
Nicky's spine straightens, her muscles tighten and she pushes away. "I'm okay," she says curtly. "I got dizzy. Just…tired."
Bourne backs off as Nicky washes her hands. Her palms sting but it doesn't appear there are any slivers embedded in her skin. Her left hand took the brunt of the fall; and the cuts aren't deep but they're still bleeding. Her other hand is fine, if tender. She's wrapping her left hand with gauze bandage from the drawer when:
"What did I say?"
Nicky freezes. Bourne's question is a demand, not a query.
"Obviously I said something that upset you. What are you keeping from me?" He's angry.
"I'm not –" Nicky breaks off in confusion. The small window over the sink looks out onto the main boulevard. Something about the scene outside the building strikes her wrong. Her training kicks in. "Shit. We've been made."
She points at the window and Bourne is immediately at her side. He sees it too: the empty street, the people moving in the dark with a particular gait, a purposeful rhythm specific to specialized training.
Nicky spins out of the kitchen, Bourne hot on her heels.
Nicky grabs a stuffed backpack by the dining table. Jason gathers the briefing file, shoving them back into the plastic accordion folder.
"Give that to me," she orders. He frowns at her, but complies, handing her the folder, then pulls out his Glock.
Thirty seconds later, they're out the door.