fic
Title: my heart in your hands
Fandom: Bourne movies
Spoilers: The Bourne Ultimatum, but set right before The Bourne Supremacy
Summary: how could I forget you? you're the only person I know.
my heart in your hands
--
Marie buys him a notebook. Jason keeps having nightmares, waking up burning hot and then getting headaches that turn him inward, make him more silent than usual.
"Write it down," she tells him when she hands it to him. "That way maybe you'll remember."
He doesn't want to write, doesn't want to remember, she can tell, but the next time he wakes up shaking and feverish, his eyes wide but not terrified, never terrified, only cold and harsh, a look she never wants to see directed at her, not ever, she gets the notebook out and places it at the end of the bed when he surfaces from his dream.
From his past.
He looks at it for a long moment, and then at her.
"What if I--?" he says, and she leans over and kisses him, feeling the burning heat of his cheek against hers as she pulls away.
"It isn't--that was before," she finally says, because the words she wanted to say, I know you, I love you, wouldn't answer his question. They both know what he was before.
They both know she still loves him anyway.
He starts writing in the notebook after that.
--
His dreams never lessen, but they develop a routine. He wakes up and she does too, listening to him moving around the room, the soft sounds of his feet on the floor. She lies there silently, eyes open until she hears him sit down, hears the rasp of him writing, the soft scritch scratch of his memories being written down.
She thinks it's best to be silent. To leave him alone. Let him remember who he was so he can let it go. So that maybe, one day, he will sleep silently beside her the whole night through.
So that maybe one day will go by where he doesn't look off into the distance, lost in a fragment of a moment--and they are never good, not ever--that take him away from her. That cause him so much pain.
--
That's the scary thing about love. She's always been careful with it, always edged around it (look at her grandmother, ending up all alone, look at the wreck of her parents) but Jason surprised her. She didn't know what to do with someone who knew only her. Who looked at her like she could save him. Like she had saved him.
She's always been able to travel light, but now, with him, it's even easier. All she has to carry is her heart and he watches over it so well. So carefully.
--
Marie dyes her hair before they leave for India. Jason is out running, and she stands in the bath with her eyes stinging, thinking of water and his hands in her hair in a hotel in Paris and how she knew she wanted him. Knew she could have him.
It isn't bad, she thinks. She has been brown-haired recently, coiling it up into braids that Jason undoes every night, smoothing her hair down around her face and he watches her eyes.
Now it is blond, a buttery gold that catches that last of the light. When she's finished cleaning up--Jason has taught her well in that, in how to leave a room untouched. She, who could never go anywhere without leaving something behind before, can now vanish into air, into nothing--she sits on the bed and waits for him.
He is drinking water and breathing hard when he comes in. He runs fast, almost recklessly but never quite there. He is always in control.
"Oh," he says, and then smiles at her. "I like it."
"I think the heat will curl it, maybe," she says, thinking of India, where they'll soon be, of lying in bed with Jason under the hot light of a full moon with the ocean crashing down nearby. "I'll look brand new."
"I'd know you anywhere," he says, and presses a brief, sweat-tinged kiss to her lips. His smile makes her heart beat faster, still.
When he's in the shower, she touches her face. Beads of his sweat have fallen onto her cheeks.
They taste like tears.
--
He dreams again that night, is pulled back into his past so hard he shakes the bed, sends her scuttling up out of a deep sleep, the kind where you don't remember anything when you first surface, like you are just born. Brand new.
She touches his shoulder without thinking, still half-lost to sleep.
His skin is burning hot under her hand, and he turns to her, smoothes one hand down her hair. She can see the straight gold glint of it in the moonlight.
"Nicky," he says, his voice sleep thick, still lost, and Marie freezes.
She knows the notes hidden in that word, has heard them breathed into the shape of her name.
"Jason," she says, breaking the silence she always keeps when he is dreaming, breaking it so she will not have to hear another word.
She watches him blink. Watches him wake up.
"I--" he says, and his eyes are his again. Are looking at her. Are seeing her.
"I know," she says. "A dream."
"I don't remember--"
She curls into him, her suddenly cold flesh to his hot skin, thinking of her grandmother. Of her parents. Of herself, so desperate and alone she would give a stranger who drew back from police sirens like they were meant for him a ride.
"It's all right," she says, and kisses his neck, his mouth when he turns toward her, seeking. He can't remember, but he still wants to forget.
She opens her arms.
--
He never writes the name down in the notebook. He never says it again.
She does not wonder about the name or the person it belongs to. She can't. Won't. She wears her hair long and loose, and it curls brightly under the Indian sun.
She gets up with him when he dreams now. She brings him back to himself.
She will fill his head with her, fill his heart. The past will never come back for them like that, not now. Not ever.
She has put her heart in his hands. She knows he will care for it always.
Inspired by
and this
, as well as my obsessive repeated viewing of all three movies. The summary comes from The Bourne Identity, and was written by Tony Gilroy.
Fandom: Bourne movies
Spoilers: The Bourne Ultimatum, but set right before The Bourne Supremacy
Summary: how could I forget you? you're the only person I know.
my heart in your hands
--
Marie buys him a notebook. Jason keeps having nightmares, waking up burning hot and then getting headaches that turn him inward, make him more silent than usual.
"Write it down," she tells him when she hands it to him. "That way maybe you'll remember."
He doesn't want to write, doesn't want to remember, she can tell, but the next time he wakes up shaking and feverish, his eyes wide but not terrified, never terrified, only cold and harsh, a look she never wants to see directed at her, not ever, she gets the notebook out and places it at the end of the bed when he surfaces from his dream.
From his past.
He looks at it for a long moment, and then at her.
"What if I--?" he says, and she leans over and kisses him, feeling the burning heat of his cheek against hers as she pulls away.
"It isn't--that was before," she finally says, because the words she wanted to say, I know you, I love you, wouldn't answer his question. They both know what he was before.
They both know she still loves him anyway.
He starts writing in the notebook after that.
--
His dreams never lessen, but they develop a routine. He wakes up and she does too, listening to him moving around the room, the soft sounds of his feet on the floor. She lies there silently, eyes open until she hears him sit down, hears the rasp of him writing, the soft scritch scratch of his memories being written down.
She thinks it's best to be silent. To leave him alone. Let him remember who he was so he can let it go. So that maybe, one day, he will sleep silently beside her the whole night through.
So that maybe one day will go by where he doesn't look off into the distance, lost in a fragment of a moment--and they are never good, not ever--that take him away from her. That cause him so much pain.
--
That's the scary thing about love. She's always been careful with it, always edged around it (look at her grandmother, ending up all alone, look at the wreck of her parents) but Jason surprised her. She didn't know what to do with someone who knew only her. Who looked at her like she could save him. Like she had saved him.
She's always been able to travel light, but now, with him, it's even easier. All she has to carry is her heart and he watches over it so well. So carefully.
--
Marie dyes her hair before they leave for India. Jason is out running, and she stands in the bath with her eyes stinging, thinking of water and his hands in her hair in a hotel in Paris and how she knew she wanted him. Knew she could have him.
It isn't bad, she thinks. She has been brown-haired recently, coiling it up into braids that Jason undoes every night, smoothing her hair down around her face and he watches her eyes.
Now it is blond, a buttery gold that catches that last of the light. When she's finished cleaning up--Jason has taught her well in that, in how to leave a room untouched. She, who could never go anywhere without leaving something behind before, can now vanish into air, into nothing--she sits on the bed and waits for him.
He is drinking water and breathing hard when he comes in. He runs fast, almost recklessly but never quite there. He is always in control.
"Oh," he says, and then smiles at her. "I like it."
"I think the heat will curl it, maybe," she says, thinking of India, where they'll soon be, of lying in bed with Jason under the hot light of a full moon with the ocean crashing down nearby. "I'll look brand new."
"I'd know you anywhere," he says, and presses a brief, sweat-tinged kiss to her lips. His smile makes her heart beat faster, still.
When he's in the shower, she touches her face. Beads of his sweat have fallen onto her cheeks.
They taste like tears.
--
He dreams again that night, is pulled back into his past so hard he shakes the bed, sends her scuttling up out of a deep sleep, the kind where you don't remember anything when you first surface, like you are just born. Brand new.
She touches his shoulder without thinking, still half-lost to sleep.
His skin is burning hot under her hand, and he turns to her, smoothes one hand down her hair. She can see the straight gold glint of it in the moonlight.
"Nicky," he says, his voice sleep thick, still lost, and Marie freezes.
She knows the notes hidden in that word, has heard them breathed into the shape of her name.
"Jason," she says, breaking the silence she always keeps when he is dreaming, breaking it so she will not have to hear another word.
She watches him blink. Watches him wake up.
"I--" he says, and his eyes are his again. Are looking at her. Are seeing her.
"I know," she says. "A dream."
"I don't remember--"
She curls into him, her suddenly cold flesh to his hot skin, thinking of her grandmother. Of her parents. Of herself, so desperate and alone she would give a stranger who drew back from police sirens like they were meant for him a ride.
"It's all right," she says, and kisses his neck, his mouth when he turns toward her, seeking. He can't remember, but he still wants to forget.
She opens her arms.
--
He never writes the name down in the notebook. He never says it again.
She does not wonder about the name or the person it belongs to. She can't. Won't. She wears her hair long and loose, and it curls brightly under the Indian sun.
She gets up with him when he dreams now. She brings him back to himself.
She will fill his head with her, fill his heart. The past will never come back for them like that, not now. Not ever.
She has put her heart in his hands. She knows he will care for it always.
Inspired by
and this
, as well as my obsessive repeated viewing of all three movies. The summary comes from The Bourne Identity, and was written by Tony Gilroy.