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1. The Professor
Jason has killed. Lately, that seems to be the only thing from her past life that she has left - his violent, incomplete memories. She'll sit and listen as he tries to piece together what happened on those cold, dreary nights, in faraway cities that can't possibly be real, not when she's living in a motel or a hut or a shack. Sometimes he'll remember his victims' names, sometimes he won't, and she'll hold his head to her chest to keep him from shaking.
It's a ritual, she realizes. If he remembers their name, he puts them to rest and he never, ever mentions them again. The nightmares don't stop, though. Those don't ever stop.
It's hard, being the rock in someone's life.
--
They're in Bangkok, sitting in an outdoor café. She reads a book, he reads the faces in the crowd. When his gaze rests on somebody over her shoulder, she turns around to see a tall man in glasses, standing at the far end of the street. She tries to figure out what about him Jason thinks is worth noticing. She can't see it. She usually doesn't.
"The Professor," he says suddenly. She turns back to Jason and gives him a look. "The man they sent after us, outside of Paris, the one I killed. His name was the Professor."
"That's not a name."
"It was his name."
"Jason," she says and reaches across the table to place a hand on his. "You saved us. Me, Eamon, the children. You saved us." He looks at her but his expression is unreadable. His gaze slips back to the crowd as he resumes his mental catalogue of the passersby - neutral, neutral, potential threat, neutral - and he draws his hand away.
She sighs. She wishes he would stop. She wishes they could stop.
--
They're in Lagos. A little girl in the marketplace stops her and before she can protest, snaps a Polaroid. She has no choice but to place a few coins in the girl's open hand in exchange for the picture, and for a moment, she allows herself to stare at it, at her long, blonde hair and puzzled expression. She doesn't recognize herself. She's changed so much.
The woman in the picture is someone else entirely. She is someone who used to run from permanence - she worked only freelance, stayed only as long as her visa would allow, slept only with married men. Her idea of the future never extended further than a few months. And then, suddenly, without warning, she fell in love. She started imagining her life with him, a year from now, ten years, twenty. She started wanting things that weren't possible. She hopes for things he can't give her.
That woman is someone else entirely.
She should burn the picture - keeping it would be such a stupid and careless mistake, when they've worked so hard at leaving behind no trace - but instead, she slips it into her pocket.
Jason is waiting for her when she gets back. He strips her naked, pins her against the wall, whispers her name over and over as if she is all he has left. Afterwards, half-asleep, he asks her if she likes it here. She says she does. He brought them to Lagos for her, because once, a long time ago, she said she liked the ocean best. It isn't smart, living only in cities near the ocean, creating a pattern that can be traced, but he does this for her.
He keeps her safe.
--
They're in- it doesn't matter where. One night, in a bed, in a house, in a country, she places a hand across his chest and feels the opening and closing of his heart. There is an ocean outside.
He turns to her, breathes her name into her neck. In this moment - in this one, still moment - there is no other place to be.
She did not choose this life.
2. Kirill
"Pamela Landy."
"Did you get my gift?"
"Bourne?"
"Don't bother tracing this call."
"I won't. I can't. I'm at home right now."
"I know. Don't. Don't close the curtains either."
"All right, Bourne. I'm listening."
"I sent you a package."
"Yes, I got it."
"I trust... you'll do the right thing with it."
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"Gretkov's been arrested. There's going to be a hearing for Abbott, for the things he's done. To you. To a lot of people."
"Do you think that's enough? Do think that makes up for anything?"
"Come in. Come in and let's figure this out together."
"..."
"Bourne?"
"I went to visit her."
"Who?"
"The daughter. Neski's daughter. To tell her the truth. I gave her some money. I didn't know what else to do."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"She's alone now."
"I wanted to say- I wanted to say I'm sorry. About India. About Marie Kreutz."
"What would you know about that."
"The man they sent after you in Goa, his name was Kirill. I had them pull up his files, in case- I thought you'd want to know. He wasn't one of ours, he was Russian Secret Service. He was..."
"An assassin? A bad person? Just doing his job?"
"I don't know, I don't know what he was. I'm just glad... you got to him, in the end."
"This isn't the end. This doesn't end with Kirill, or Abbott. That's why I'm calling, to tell you I'm not stopping until this is finished. Until there is nothing and no one from Treadstone left. I thought you'd want to know that. I know how much you hate surprises."
"If you do this, they're going to come after you. They're going to send me after you."
"I wouldn't want anyone else."
"Bourne."
"Goodbye, Pam."
3. Desh
She lives very far away now. She set it up through Pam Landy and nobody else. Her file was closed, she was erased. She doesn't believe everything she was told but she believes enough of it to live in some kind of peace. It's over. The people who matter think Jason Bourne is dead because they want so badly for him to be, and as long as things stay that way, she can just be a footnote in his casefile. Nicolette Parsons: accomplice. Whereabouts: unknown. Priority: low.
She has regrets. Four years of loyal service and this is what her career comes down to, a handful of words on a piece of paper that in the end, no matter how you phrase it, calls her a traitor. These are the things she has given up for him.
It's taken her a while, but she's finally come to the decision that it was not worth it.
--
She wakes up one night to find him sitting in the chair in the far corner of her room. Is she surprised?
She's not unfamiliar with it, at least. This is how it started, years ago in Paris.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he says from the darkness.
"I know."
"How?"
You kissed me. You held me. You made love to me. "You saved me from Desh," she says finally. He watches as she reaches for her robe, then follows her into the kitchen. The light is blinding when she turns it on.
"Sit down," she says when she notices him hovering in the doorway, as if he doesn't know what to do with himself. His jacket falls open as he seats himself across from her at her bare, cramped table, and she catches a glimpse of a gun tucked into the back of his jeans. For a moment she's tempted to ask where he's been, what he's been doing. She thinks better of it.
"I wanted to make sure you were all right," he says after a moment. That's a lie. He wants answers; that's all he's ever wanted from her.
"Just ask what you came here to ask," she says bluntly. Solitude has made her bolder. He looks away.
"I wanted to know what I was like, before." She only looks at him. "I wanted to know... how you remember me."
She shakes her head. "It wasn't like that. There's nothing to remember."
"Were we in love?"
"No," she says without hesitation. She can't read his expression, if he's relieved or if he's disappointed. "No, we weren't in love."
And that's the truth. He wasn't.
She feels frayed. This is unfair to her. He stands up from the table suddenly and backs away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here."
She doesn't stop him when he leaves, when he disappears again.
--
This is how she remembers him:
The night before he leaves to take out Wombosi, he wakes her up by sliding into her bed, pinning her down, whispering her name over and over as if she is all he has left. She brings her hand up to his face and holds his gaze. There's cruelty in his eyes, and softness.
"David," she says. "David."
[ end ]