Bourne Identity: Ghosts

A/N: I'm so sorry it's taken so long for me to finish this one! Unfortunately, my muse is sporadic at best. It's been great fun to see the response, and I'm so glad you've enjoyed the story!

Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing! This chapter is the last installment, for now. I have ideas for a follow-up fic, but they're just rolling around in my head for now. Let me know if you're interested! :) Enjoy.

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Chapter Eleven

He emerged from the taxi, paid the driver, and glanced down the street toward the safe house. Was she in trouble for leaving her post? He wondered where Bourne had ended up; whether he'd managed to get his act together and disappear.

Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots. Without thinking, he ran towards the house, glancing around for activity. He needed to focus, but the only thought in his mind was that if anything had happened to Nicky, blood would be shed. He saw no one running in either direction, no suspicious shadows flitting about doorways, so he forced his heart rate to slow. He needed to be methodical, make sure that any threats were eliminated before they could get to her.

When he rounded the corner and glanced into the alley, he saw a crumpled body lying in the middle of the street. He could tell that it was a man's, so he didn't bother to check. He quickly ducked into the doorway, ready to enter his code, but saw with surprise that the door was cracked open. This was never a good sign.

He pulled his gun from its holster beneath his jacket, and silently thanked his conditioning. He had apparently grabbed it without thinking when he left the other safe house, since thinking about Nicky took too much of his concentration.

He knew he was being sloppy, but his only thought was to find her. He took in the bodies lying on the ground floor, and raced up the stairs, leaping over another two on the way up. His thoughts blended together, NickyNickyNickypleaseohgodletherbeokay, as he rushed up the last flight and saw the door ajar as well.

Slipping through, he glanced around, shaking off the lightheaded feeling so much activity generated in his weakened state. No one was in the hall, although bullet holes were everywhere.

He quickly ducked into the living room, glancing over the boxes and the bags of shredded paper, then moved to the office area. The computer screen was blinking, showing a successful upload to the satellite server, but she wasn't there, either.

He strode down the hall, silently opening the door to her room, remembering that the last time he'd been in here, it had been under decidedly different circumstances, with fewer clothes and guns involved.

Nicky was sitting on the bed with the lights off, cross-legged, looking down at something in her hands. His breath escaped in an explosive sigh of relief as he holstered his gun again and went to her. She didn't seem surprised to see him there, only glancing up at him when he stood in front of her.

He tilted her chin up so he could see her in better light. "Nicky, what the hell happened here? Are you okay?" His voice came out gravelly and rough from concern for her.

She smiled up at him sadly. "I'm fine. Jason was here; you just missed him."

He gave a wry grin and sat down beside her. "What're you looking at?"

She handed him a file folder, which he saw held copies of her evaluations of the agents. She had it opened to a page on Bourne, where she'd written that he seemed the one who suffered the most from the pressure of the job.

"I feel like I should've helped him… should've helped you all. I could see that the stress was too much, that you had become dead inside. But I couldn't help. Wouldn't let myself." She looked up at him, her eyes sorrowful, pleading with him to understand.

He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. He really was becoming a sap, he noted with chagrin. "Nicky, we made this decision ourselves. We all came into it voluntarily, we knew what we were doing."

She nodded and sighed, then stood and reached out for the folder. He closed it, but held on and looked at her evenly. "We each made the decision to come in, and we can make the decision to leave, as well."

She looked more alert at that. "What are you saying?"

He put the folder down beside him, and grabbed her hands. "I'm saying I'm through taking orders from others. I want to be able to live where I want, with whomever I want. I want to take you away from all this, where you can do what you love, instead of force yourself to be clinical and heartless. I want to see you laugh more." He freed one of his hands and pulled out the tickets to Amsterdam. "How about it?"

She blinked. Looked at the tickets, looked up at him, then glanced down the hallway to the bullet-ridden front room. "And you think they'll just let us leave?"

He smiled, quite pleased with himself. "Well, as far as they know, I'm dead. I have no problems allowing them to continue operating under that misconception." She gave a choked laugh. He squeezed her hand, and gestured with the tickets. "It doesn't hurt that I have enough saved up in multiple bank accounts to last us for a lifetime or two." Her eyes filled with tears at that. "All you have to do is put in for a transfer due to this 'stressful environment.' They owe you a few weeks vacation, anyway."

Her face gradually cleared as she thought about it, and she finally smiled at him through watery eyes. "It's… just perfect. Yes, let's do it."

He gave a short laugh and bounded up, sweeping her into a kiss that went from her lips to her toes. "I love you, Nicky. You know that, right?" he growled into her hair.

She pulled back, and touched his weary, worn, handsome face. She smiled, gazing into his soul, and answered the question that lingered there, unasked. "Yes."