Chapter II

Closure and Confirmation

Since Landy had promised to have the information ready for him when he was ready, Bourne had nothing better to do with his time. He waited in his apartment, sitting on his bed and staring blankly at the wall. All his objectives had been complete except for three: confirm the rescinding order, find her somewhere in Europe, and learn why she was haunting his dreams and why his waking thoughts were consumed with her. And he could do none of these until his first objective was completed; there was no way he could find her if her safety wasn't guaranteed. And yet that relied on Landy getting that order rescinded. He was unable to do anything, and he didn't like it.

His hands twitched. If he didn't do anything he was bound to lose it; the pounding headaches were starting to manifest themselves. Trying to think of something, Bourne found himself thinking of her. No matter what he did, he couldn't stop thinking about her; she was invading his thoughts and haunting him, and it drove Bourne mad to not know if they had been in a relationship before. He needed to know, because parts of Jason Bourne and David Webb wanted there to be a relationship to continue. He had nowhere else to go; records indicated any family he had was dead.

Deep within the recesses of his mind, Jason Bourne came up with the idea to keep him busy. It came in the form of remembering his failure to protect Simon Ross. Ross had been killed because he knew about Black Briar and Bourne. But now with Black Briar shut down, perhaps for people to know who he was, and his side of the story, wouldn't be a bad thing. He couldn't believe he was going to do this, but he grabbed a pen and paper and sat down at the apartment desk, deciding to write his memoirs. All he needed was a place to begin.

Ultimately, people needed to know why he did what he did. Looking back on it now, with the memories he had, Bourne knew he had seemed rogue and irrational. But then, it had been the most reasonable thing to do and expect. What else should he have done? Let himself be captured at the embassy? It probably would have helped, but it also meant that Treadstone would have never been shut down, and he would still be a killer. Bourne began to write notes, resting his head in his free hand. He had all his memories; he could tell what his side was. But then David Webb decided to remember that he didn't have all of his memory back.

She was still missing from them, like patches cut out of a quilt design or smudges on a sheet of glass. The only thing he remembered was that first meeting. He had taken to memorizing her face at that point, and still he had not been able to pinpoint any of her emotions, other than something about him had attracted her and her him. It was frustrating. Trying to keep her out of her thoughts, as she had crept into them again, he looking down at what he had started on.

He hadn't made any progress. Written in neat lines across the paper, four lines down, was her name endlessly repeated, like the words in her head. Angry he started to crumple the paper up to start over—and found he couldn't. The sight of him about to crumple up paper that had her name on it struck something in the back of his mind; and no matter how hard he smashed his will into it, he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it. Bourne eventually sighed. He folded it and put it into a coat pocket next to his heart. For some reason he felt like that was where it belonged.

He gave up trying to think of anything else, and so he began to focus on what he would say when he found her. 'Could you tell me you're haunting my dreams and my thoughts are obsessed with you? I kind of don't remember any relationship we may have had, and I was hoping you could fill me in, so that there's a chance we might continue it?' After several minutes of hard thought, Bourne still didn't have much to say, other that asking why he couldn't stop thinking about her. He glanced at his clock, and decided he could work on it tomorrow.

*****

"I've been having headaches," Bourne muttered, staring down at the ground. He was having one at the moment; his temples felt like they were going to burst on the way driving here. Maybe he would ditch the car and walk home; he could come back for it later. Movement caught his attention, and he glanced up to see her staring intently at him. All of his concentration became focused on her as that indescribable mix of emotions on her face played tricks with his head.

For a long time, neither spoke, watching the other's facial expressions. It was an attracting experience for him; only the others and Conklin could read how he was standing or looking, and only the others could reply in kind. Nicky was different; she could hold an entire conversation with that captivating face that ensnared the best of his training attempts to restrain himself.

"Maybe it's stress," Nicky finally said, cutting some of the tension that had risen in the room. Bourne read her face more than her words; she didn't want a nonverbal conversation right now because she was scared of something. To be honest with himself, something was making Bourne uncomfortable.

He had been seeing her as his handler and psychologist for over a year now. And each time their exchange of expressions made him more…more of a predator, more desirable to hunt. Hunt what, he didn't know; his training didn't let him explore the strange region in his mind. But the desire remained. His attraction to her, to hunt something in her that made her so special, was a powerful force. And perhaps she felt the same thing; there was familiarity to what she felt in her features sometimes. Although he would never admit any of this; he was supposed to be Treadstone's best. And he was…scared to mention it to her.

"When do you get them the most?" Nicky asked, cutting Bourne out of his reflective trance. He thought back on what the topic had been before. It was difficult; she had such an interesting face, openly willing and eager to listen to what he had to say.

"When I'm driving," Bourne answered first. He thought little more about it and then opened his mouth to speak again. Nicky's phone went off.

Bourne leaped to his feet and had the handgun that was always on him out, safety released as he drew it. His body tensed and his adrenaline started to pump. But at a reassuring, relaxing look from his handler, his entire body relaxed. Nicky had nothing to fear; it was her cell phone. Bourne had known it was her cell phone. Why had he reacted so much to it?

"Nicky Parsons," Nicky answered. Bourne could hear traces of Conklin's voice on the other line. "What? Yes, he's right here. Sure," Nicky replied after pauses. She turned towards him, and in another nonverbal conversation, all the fear she suddenly felt was known to him, and he was ready to kill; he didn't even care if he was overreacting. "Conklin wants to talk to you," she explained, offering the phone.

Bourne forced himself to relax. He had to maintain appearances to keep her calm. Underneath, he was churning, already evaluating the room and Nicky's protection. Why was he acting this way? It was distracting towards his training. Watching the windows, doors, and trying not to think about her face, he answered the phone. "Jason Bourne."

*****

Jason leaped out of bed, hands up in the air and holding a pillow as a weapon. He heard his own phone ringing and relaxed, letting the adrenaline wear out. As he dropped the pillow and reached for his cell phone, he glanced at the clock. It was an hour or so after midnight. That and the fact that only one person had his number, made Bourne satisfied. It was very certain that Landy had the files for him, and was calling him to set up a meeting. Naturally he was already thinking of secluded secure places to talk. And his mind was ringing with the flashback he'd had in his dreams.

He flipped open the phone. "Jason Bourne," he answered, much like he had in the dream. He realized he was preparing to secure the room for Nicky's safety before he knew why. David tried to focus on the fact that it was a flashback, not right now. Nicky was not in any danger, and she was definitely not in the room, looking at him with deep, readable brown eyes for her protection.

The person who answered the phone was not who Jason expected. "West 102nd Street Bridge, thirty minutes. Come armed if you want; I'll be waiting with the rescinding files." Then the phone hung up. Jason recognized the voice even though it had only ever spoken one sentence to him, consisting of six words. It was the asset he had gone up against in Waterloo, in the streets of New York, and who had let him go on the rooftop. For seconds he wondered why he had been contacted by the former asset and not by Landy. But Jason Bourne didn't care; if he could confirm those orders, even through another, then Nicky was safe and he could chase her haunting instead.

Bourne grabbed a coat, loaded a handgun, and walked out of the room, locking it behind him. On his way down the stairs, he thought about the dream he'd had. It took him a moment to realize he was touching the paper with her name written on it endlessly as he was thinking. Had that just been a dream, or was it a returning memory like so many others? If it was, Bourne didn't like it; it was one of Nick in danger. He was absolutely certain of it, even though whatever Conklin had said he couldn't remember. And he had been willing to die then to protect her.

Would he ever, even after he found out why her face and words invaded his mind, be free of her? The more important question was: did he want to be free of her? It was eerily similar to Treadstone. Treadstone had been affecting his health and he had wanted to break free. She was affecting his mental health, and he was wondering if he would be free of her. But what if, instead of being free of her, the thoughts about her became beneficial to his health instead, and he wanted to be enthralled with her face and presence? He wanted to be at the moment, and the loss was hurting him. Would he heal simply seeing her again? How deep had their relationship been during Treadstone? How on earth had Conklin not known?

The bridge loomed ahead. Standing off in a corner, staring down at the water, was the asset from London. He was positioned in a way that relaxed Bourne from reaching from his gun; the asset was assuring him he meant no harm. There may have been a handgun at the asset's hip, but nothing in his posture said he intended to use it. There was a folder in his hands. Bourne walked faster, making a few loud steps so he didn't arrive silently.

The other turned around, half in anticipation, half in reaction to the loud footsteps on the pavement. His posture relaxed when he saw it was Bourne, but he kept his guard up. Bourne did, too, out of habit. They had been trying to kill each other two weeks ago, after all. Still, at least they hadn't attacked each other on sight; it was a start. What Bourne did notice, though, was that the other was struggling with something against how he stood.

They stared at each other for a moment, waiting for some unknown signal to start their conversation. Neither seemed to know what it was, and they didn't make any attempt to discover what it was. The silence built as Bourne studied him. He tried to communicate with his posture, like he had with the Treadstone agents when he was part of the program. But the other seemed unwilling to do so, trying to restrain himself from answering. Was it a conscious or unconscious effort to communicate, or to restrain himself? Bourne might have asked him about it, but he didn't even know his name.

"Jason Bourne," he introduced, holding out a hand tentatively. The London asset glanced around before accepting and shaking it tentatively.

"Paz," he replied. The silence immediately seemed to fall away as whatever key started, allowing the conversation to begin. "Jason Bourne? Not David Webb?"

"I'm Jason with the best of David," Bourne answered. "It's easier that way. Why are you here instead of Landy?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Paz explained. "With words. Using words makes it easier to ignore my Black Briar training." That explained why he was so resistant to talk using posture and stance; he was trying to put Black Briar behind him. Bourne had never thought of that; reading stances had kept him alive since he had been pulled out of the water.

"Why did you want to talk?" Bourne asked. Paz glanced around before speaking, hand brushing the gun he had.

"I wanted to thank you. You could've killed me, but you let me live. Now I get a chance to live like a person."

"You spared me, too."

"That was different. You gave me a new life; I just didn't shoot you. You would've survived anyway. You survived being shot by Vosen. Here's the folder," Paz offered, giving it to Bourne. Bourne accepted it and opened it up, examining the words. He briefly scanned it, as he did a tense knot he'd known about relaxed and his entire body filled with relief. The standing-kill order for him and her was rescinded; her safety was ensured. Now he could find and confront her about why his thoughts were obsessed with her. Finally, he could become the predator and chase this confusion and emotion, instead of the other way around.

"Thank you," Jason thanked. "This means a lot to me." A small silence started to ensue, and Paz suddenly turned around, drawing his weapon. Without hesitation Bourne had his out, too. They both examined their surroundings with scrutiny only known to former CIA assassins. "What do you see?"

"Nothing," Paz admitted, putting his gun away. "I was just getting tense. Are you sure you weren't followed, no one chasing you?"

"No; why?"

"You look…" Paz trailed off as his body language adjusted to mirror Bourne's while he took the other man in. "You look like you've been chased by several agents in the space of a few days, or like somebody's trying to kill you. You're tense and wary, like something's hunting you. You look like you're being hunted into the ground."

Bourne couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was it so obvious in his face and stance? Could Paz, who barely knew him, see that something hunted him and haunted his thoughts every day? Because Bourne, and even David, knew that he was being hunted, only it wasn't by any physical enemy. It was by her words and her face—her incredible, confusing, wonderful face! She stalked him with his memories of her and by the hidden history they might have.

"It's not a person," Bourne assured, "Just memories and thoughts." Paz understood what he meant. Perhaps he was pursued by something as well. "So what will you do?"

"See a psychologist," Paz replied. "I want to straighten myself out. The CIA is offering to make me a consultant, under Landy. That's how I knew about this. What about you?"

"I have my own psychologist," Bourne said, turning to leave.

"It's her, isn't it?"

Bourne's steps froze. Paz didn't move, checking to see whether he had been right or if he'd unleashed a predator. "Your movement mirrors hers a little. She's what's hunting you, isn't she?"

"Her face hunts me. Unknown history hunts me," Bourne muttered over his shoulder. He gripped the folder tightly. "I can't escape her, and I don't know if I want to."

"Good luck with yourself, then," Paz offered awkwardly. Unsure of what to do afterwards, they stood in place. Eventually Paz walked past him, bumping him. Bourne caught the phone he handed him and slipped it into the pocket. He was certain he had an ally. Now to find her. He had been right; he couldn't escape her. But David wanted the word escape changed. Bourne agreed. David wanted to change it to 'live without.' Bourne wasn't sure what to make of it.

He started down the street, already thinking ahead. Her words rang through his head again, and instead of feeling hunted, Bourne felt more alive.