Jason is asleep in the car. Forty-five minutes into the intensely silent car ride, he suddenly nodded off. She hadn't expected him to; it isn't in his nature to allow himself to be vulnerable. But maybe something deep inside of him know he's safe with her, because he's slumped against the window, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
Nicky leans back in her seat, tries to stretch her back, feeling the pull of exhaustion around her shoulders. She hasn't slept in days - oh hell, who is she kidding? She hasn't slept in years. Weariness is an old friend.
She sneaks a glance at Jason. Even in his sleep his body is coiled with tension. His face is turned away from her, but she knows every line, every plane and angle of his face. She knows how facile that smile can be, the crinkling corners of his eyes when he was amused; the intense and harsh cast of his face in a moment of passion; the stormy ferocity of his anger.
But those were David's expressions.
Bourne is...a blank. He rarely expresses emotions, so seldom allows his face to reflect his feelings. Jason Bourne is mechanical, methodic. Unrecognizable. Unrecognizing.
Nicky swallows hard. What was she thinking? It was one thing in the abstract for Bourne to join her for the car ride; another thing altogether to have him here with her. She should have told him to meet her tomorrow at a café, while she spent tonight marshaling her defenses against him.
Why had he listened to her?
Why the hell had he hugged her earlier?
What did it mean?
Nothing. NOTHING.
After tonight, nothing will be left to bind them together. And maybe...maybe she can finally move on.
They are heading to Normandy on the A13. They left Paris in the late afternoon, so by the time they arrive, it's dusk.
Jason wakes abruptly, right when she pulls off the main road. He's alert, tense.
"Where are we?"
"Vierville-sur-Mer. Near Omaha Beach," she answers as she turns off the country road to a tree-lined gravel drive. Nicky pulls up to the dark house and parks. The stone and brick edifice, flanked by two smaller wings, is two stories high with a raised attic roofline, and a chimney. On either side of the white front door are two windows, neatly aligning with the row of windows on the second floor. She fumbles with her keys, shines a small flashlight until she finds the one she needs.
Jason stands in the gravel drive, staring at the house, confusion etched on his face - and a flash of recognition – and Nicky turns away.
"Can you grab the bags from the trunk?" she asks brusquely as she pushes open the door. She wrinkles her nose as the musty smell of an unaired house hits her. Moving through the rooms, Nicky snaps on lights and opens windows. They'll have to close the windows in a bit; it's too cold out to leave them open for long. In the meantime, she can pretend that she's shaking because of the chill.
"Nicky?" calls Bourne from the foyer.
Nicky steps back into the hall and gestures for Bourne to follow her down the hall to a neat country kitchen, a giant fireplace taking up half of one wall, adjacent to a vintage Aga cooker, a small sink and workspace. Across the room is a carved wood cabinet, the open shelves displaying serving platters, dishes and bowls, dried herbs, tins and bottles. In the center of the kitchen is sturdy wood table. Nicky unbelts her coat and drops it across one of the rush weave chairs.
Bourne places the bags on the kitchen table. Nicky's unprepared for the pain that shudders through her when she remembers the last time she and David were in this kitchen, the last time he casually dropped groceries on that table; when he made promises both of them should have known he'd be unable to keep. A gasp rises and she squelches it furiously, trying to get a grip on her crumbling defenses.
Jason Bourne's presence is overwhelming.
Nicky turns her back to him, busies herself, lighting the Aga and pulling down some plates from the shelves.
"Can you start a fire in the family room?" she asks. "It's the first room to your left when you enter the house. There should be a cord of wood on the side of the house. You can take the furniture covers off, too."
If he notices her jitteriness, Jason does not draw attention to it. He pads quietly down the hall, and Nicky stops her frantic pacing, planting her hands on the kitchen table, trembling. She's not prepared, not for the feelings his presence evokes or the terror of what's coming next. Jason wants answers. She never imagined having to share the truth with him. For her, the truth died on the floor of the Marais apartment. It died in a Paris safehouse when Jason Bourne looked at her without a speck of recognition. It died in a Spanish diner when she asked him if he remembered anything, when he told her unequivocally: "No."
David Webb died with the truth. And Jason Bourne wants her to resurrect it.
It's just too much.
She takes a rough, shuddering breath, and is surprised by the strange sound she exhales; it's a sob, and the wet tracks on her cheeks are uncontrollable tears. Dashing an angry hand across her eyes, she tries to stem the tide of emotion; but it's too late. The best she can do is to stifle the sounds so Jason can't hear –
"Nicky, what do you want me to do with these covers –"
Nicky is half-crouched over the table, her back to him, an animal in pain; when she looks up, startled by his voice, she can see the stricken expression on his face, the half-step he takes toward her - but he stops, his outstretched hand curling into a fist, his expression tight. He steps back into the unlit hallway and goes back the way he came. Nicky is almost grateful for his discretion.
A moment later, she hears the front door opening and closing.
Nicky buries her face in her arms as she cries once more over Jason Bourne, for David Webb.
From the front of the house, the casual visitor can't see the beauty of where the house is situated, but following the gravel path to the back of the house, a visually stunning scene awaits: the never ending sky, the endless ocean, and the sandy plateau that is Omaha Beach.
This house sits on holy ground.
The public beach is three hundred yards from the property. Jason is standing on the still-private stretch of land, staring out at the roaring surf of the English Channel. Apposite to his circumstances, darkness shrouds him.
He is fully alert, hands by his side. He never compromises his hands, never jams them into his pockets the way David used to; Bourne fully expects to use his hands at every moment.
She makes noise as she approaches his side, even though he's aware of her. There is light from a bright half-moon, but even as her eyes adjust to the darkness, she does not look at him, fixing her gaze on the waves which lap the sand, and the loud rumbling of the Channel.
"I'm meeting Cross tomorrow in Cherbourg, at the ferry to Poole. He's giving us half the Beta program files." Nicky keeps her tone brisk, offering no explanation for her earlier breakdown. "They were talking about you on the radio earlier, when you were asleep. Pam Landy is being released from custody and there's going to be an inquest."
"They're not going to find anything."
He's right. There will be investigations, and private and public hearings, but no one will be punished, nothing will be shut down or exposed, and Byer will still rule the Black Ops programs.
"No. But Byer is on notice that we've got both his chems and his program files. They mean more to him than we do."
"For now."
"For now."
"Nicky…" His voice is deep, probing.
She can feel the fine tension in his body, the hard muscle straining to be at rest, not to explode into movement.
"No." She holds up a peremptory hand and waves him off. She is not ready. "Dinner's ready. It's not much, just a salad and cold cuts for sandwiches. After…" She's furious with herself when her voice catches. She takes a breath. "After."
Jason turns to her, but she does not look at him. "All right. After."
She heads back to the house, not expecting him to immediately follow her.
He doesn't.
Jason adds another wood block to the fire he started earlier in the family room. They migrated here after dinner. The white and wood-paneled room is small and cozy, taken up by furniture, books, and a ludicrous number of throw pillows. In front of the fireplace is a grate holding some of logs Jason brought in. Bourne faces the entrance, sprawled in a large armchair opposite the comfy small sofa on which she's seated, legs tucked under a plush pillow. The lamp on the end table next to her is unlit, the firelight providing the only illumination in the room.
They ate in silence, and now they sit in the same. Jason waits while Nicky nurses a glass of Scotch. She'll take all the liquid courage she can get.
Nicky smooths her long skirt with one hand, swirling the amber liquid with her other. "There's Islay and then there's Octomore," she murmurs. The whisky is so peaty she can feel smoke coming out of her ears. She looks over her tumbler at him. Firelight casts shadows across his handsome, hard face. "David and I used to come here every chance we could get away. It was the only place we could get total privacy. I think we always knew that as long as we were in Paris, someone was watching, even when we pretended we were under the radar. But no one knew about this place."
Jason looks around the room. "These are your things then?"
Our things, she wants to say. But she nods.
Bourne points to an instrument resting on its stand in the corner. "You play the cello."
"No," Nicky responds quietly. "You do."
She can see how unsettled he is by this information, how much it bothers him that he knows so little about who he is.
But that's the problem isn't it? He's not David Webb, and he never will be again. Disassociative amnesia doesn't suddenly repair itself - that's something that happens only in the movies. David Webb is gone and Jason Bourne is here. What good does it do, to talk about who he was, the things he could do when none of it is relevant to the man he has become?
"Was I any good?"
"Very," she asserts. Her gaze shifts to the instrument by the armchair. "Much better than on that thing."
He glances down at the full set of bagpipes, appalled. "That's not decorative?"
Nicky smirks and up-ends her tumbler.
"Nicky." He's waited long enough.
Nicky inhales deeply, feeling the Scotch burn its way down her throat, the fumes filling her nostrils.
She gets up, gestures for him to follow her. In the kitchen, she reaches for the whisky bottle and refills her glass. Nicky takes a healthy swig, then sets down her tumbler and strides toward Jason. She catches his face between her hands, and presses her mouth to his. He pulls back, makes a startled sound; but Nicky holds on, deepening her kiss, touching her tongue to his sealed lips. Hard hands curl tightly around her arms. He's holding her in place, not pushing away but not pulling her close, either. She doesn't care. This kiss isn't for him. The scent and the smoky flavor of her whisky is in her breath as she exhales, in his lungs as he inhales. It's not more than a moment, a heartbeat or two of a kiss, then Nicky steps back. Jason lets go of her arms slowly.
"What was that for?" he asks, those mesmerizing blue eyes so intent, so focused on her.
God how she loved him.
"I wanted to say good-bye," she whispers, her throat aching. "And good-bye and good-bye and good-bye."
"Nicky." His voice is rough, laced with anguish.
Nicky moves away from him, to the Aga cooker. She needs the warmth to ward off the chill she feels. "The day you left for your mission, we got into a fight." Nicky looks him in the eye. "I was going to leave you."