A/N: Warning, slight language. If you care.

Chapter Ten

Nicky quickly parked across the street from her headquarters, cursing under her breath as her phone rang. "Yeah." It seemed like Conklin couldn't properly function without demanding that she do it for him.

"How long does it take to wipe the room down and get it moved?"

How had he managed to fuck up that meet? It was supposed to be simple; get Bourne to come in, see what happened. She'd supplied him with her best contacts in Paris. How had they managed to ruin a simple stakeout? It seemed that when Conklin made a mistake, he wasn't satisfied unless he took everyone else down with him. "Get rid of everything?"

"Yeah." She could tell he was panicked by the situation but trying to maintain control. Good luck with that, you sanctimonious, power-hungry ass, she thought resentfully.

She sighed, glancing at her watch. "Two to three hours."

"All right, well get started." He hung up without waiting for a response.

Sighing again, she quickly keyed in and began the long process of clearing her life for the past three years out of the house. It was a good thing she wasn't sentimental, because then she'd actually care that she was leaving the place that held so many memories of them. "Just keep telling yourself that, Nic," she muttered as she swept her personal belongings into her only suitcase and began wiping the computers.

-+-

Pioze woke again in a surge of adrenalin, rising half-way off the bed before realizing he was still in the safe house. That was the third time he'd done that this evening, and he was getting sick of it. He hated "resting;" the best way for him to recover was to get back out in the field and do something.

He sat up, carefully gauging his body's responses. Everything seemed to be functioning, aside from the pain in his side every time he breathed. He suspected that the painkillers were taking the edge off, but he didn't care. He needed to get out.

He got dressed, relieved to see that his injuries wouldn't hinder him too much as long as he didn't try to make sudden movements. "Buck up, Pioze," he muttered. "Get your head together; you've been through worse near-death experiences."

Making his way downstairs, he saw the doctor Nicky had mentioned in the tiny kitchen. He looked like everyone's grandfather, working on a crossword puzzle and drinking coffee. Pioze stifled a laugh at the simplistic, normal actions, and wondered how long he'd been on the payroll of the CIA black-ops.

"Bonjour," the doctor said, beaming at his patient. "How do you feel?"

He shrugged. "Like I got the shit kicked out of me with a shotgun."

The elderly man chuckled. "You are lucky, you know. The damage was mostly superficial. Nicolette was extremely worried."

"Oh, was she?" he said casually. He tried not to betray his interest, but the twinkling in the doctor's eyes made him suspect that his ears had perked up like a puppy's.

"I have never seen her that frantic. She has always been so calm, so steady, even when she was near death herself. But with you…" he sighed. "Young love, it is beautiful."

He tried to ignore his latter statement, unwilling to get his hopes up just yet. "She was hurt? When?"

The doctor nodded, sipping his coffee. "Oui, it was a few years ago. Bad situation, but the girl, she has, how you say, grit? Yes, you should ask her about it. It is not for me to tell."

He nodded, and turned towards the door. "I think I'll do that." He paused and turned, remembering his manners. "Thank you."

He chuckled and waved away his thanks. "You just hold onto her, do not let her get away. She is a wonderful woman."

Pioze nodded again, and checked his pocket for the tickets. Remarkably, they were still there, and had escaped both shotgun damage and his blood. Perhaps it was a sign.

He flagged down a taxi, and tersely gave directions to a bar close to the house. He'd wait a bit, then stop by, see if she was okay, perhaps finally talk to her.

-+-

Nicky ended yet another phone call with their contact in southern Europe. "Okay, they're on it. We'll have a satellite download in 30 minutes." Conklin had begun demanding updates each time she moved, so she began volunteering the information, just so she wouldn't have to listen to him talk.

As she went to another shredder, she absently wondered how Pioze was doing. She hoped he'd stay there long enough for her to see him again. He'd hinted that he would, but who knew with him. It could've just been the painkillers talking.

Suddenly, car alarms began going off up and down the street. She almost laughed at the way Conklin jumped. Twitchy bastard. It was catching, though; she could feel herself becoming nervous. She'd had a somewhat friendship with Bourne; he'd always been polite to her at least, but with his amnesia, perhaps she should be worried.

"Where's your field box?" Conklin demanded. She ignored him and focused on the computers; the security system was going crazy.

He was getting pissy. "Where's your field box?"

"It's right there," she snapped, annoyed at his frantic manner. The man acted like he'd never been in a difficult situation before. Where was his gun, anyway?

"The system's gone haywire." She frowned in concern. "That's this window right here." She checked the phones, not surprised to hear an absence of sound. "Dead, the phones are dead."

The power suddenly went out. Damn it. "It's Bourne, isn't it?"

"Just quiet," said the ass with her gun, calm now that he had something to hid behind. He moved slowly around the darkened rooms, looking for the boogeyman in every corner.

Bourne appeared out of the dining room, telling Conklin to drop the gun. But Conklin soon regained the upper hand, using bullying tactics that made Nicky pity the confused amnesiac. Indeed, Bourne looked almost like a bewildered puppy as Conklin lambasted him up one side and down the other.

When Conklin gestured to her, saying he could've sent her to kill Wombosi, Bourne looked at her, only confusion in his eyes. She'd always wondered what would happen when one of them snapped.

It was a pity that Bourne was the one to go first; she'd always liked him the best. He'd come in as the replacement to Pioze, and had been courteous to her during their checkups and operational meetings. They'd almost become friends, if it was possible for a black-ops heartless killing machine to have such a relationship with his handler. But she had always known that if it came down to it, he wouldn't hesitate to do what was ordered.

For now, she was actually frightened. He didn't remember her, and if he deemed her a threat, she was already dead. She just remained in the center of the room, listening to their interaction and counting each breath.

When he told Conklin that Jason Bourne was dead, she was glad. She didn't believe that he'd killed Marie; something in his voice had said he was lying. Maybe they'd have a chance at happiness together. She wished them the best of luck.

He looked at her, uncertain if she was a threat or not. Something in her face must've shown the relief she felt when he'd hit Conklin again, because he didn't do anything. She swore he almost nodded at her, a hint of the Jason Bourne she'd known peeking out. Then his attention was turned to the door, and all hell broke loose.

...

A/N: enh. I really hate Conklin, so that comes out a little here. Hope you enjoyed! More is still on the way. :)

P.S. I just realized that I changed the weapon from "rifle" to "shotgun." Oops. Oh well, I'm sticking with shotgun. Please raise your hand if you care all that much. :p