Author's Note: I should say something here about some of my "research" for this story. I used to work as an office assistant for a case manager with the developmentally disabled. As a result, I do have a lot of understanding on the different things individuals on the various Waiver programs require. I did some research into Nevada's Department of Health programs, and what's in this chapter is what I was able to find. If it's not accurate and you know what it is, please let me know.

Also, a gentleman at my church found out I was writing this story and started asking me about it. He is a vet, and he gave me some advice that I've tried to keep in mind concerning Aaron and Jason. Part of it was that they needed something to DO with themselves to be productive and not let the energy and adrenaline just gather up. So, with all of that out of the way, please enjoy the next chapter and let me know what you think! ~lg

oOo

One month later. . . .

Aaron should have been sleeping. He knew it as he walked into his kitchen and pulled a drink from the fridge. He had just spent hours working on the upstairs bathroom—the one guests would use if he ever had them—and was beyond tired. The decrepit plumbing in the house had already been replaced, but the fixtures had not. He started out with the intention of taking the wallpaper down and replacing the toilet. The room was still in a state of chaos because, halfway through the process, he took a trip to the hardware store and found tile, fixtures, and paint he liked. When he was done, it would look fantastic. Until then, it felt unfinished. And he hated leaving anything unfinished.

Flopping onto the couch, Aaron supposed he shouldn't have been surprised to find himself the owner of a restoration business. He'd always been good with his hands. Even before Outcome and the military, he had loved to take old things and make them new. He remembered days spent in a workshop with an ancient table or dresser, lovingly sanding it and restoring it to its original beauty. He had never been allowed to use power tools or chemicals without supervision, but the people at the state home had seen some value in his work. There were homes in Reno that still had his pieces sitting in them, the pride and joy of their owners who never knew the "poor disabled boy" that had done the work now lived free from those labels.

Running a hand over his mouth, Aaron sighed tiredly. Go to bed, his mind whispered. But he was restless. If he went upstairs and climbed into the king-sized bed, he'd just stare at the ceiling and wonder how it had all gone so wrong. How had his life devolved into living the dream he'd kept so close for years without the woman with whom he wanted to share it? A rock settled into his stomach, and he set aside the beer in favor of pacing around the house.

He'd gone to see Marta that day during his trip to the hardware store. All told, it ate up a good four hours just to drive the distance, have lunch with her, and drive home with the back of his truck loaded with supplies. There were hardware stores closer to his house with the same things, but he had been unable to say no when she called and asked for lunch. It was the first time they'd seen each other in nearly two weeks.

Thunder rumbled outside as Aaron looked around his home. The furniture that had once seemed so inviting looked old and tired. He'd meant to get new furniture, but there had been bigger problems with the house. It had good bones, yes. But he had needed a month to get it up to his standards. After living so long on the run, in and out of hotels and flophouses and dingy hiding spots, he needed this house to be perfect. Maybe then. . . .Pushing that thought away, he stood as the first drops of rain pattered against his window.

He couldn't say what set him off. Maybe it was the neighbor's dog barking or a slight change in the sound of the rain. He just suddenly knew that someone was outside his house. The rain settled heavily over the area, distorting his hearing as he ducked away from the window. Putting his back against an inside wall to prevent casting shadows, he found the .45 he'd tucked under the table next to the door. Quickly flipping the safety off, he threw open his front door and stepped outside, leading with the gun in his left hand.

Jason Bourne stood at the end of his driveway, staring at the house with a confused expression.

After a quick search showed the two men were alone in the night, Aaron dropped the gun to his side. "Bourne."

The other man's head snapped around, and he met Aaron's eyes. "You said I could come here if I needed anything."

Aaron nodded. "Yeah." He tucked the gun in the small of his back, knowing Bourne likely had one on him as well. "Come in."

The two men eyed each other warily as Jason Bourne stepped onto the porch. He glanced down. "You want me inside like this?"

Aaron studied the other man, seeing the way the water dripped off of him and pooled at his feet. He motioned to one of the wooden rockers he'd placed on the porch. "Drink?"

"Sure." Bourne settled in the chair while Aaron slipped back inside.

The whole time he pulled two beers from the fridge and popped the lids off of them, Aaron's mind whirled. He had left his address with Bourne in Johannesburg, but he'd never expected the Treadstone operative to take him up on his offer. Men like Aaron and Bourne didn't mix well, not when they became accustomed to working alone. Both of them had too much baggage, too many years spent avoiding death and living in the shadows. It was one reason Outcome never allowed their agents to knowingly meet. That many operatives in one location could be very bad for everyone. They'd either kill each other or wreak havoc on the world around them.

But Bourne and Aaron were different. Aaron returned to the porch, seeing that Jason had leaned back in the chair and was watching the rain that fell in sheets. The wind blew the water away from the porch, so they only got marginally damp. Well, he did. Bourne was completely soaked. He offered the beer to his guest. "Here."

Bourne took the drink and sipped at it while Aaron sat down in the other rocker—the one near the door. If Bourne wanted in the house, he'd have to go through Aaron. Aaron hoped that didn't happen because, frankly, he was proud of this porch. It had been his first project on the house, and he liked sitting out here while kids played and adults arrived home from work. No one realized it, but he kept watch, protecting his neighbors the best way he knew how.

Finally, Bourne sighed and shook his head. "How do you do it?" When Aaron simply raised a confused eyebrow, he clarified, "Go back to an old life?"

Aaron lifted his chin once as he turned to watch the dark street and the water that caught the nearby streetlight. "You don't," he said simply. At Bourne's sharp glance, he decided he needed to explain as well. "I never had this. The house and car and job. It just. . . ." He shrugged with one shoulder. "It wasn't for me."

"What did you have?"

"Truthfully?" Aaron sat back in his chair, propping his feet on the porch railing. Beside him, Bourne braced his elbows on his knees and cradled the beer bottle in his hands between them, waiting for an answer. "I had a state home and an Individual Service Plan. Case worker, physical therapist, speech and language pathologist, the whole bit. It's what they give to people on the HCBS Waiver program."

"HCBS?"

"Yeah. The Medicaid Home and Community-Based Services Waiver." Aaron took a long drink. "It's what they give to people who are. . .challenged. Mentally."

Bourne stared at him. "You were. . . .They duped you? Into joining?"

"Yeah." Aaron clearly remembered the way he was recruited into the program. If I pass, can I stay here? That question had changed his life, and he hadn't even known what he was signing up for. "They gave me the chems—program medication—that countered the. . .uh. . .developmental issues. Made me a little more normal."

Bourne snorted. "We're not normal."

Aaron eyed him. "What's your story?"

"I chose this." Bourne shook his head. "It took years to remember after I lost my memory. I couldn't even remember my own name until someone told me I was Jason Bourne. I thought I could get away from it, thought I could go back to being David Webb—whoever that was. But. . . ." He sighed. "I just kept running. Kept being Jason Bourne. Now, I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself."

Aaron sympathized. If it hadn't been for Marta, Landy, and the CIA, he would be in the same boat. He had been in the same boat for nearly three months after everything ended. While he had an idea of what he needed to do for the sake of his and Marta's future, he still felt that same restlessness. Everything had changed so drastically, and he couldn't just be Aaron Cross, business owner and quiet neighbor, any more than Bourne could be David Webb.

Eying the man next to him, Aaron's mind whirled. He had plenty of room, and he had something that Bourne could do, but he wasn't certain the other man would want it. "If you want, you can stay here for a bit." When Bourne glanced over suddenly, he shrugged. "I've got this big house, a job you can start on. It's not much, but it's what I've got."

Bourne met his eyes. "You'd take another operative into your home? Just like that?"

Aaron smirked. "Who else is going to understand why I roll out of bed with a gun when I just hear the dog barking next door?" As the other man nodded, he continued, "There's a big room above the garage. The bathroom up there works, but it's still being remodeled. And I've got plenty of work here at the house or on two other job sites around the area if you're up for a little physical labor."

Bourne looked back over the dark front yard. The rain was letting up, becoming a steady, gentle beat rather than the pounding downpour of a few moments ago. Aaron gave the man room to think, standing and stepping inside while leaving the door open. He carried half of his drink to the kitchen and poured it down the sink, not needing anything to dull his senses right now. He'd always been able to hold his liquor after his upgrades, but he saw no need to tempt fate. He puttered around the kitchen, loading a few dishes into the dishwasher and starting it before slipping into the garage to start a load of laundry. All the while, the front door let in the cool midnight air and reminded him that he wasn't alone.

Finally, Bourne appeared in the doorway. He glanced around the house and found Aaron in the kitchen. "Nice place."

Aaron leaned against the archway that led to the hall with his office, downstairs bathroom, and the stairs. "I like it. Been slowly restoring and updating it as I have time."

Bourne closed the door behind him, careful to wipe his feet on the rug Aaron had put next to the door for that purpose. "You sure about this?"

"You gonna shoot me in my sleep?"

"No."

"Okay." Aaron pushed off the wall and motioned behind him. "Room's this way."

It only took a few moments for him to show Bourne to the guest room and explain the eccentricities of the currently-destroyed bathroom. Afterward, he slipped through his house, securing the premises as well as ever, set the alarm, and settled in his bed. Staring at the ceiling, he felt the rock that had been in his stomach ease just a touch. So, it wasn't Marta, and he still didn't have the white picket fences like he'd dreamed. But he had helped someone else. Jason Bourne might not be the picture of a person in need, but men like Bourne and Aaron didn't just settle back into suburban life without a few bumps along the way. Aaron had had Marta to help him. Maybe Bourne didn't need anyone except another ex-operative who had walked that road.

With those thoughts in mind, Aaron Cross closed his eyes and slept.

oOo

Jason Bourne stood just inside the door of Cross's guest room, looking around and trying to find it in himself to keep from bolting out the window. The place was nice—as nice as any hotel he'd stayed in over the years. The queen-sized bed was covered in a pale blue comforter with chocolate brown trim. The whole set—comforter, pillows, shams, bed skirt, and sheets—looked like something ordered from a catalog while the bed was a simple wrought iron piece that was almost too perfect. If Cross had started setting this place up shortly after he returned to the States, then the guy likely had no idea how to make a room not look like a hotel.

But Jason appreciated the effort. He slipped out of his still-wet shoes, letting his feet sink into the plush brown rug that covered the sitting area. The hard wood flooring glowed, and a fireplace waited for someone to enjoy the heat it would provide. Above the mantle, a print of a mountain landscape broke the gray walls and gave the whole area a warmth that, even if it did feel like a hotel, helped Jason to relax slightly. It would take months, if not years, for him to lose the hyper-vigilance that had kept him alive.

Peeling his wool coat from his shoulders, he found some empty hangars in the closet. He'd arrived with nothing more than the clothes on his back, not an unfamiliar situation but one that had suddenly become a bit awkward. Cross had obviously known this would happen when he returned, that Jason would struggle to find his equilibrium in a world that didn't want him dead for just existing. It had taken hearing the news from Pamela Landy's mouth—as well as watching the hours of video detailing the arrests and trials of men like Ezra Kramer, Ric Byer, Noah Vosen and others—for him to believe it was all real. After that, he traveled to Goa, to that bridge where Marie died because she'd been helping him. There, he struggled to move forward without her even though he still, on some level, loved and missed her. Afterward, he found himself in Seattle and then here.

What was he going to do with himself? Jason finally crawled under the blankets and lay staring at the ceiling. He couldn't go on living in another man's house—even if said man had opened up the guest room for as long as he needed it—or wandering from one place to another. Aaron Cross had obviously recovered well and found something that suited him. But Jason had always been a soldier, a killer. He'd always had that propensity for violence. Other than law enforcement or private security, there really wasn't much in the way of professions for a former spy and assassin. Not legal professions, anyway.

Could he really pick up the threads of the life he'd left behind? Did he want to pick up those threads? Or did he want to take Cross up on his offer, learn a trade, and let Jason Bourne be more than a killer? Those questions hounded him into sleep and woke with him shortly after sunrise the next morning. Sitting up suddenly, Jason blinked at the room, now bright with sunlight. His shoes still lay near the fireplace, the closet door slightly ajar and his wool coat peeking out. He'd stripped down to his skivvies to allow his clothes to dry out, and he now dressed quickly. His jeans felt a bit stiff, but he could get through the day with those. He'd just ask Cross for the nearest menswear outlet and pick out some clothes and luggage.

After darting across the hall to the mostly-functional bathroom for a quick shower, Jason finally made his way downstairs. The aroma of frying bacon had trickled up to the bathroom while he'd bathed, and he found Cross in the kitchen, cooking breakfast while listening to country music on a small iPod. The Outcome agent eyed Jason slightly before pointing at a plate already filled with eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, toast, and fruit. It was big breakfast, just the thing a man needed when he had a full day ahead of him.

Jason picked up the plate and carried it to the table, taking a few moments to really absorb the beauty of the house. Cross had picked well if he wanted the American dream. The sliding doors near the dining table opened onto a patio with a grill, grass that extended around and behind the house, and a tall cedar fence. The home's hardwood floors glowed down here just as they had upstairs, and the kitchen sported the worst wallpaper and linoleum Jason had seen in the States. "Nice place," he said, realizing he was repeating himself from the night before. But it was true. The more he saw of the house, the more he began to understand why Cross invited him to stay. This house was Cross's way of rebuilding after Outcome.

Cross glanced up from where he'd just finished buttering his own toast. "Thanks." He carried his plate to the table and settled across from Jason. "Bought it seven months ago. Looked nothing like this."

Jason waited until the other man started to eat. "So, you mentioned you've got a job for me?"

Cross braced his forearms on the table. "If you're up for it." He motioned around them. "I renovate old homes, sometimes restore them."

"That explains the bathroom upstairs."

Cross snickered. "That was a shopping spree at the hardware store."

Jason narrowed his eyes. "Is it always like this?" he asked. "Everything feeling so. . .disconnected."

Cross shrugged. "I dunno." He ate a piece of bacon while he thought. "Was for me." He turned and stared directly at Jason. "Men like us don't get nice homes and settled lives. We get war zones and. . . ." His voice trailed off for a moment. "It's kind of nice to be bored for a change."

Jason nodded. "So, you want me to work for you?"

"Yeah," Cross said. "Look, it's not the greatest job out there, but it's work. And it's different enough from what I had that I like it. Before Outcome, I liked restoring old things. Now, I can actually do something with that."

Jason ate a few bites of his eggs. "I don't have any experience. Not with construction work."

"Can you swing a hammer? Use a paintbrush?" When Jason nodded, Cross continued, "You'll learn."

The two men ate in silence until their plates were empty. Jason carried his to the sink and rinsed it, watching Cross finish his coffee from the corner of his eye. "So, as soon as I get on my feet, I'll be out of your hair."

Cross eyed him. "Room's yours as long as you need it." He stood, letting out a deep sigh. "Take the day, get your bearings. I'll be working around here most of it, so you can use the truck if you need to. Just have it back by. . . ." He eyed his watch. ". . .by four. I've got plans tonight."

With that, Cross tossed him a set of keys and headed for the garage. Jason watched the man go, stunned that his immediate future had been so easily decided. He still had questions, but the thought of actually holding down a job, earning a paycheck, and living on a schedule appealed more than he cared to admit. Pocketing the keys, he straightened the kitchen and then, after poking his head into the tool-filled garage where Cross was cutting tile with a wet-saw, climbed in the truck. He needed a few things if he was going to settle in Chicago.

oOo

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?" Dr. Marta Shearing stood in her large kitchen, staring at Aaron as he leaned against the counter next to the stove. He had come directly from work, something she could tell by the sturdy jeans and scuffed steel-toed boots he wore. Somehow, he made grungy, work-stained clothes look incredible, and she had yet to figure out how he learned that particular skill. It wasn't exactly part of his training regimen for Outcome.

He met her eyes, his face unreadable. "Marta, remember how I was those first few months? Remember when you would go to work and come home to find me still on the couch, just waiting for an attack and unable to do anything because I didn't know what to do?"

Her eyes closed as she thought of those days. They'd been hard. She had her work to keep her busy, to help her adjust to a nine-to-five schedule and the mundane existence of American life. Aaron had struggled to relax in their tiny apartment, jumping at the slightest thing and barely sleeping. He'd been so lost when she left each day, telling him she would be okay, that her heart had broken over and over again.

But time had healed both of them. She still had her job, working in virology with the full understanding that her work would one day change the course of medicine. And he'd bought a house and started a business. Somehow, the process of finding and purchasing the home combined with the physical labor he did on a daily basis helped ground him in ways she hadn't seen except in rare moments while they'd been on the run. Aaron had always been her anchor, and she had only seen that steadiness blossom over the last seven months. It really shouldn't surprise her that he had taken a fellow operative into his home, but it did.

When she did open her eyes, Aaron had moved across her expansive living room to look out the windows. Her apartment had a fantastic view of Lake Michigan, and she smiled every morning and evening. Tonight, the sunset had changed the sky to a deep purple while the city sparkled around her. It only made the warm hard wood floors, light tan walls, and bright lights of her home all the more appealing. The open spaces and modern furniture in tones of cream, country blue, and rich red completed the look. It was exactly what Marta would have wanted for herself when she and Aaron used to hold each other at night and dream of the future.

But their future was different from those dreams. In those times, they'd imagined themselves together, holding one another in their bed at night and listening to the breathing of children that Aaron believed would never exist. When they finally brought down Outcome, Marta wondered if they might have a chance. But she was getting older, and Aaron moved out of the city to a house so perfect that it made her heart break every time she went over there. He'd bought that house for her, she knew. But she just couldn't leave the city. Not now, with her work and the ability to conference and publish. She had everything she'd wanted back when she worked at Sterisyn-Morlanta. . .except Aaron.

At one time, she would have gone to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and let him hold her while they talked about why he'd allowed Jason Bourne to live in his house. But those days had ended. Back in Sydney, Australia, when Marta realized she loved Aaron, she had thought it was something that would last forever. She felt so strongly about it and had wondered if she could stand to live if anything happened to him.

Now, she knew better. They still shared dinner at least once a week unless she had to work, and they talked on the phone often. But not as often as they once had. She had allowed herself to get so caught up in her job, to go out with friends to discuss research instead of joining Aaron for quiet dinners in the house he bought for her, to separate herself from him. It had happened gradually, almost without her realizing it. Now, he stood and stared over Lake Michigan, arms crossed as he obviously worked out his latest issue, while she hesitated in the kitchen of her perfect, yet lonely, apartment.

Fishing around her brain for a topic of conversation, she threw out the first question that came to mind. "How's the house coming?"

He turned and eyed her as she joined him at the window. His arms still crossed over his chest, he looked utterly at ease and tense all at once. "Good. I got started on the upstairs bathroom yesterday and got the tile down. Bourne's got to use the one downstairs until I get it grouted and sealed. New fixtures in." He shrugged. "I'll probably get ready to do everything except painting tomorrow. Then, it'll be done."

Awkward silence fell again, and Marta sighed. This wasn't working. Aaron didn't want to talk, and she didn't feel like drawing him out of his moodiness. He went through stages like this, when he just closed down everything and wouldn't let her in. She'd seen them most often right after they'd argued or immediately following their move to Chicago. Since moving to Arlington Heights, giving her some space and him some badly needed focus, the moods had dropped away. Until now. "Aaron?"

He shook his head, sighing deeply as he rubbed his eyes. "I'm okay. Just. . . ." He studied her for a long moment. "I should probably go. I didn't sleep real well last night, and. . . ." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Having a man like Jason Bourne in his house probably kept him from resting.

Marta nodded. "Drive safe."

He walked to the door and pulled his keys from his pocket, shrugging into that leather jacket she loved to see him wear. He met her eyes, holding her gaze and trying to pass something along to her. But she failed to understand it. Finally, he sighed. "I'll call you. Maybe we can do dinner at my place next week."

"I'd like that." She smiled as he closed the door behind him, the smile falling away as his footsteps faded.

How had it gone so wrong? Marta returned to the kitchen, finishing up the few dishes that her conversation with Aaron had left behind. They'd enjoyed Italian tonight, having decided on take-out since both of them were tired from work. After eating, he had followed her into the kitchen to clean up the mess they'd made while trying—and failing—to make dessert. For a time, they moved about in a synchronized pattern, so accustomed to one another that they just knew what to do. They had laughed together, something Marta missed, and she saw several times when Aaron thought about kissing her. Part of her wished he had while the other part was grateful he'd withdrawn. She wasn't ready to discuss what went wrong, especially when she knew that she'd be unable to resist if Aaron decided to let their relationship get physical again.

Wandering back over to the windows, Marta stopped long enough to grab the crocheted throw from the back of the couch and wrap it around herself. She'd started the habit when they paused in Switzerland during the winter. Folding a blanket around herself was comforting and familiar. Many times, Aaron would come up behind her and hold her that way, and it always made Marta smile. Now, she just had the blanket and no Aaron. And it was her fault. She insisted on staying in the city when he obviously needed to find a place of his own. She had the job, the fancy apartment, the nice car. She wasn't content to step away from the work that had, in many ways, created the man she loved. She was to blame.

And maybe that was the problem. Unfortunately, Marta didn't know how to fix it.

~TBC