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It's never bothered him before; the amnesia, that is. The empty gaps in his head frustrated him, angered him, but he never felt empty.
Or, maybe, he just didn't let himself notice.
Jason sits down. The rail car is almost empty, a few people scattered here and there, but sitting at window seats staring out at the countryside.
He has no interest in scenery, not right now. He casts a casual glance at it, assessing potential threats, and that's all he needs.
Needs.
Flexing his fingers, he looks down at his hands and wonders what it felt like to touch her.
'It was difficult for me. With you. You really don't remember, do you?'
He breathes in and closes his eyes. He doesn't. The few flashes he's had have been of the training, the conditioning, just enough to convince him there was nothing good in those memories.
He's not sure how he feels to know he was wrong.
-
He watches the news from Morocco, the sun not warm enough to ward off the chill left by the senate hearings push into his bones. He listens to everything—makes mental notes—and pays attention to the crowd. Landy shows only to testify before leaving the gallery without a backward glance. Nicky never shows at all.
Jason's relieved by that. They haven't found her. She's still out there and, for now, she's safe.
Safe, but alone, and that bothers him more than it should. Treadstone runs deep, like an iceberg, spreading out beneath the surface to touch. He saw just enough of Vosen's files to know they're exhaustive. Everyone should be there, but he's not stupid enough to think they are. Some names even Vosen would be afraid to invoke.
Those names might be worried enough to do something about Treadstone's loose ends.
At least, the ones they can reach. Nicky's one of the few pieces left with any knowledge of possible value. Without those pieces, Treadstone's nothing but a news bite to be pushed off the twenty-four hour cycle. She's not used to this side of the life. She's not an operative trained to vanish. She'll be easy to find if they care to look.
The thought hung heavy in his thoughts all through the days after he leaves her at that bus station. With the hearings dominating the news cycle, politicians scrambling left and right to cover their asses, he knows her name is on more than one person's list.
All it takes is one. Just one person to think they're safer with Nicky Parsons dead. One person who can make one call and send someone like him to hunt her down.
The day her name gets mentioned in testimony seals it. He can't wait to be sure. If there's a chance they're going after her, then he has to get there first.
-
Nicky doesn't look surprised to see him. He makes contact outside a grocery store, standing just across the street where he waits for her to notice. It doesn't take long. She stops in the doorway, arms wrapped around a paper bag, and stares at him without fear.
That's something, at least. He tries to think of this from her point of view, a familiar face looking at her like a stranger, and feels an unexpected guilt. He finds himself reluctant to think how it felt to be grabbed by him. Threatened.
'It was difficult for me. With you.'
He tries to smile. It feels awkward and out place these days, but he keeps trying. She shakes her head, possibly hiding a laugh behind the safety of the bag in her arms, then crosses the street to join him.
"Stop that," she says, when she's close enough. "You look like you're having a stroke."
That makes him laugh for real and Jason doesn't miss the relief in her eyes.
"Sorry," he says. "I just feel like I should remember—" Of everything, he should remember her.
She shrugs. "It's not your fault." Hair falls into her eye, she flicks it back with a toss of her head. "You've seen the news?"
He nods. "They mentioned you."
"I know. I was hoping they wouldn't." She hesitates. "They did more than mention you."
He shrugs. "Jason Bourne is dead."
"Is he?"
"I don't know," Jason says. He knows he doesn't want to be David Webb. Part of him is furious at David for getting him into this. He should probably be relieved he can feel furious at all. "But they think he is."
She smiles. "Landy doesn't."
He puts his hands in his pockets. "Pam'll never tell."
Nicky's eyebrows raise and he remembers she doesn't know about the rest of it. The urge to tell her everything catches him unawares and he changes the subject to safer ground. "There's a chance they'll be looking for you," he says. "You know too much."
Nicky nods, resigned. "I'm easier to find than you." She's been thinking about this and his uncertainty resolves into a strange sense of pride. Good girl. "We should get off the street."
"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"
She actually laughs, turning away. "My apartment's this way."
-
Her apartment is small, modest, sitting over a bakery. Jason takes in the entry points, exits, and approves. "Good choice."
She lets the paper bag slide through her fingers, landing quietly on a table, and doesn't smile. She's hiding it this time though, because he can tell she's pleased by his approval.
He catches himself wondering about what it was like before; with her. With them.
Nicky catches him watching her. She lets her coat slide from her shoulders, tossing it onto a chair with her scarf. She pointedly does not look at him as she says, "You want to know."
He breathes in and out, thinking that over. "Yes."
She changes her mind and picks it up. The apartment is small so she has to move past him to hang it up. His body adjusts to follow the motion of hers and his hand slides down her arm to tangle their fingers together.
They both freeze and he looks down, caught off guard by his own body. It's a familiar feeling at least.
Nicky makes a quiet noise, barely audible in the back of her throat, and the way he responds to that is unexpected too.
"Some things—"
"Muscle memory," she finishes. "Your body remembers the sensory cues even if your mind can't supply the context to go with them."
"Apparently," he says, and lets her go. "Sorry."
Her fingers brush his cheek, they're shaking, and he turns into the motion. For a second, just a second, he can feel her against him. He can see her neck as her head tips back against the wall and they're in the hallway outside his apartment.
A risk. Tactically unsound. He remembers letting himself follow the movement of her body, reaching out to unlock his apartment door even as his lips skimmed the line of her throat.
She's staring at him when he blinks free of the image.
"Something?"
He nods, clearing his throat. "Us."
She blushes. He likes it.
-
The apartment is a good choice, but they can't stay. "I knew something was wrong when you didn't come back," Nicky says as she packs. She doesn't take much, just throws some clothes, her computer, and a few other things into a bag, and she's done fast.
He takes the bag, curious to hear what else she can tell him. There's an ease there, beneath the awkwardness, and the urge to get to it is almost desperate.
"You were there?"
"No, we didn't—" Nicky coughs. "We didn't go back to your apartment much. Just enough to pretend we were—" she waves a hand. "They thought it was a ruse. Something we'd cooked up so I could have free access without anyone asking questions."
"They knew."
"Probably," she nods. "They would've considered it efficient. Good for your emotional and physical well-being."
"Must've worked," he says, leading her out into the night. "I was supposed to be the best, wasn't I?"
That startles a laugh out of her. "Yeah, I guess," she says, "You're welcome."
-
It's easier and harder after that. The past is always there. Nicky's good about ignoring it, pretending the ghost of the man he was isn't hanging over them every minute they're together, but Jason isn't.
Not when fragments of them creep into unexpected moments. She forgets to close her bedroom door and he sees her bare shoulder and head peeking over the white sheet, bringing back the sudden, visceral feeling of that skin beneath his fingertips. She laughs and he can hear her breath catch on a moan. She runs a hand through her hair and he can feel it wrap around his fingers as he grabs hold, fucking into her until she cries out and comes apart around him.
It's probably an improvement, waking up hard, aching, and reaching for someone who isn't there, but not by much.
He starts running at night. There's a beach not far from their house. He thinks he could run it blindfolded and not miss a step.
It becomes a routine of sorts and one he doesn't realize she's noticed until he comes back to find her making coffee. Her hair's growing out and she's pulled it back into a sorry attempt at a ponytail. His fingers itch to tug it loose and bury themselves in it.
"You scared the hell out of me, you know," she says, handing him one of the mugs.
"I'm sorry." The words are automatic. "I should've told you I was—"
"Not that," she says. "Wombosi. You disappeared, the mission failed, and everyone was searching and then—"
Marie.
He looks at the mug in his hands, the steam rising from the coffee into the air, and puts pieces together. "You thought that I'd planned it."
"I wasn't sure." She leans against the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped so tightly around her own mug he can see the way her knuckles have gone white. "Sometimes, I was never sure. The programming made it difficult to assimilate. Interpersonal relationships became tricky to someone programmed to operate from a tactical standpoint. Finding the balancing point was one of the biggest challenges they faced. You came the closest."
"And you thought I was testing myself with you?"
"At first." Nicky almost grins, but her mouth never quite makes it happen. "You were really bad at it. I thought you were trying to teach yourself how to be a person again."
He gets a flash of that too. Being in that safe house, sitting on the edge of her desk and letting her duck closer to fix his tie. "Never could tie those myself," he says, quoting himself in the moment.
"One of your favorites," Nicky says. "Until I realized you really couldn't. They spent millions developing that program and they couldn't teach you how to tie your own tie?"
"Nobody's perfect."
She looks at him and he sees her with his gun against her head. His smile fades.
"Especially not me."
-
It's dawn when his bed dips. He rolls to face her, sitting on the edge, and she looks down at him. Her expression is amused.
"Who said anything about perfection?"
He reaches out and she lets him pull her down. Her hair spills over her cheek and he brushes it away, watching her eyes close when his fingertips touch her skin.
"Guess I'm not any good at this either."
She curls her fingers around his. "You'll get better."