fic - I can see their faces (Bourne Ultimatum, PG)
I can see their faces.
Bourne Ultimatum, gen, PG.
He's coming home. How long do I have?
The asset should retain enough of the former emotional connection and psychological profile to be able to predict and manipulate human movements. It is imperative, however, that the asset not connect with the targets as human beings, or spend any mental energy on the reactions of the collateral that surround the asset and the target.
This is the most difficult aspect of my efforts thus far. I still sense some very minor emotional response from the current subject to his targets. I believe that exposure to children or family members (due to the subject's pre-enrollment history) will weaken the asset's commitment to the execution of his objectives. He imprints on father figures, and it has been difficult to avoid creating such a bond between myself and the subject.
I would not like to terminate this experiment, however. I have become fond of him, although I obviously must not demonstrate this fondness. He is very capable, and will make an excellent asset if these obstacles can be overcome.
--from the notes of Dr. Albert Hirsch
What connects the dots?
There is honking from the bridge, more and longer than the usual noises of traffic. Chanda looks up from the food under her hands and stands on her toes to look out the window.
A car plunges over the edge of the bridge. It is like a movie, or a dream, and for a moment she does not believe it. The car falls, and falls, and hits. The water rushes up and then back down.
Her hand goes to her mouth, and the spices from the food sting her lips. She watches the water, and the slowly descending bumper. She waits for someone to float up. No one does. People are gathering at the edge of the bridge. There is shouting.
"Chanda?" Samarjit leans in the doorway. His smile bright and sure on his face. It dims when he sees her expression. "Are you all right? Is it the baby?"
"No, it's not the baby," she says, turning back to the window. "Just an accident on the bridge. I was frightened."
"Was it bad?" he says, coming in to settle his hands on her shoulders. She leans back into his palms.
"Yes." He kisses her neck, and she brings her hand up to touch his face. "Those poor people," she says, quietly.
You have to let go of David Webb.
When Jason had started at the agency, he'd been working under a real jackass, this guy David Bilden. The guy was a douche, constantly busting his balls for everything, always with that self-important "Mr. Bourne" when he came into his office.
And it's not like he’s low man on the totem pole. Not like he isn't somebody. He deals in serious information, the kind of stuff they make him sign contract after contract to see, stuff he had to go through years of school and armed forces and working his way up to see. He's not some kid coming straight out of college, thinking he knows everything. He's been tested, he’s got clearance. But no, it's always "Mr. Bourne, I noticed that you assigned a security detail to the client in the Kurzet situation. I find that fascinating. Do you know why? Because the Kurzet situation has already been resolved."
So when a stranger comes up to him in a bar at a conference, and asks him if he wants to sell off some inconsequential information? Maybe he takes their card. Maybe he calls them, and maybe he goes through the files at work and picks some things out. Bilden's got it coming, he thinks.
He never meant for it to go this far.
The tape keeps his lips pressed uncomfortably together, and the bag over his head is making him sweat, even though the rest of him is aching with cold. The sweat drips down from his hairline, over his eyes and into his ears. It itches.
He can hear the old man talking, telling the guy to kill him. Just do it already, he thinks, don’t be a party pooper. He laughs, but his throat is raw, and no sound comes out.
"What did he do?"
"It doesn't matter."
Worked for a jackass, he thinks, and right before the asshole finally fires, I didn't do shit.
You don't deserve the star they'd give you on the wall at Langley.
"They're calling him a mastermind!"
"Honey, shh, you'll wake the kids."
"I can't-- this is-- this is my father. My father. I never--"
Annabelle leans her head against the door and listens hard for what her mother will say next. Mom's been crying all day, and she didn't come out for dinner or to kiss them goodnight. Annabelle saw the picture of Grandpa on television. Mom dropped a plate and Dad cursed for the first time ever. She doesn’t know what's wrong, though.
Grandpa didn't look like himself. He looked really tired, and he wasn't smiling. His hair was all messy.
"Is he a monster?" Mom says, and she's crying again. Annabelle presses her ear against the door, but Dad doesn't answer.
Are you okay? I think I'm fine.
Patient arrived complaining of severe headache and difficulty walking, demonstrated mild ataxia. Involved in automobile accident -- multiple car pile-up -- in previous week, treated on-scene for head trauma without fracture and released by paramedics. CAT scan scheduled, possible MRI if results inconclusive. Most likely severe concussion; pupils dilated and patient seemed confused and had difficulty with standard questions. Treated with acetaminophen.
CAT scan results received 8/17/07 CDN - ordered MRI. Patient remaining for observation: possible intervention necessary.
Acute intercranial hemorrhage at approx. 4:15 8/18/07 producing hemorrhagic stroke. Attempts to revive were ineffective. T.O.D. 4:27 8/18/07 signed Dr. David Foley.
Stand next to him, don't let him out of your sight--
"Fuck, I don't know." Andy sighs and glances down at his watch, leans out and looks for the bus. Ben called half an hour ago to complain about his girlfriend and their latest fight, and it's quickly devolved into a conversation about what Ben can do to win her back. It's the third such call this month. The bus is late. This is not Andy's day.
"Did you call her?" he asks, and steps back to wait under the bus shelter again.
"Yeah."
"Try calling her again." Ben clears his throat, and Andy says, "How many times did you call?"
"Three."
"Ben--"
"Okay, eight. I can't really call again, not yet."
"Is she worth all this?" Ben makes a noncommittal noise back, and Andy sighs again. Some man comes up and stands right next to him. He's cute, but kind of twitchy. He bumps his shoulder into Andy's, shifting closer, but it doesn't look like he's trying to pull. Anyway, there's Arram to think of, now. "Have you tried flowers?" Andy says, and the man bumps him again. Andy puts his hand over his wallet, just in case.
"No, I haven't. But she's allergic."
"Ah, right, forgot." The guy turns around, standing nearly chest to chest with Andy. He's listening intently to his cell phone, not saying anything. "Sorry, there's this stranger standing up next to me, it's very distracting," Andy whispers, shifting a little in place and shooting the man a look. Probably one of the homeless that wander around the terminal sometimes, though he doesn't look it; it's better not to back away from those types.
"Do you need to go?" Ben says, and his voice is light.
"No, it's not like that," Andy says, and then the bus finally pulls up. "Bus is here, finally, I can get away from him." The man hovers there while Andy boards the bus, then walks away, still listening intently to his cell. Andy shakes it off and drops his money in the slot. "Look, I'll think about what to do for her, all right?"
"All right, bye," Ben says, and Andy ends the call. Then there's shouting behind him. Before he can turn around, someone's got an arm around him, they're slamming him into the floor and there's a sting in his neck and--
--wakes up bench policeman prodding his shoulder. "Can't sleep here" gruffly. Andy sits up pushes back hood tries to blink the blur but can’t.
"All right," says comes out drunk mumble. Drunk? Not drunk. The policeman watch him stagger up walks off Andy tries to go home. He can't feet aren't working eyes don't focus. Shoulder slams into pole wait shit. Stand there lean on pole world is spinning stomach roiling he can’t-
Pocket vibrating try to get in the pocket can't try to get in the pocket hand won't fit try to get in the pocket and fumble out. Cell phone. Can't read thumbs on.
"Andy?"
He coughs gravel throat. "Fuck. Pick me up?" Sound odd drunk weird like Venice with that girl and the drugs. Drugs?
"Are you drunk?"
"Nn-nn." Too much to talk. Looks around. "Waterloo. South end."
"What-- Okay, I'll come," Arram voice sharp worried thanks someone anyone for Arram love him thank god love him home. "Wait where you are, I'll be there."
Ends call closes eyes clings to pole waits for end vertigo for Arram love him to come.
Look at us. Look at what they make us do.
There's no turning back, she'd said to Paz, when he first entered the program. Her hair was pulled tight against her scalp, and her blue eyes were ruthless behind her glasses. She had zits on her chin, though, and he’d focused on those.
I understand, he'd said, and signed next to the X.
He'd thought that he would die on a mission. Someone would be just a second too fast, or someone better at his job would come along and kill him. A bodyguard might get lucky. Maybe he would be caught, a civilian coming by at just the wrong moment, and someone would be sent to his cell to break his neck in the night. When Bourne had come back, he'd thought maybe him.
He had entertained all those possibilities, spinning out the scenarios while he watched shitty television in countless hotel rooms, waiting for his phone to ring. He'd never thought of this.
He downs his drink in a quick movement. Half the bottle left, but it doesn't matter now if he drinks it all. He refills the glass, and the whiskey slops over the edge, onto the table. He wipes it up with his bare hand. He's been leaving prints all night, when he remembers to do it.
He's got the TV on, more shitty hotel television. It's soothing at this point. It keeps him focused on the task at hand. Do you enjoy working in a fast-paced environment? a woman asks. Thick hair, thirty-six or thirty-seven, narrow nose with thin nostrils, thick-lipped mouth, square face. He knows to pay no attention to hair color or clothes. He knows that she would be easy to strangle, for a quiet, invisible kill. She probably has something in her car that would work.
Why didn't you take the shot?
It still doesn't make sense. Bourne's a smart guy. The best, the first. Didn't he know how this would end?
On screen, the woman's been replaced by actors from diverse races, moving around a doctor's office in neat white coats, broad fake smiles on their faces. A number flashes on the screen.
They'll probably reassign him somewhere, if he doesn't come up on charges. He could go back to the military, maybe, or be put on an elite squad. They'd pretend that the past three years of his life -- four including the training -- didn't happen.
A commercial for a knife that can cut through copper tubing is next. He knows sixteen different ways to kill someone with that knife while in an enclosed space. No, seventeen. But only if he has a handkerchief.
The barrel of the gun tastes oily and metallic. It's cold and heavy on his tongue. He knows how to do this. Inhale. Feel each finger. Exhale, and pull the trigger.
However, in spite of a three-day search, David Webb's body has not been found.
"Tim, c'mon!" His mom looks up at him, holding out her arms.
"No," he says, and holds tighter to the side of the jungle gym, "no."
"What's wrong with you?"
"I don't want to. Come get me."
She sighs and starts climbing up. She's frowning when she gets there. "Why did you come up here, anyway? If you don't want to get down, you shouldn't go up in the first place."
He wants to, though. He wants to be able to. All the other kids jump off the jungle gym, all the time. He just can't help it. Every time he gets up there, when he wants to jump down, he sees the shape of the man falling off the building, the way he went down end over end. Sometimes he thinks that he could hear him smack into the water, but he knows that can't be true. His window was closed.
He wraps his arms tight around his mother's neck. "It's all right, babe," she says, and he closes his eyes while she climbs down.
Can you commit to this program? I can.
"Mrs. Webb?" The man is wearing a full dress uniform. His hand hesitates at the handle of the screen door. "Ma'am, may I come in?" There is a neatly folded flag under his arm.
She starts to cry.
It gets easier.
"Nicky Parsons." That should be the first sign, because she trained herself out of that habit when she first got here.
"You have to run," he says. He sounds nothing like himself, but she recognizes him right away. "Get out of there now."
"Bourne?"
"You don't have long." Another sign: Bourne would give her the time down to the minute. Down to the second.
She's off the phone, suddenly, a suitcase splayed open on the bed, trying to pack for going on the run. Clothes, a snow globe from when she was a child, food, hats she bought in Paris, books, pictures; the things spill out of the suitcase, a tangled mess that won't ever fit. She stands there, helpless, trying to figure out what she shouldn't bring. She hears footsteps on the stairs.
The door bangs open.
She wakes up.
She always touches the side of the bed after a nightmare, though it's been years since anyone’s slept there on a regular basis. Nicky doesn't bring people home. She can't risk it.
She puts her feet on the floor. She grips the edge of the mattress. She takes a deep breath, lets it out. Might as well get up; she has some typing she has to do.
In spite of herself, she's fallen into little routines. She pushes open the door to the café on the corner. "Julie," George says, smiling. "You're up very early."
I had a nightmare, she thinks of saying, but instead she smiles and says, "I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."
"Good to be up early, anyway." He puts a mug of coffee and a muffin out on the counter. "Cranberry today," he says, and waves away her money. "You couldn't sleep, it's on me, go on."
"Thank you," she says, "you're too sweet to me."
"My best customer," he says warmly.
She wonders sometimes if they'll miss her, the people she nods to on the street, George, the man at the library who saves her copies of old newspaper articles. Sometimes she hopes she'll have enough time to stop off and say goodbye. Sometimes she hopes she won't.
"You're too sweet," she says again, and takes her meal to a table away from the window, where she can't be seen.
You can't outrun what you did, Jason.
-------------------
Thanks to fearlesstemp for inspiring, cheering, and betaing this. Basically she's the only reason I ever write anything fannish, ever.
Warning for spoilers (it won't make sense if you haven't seen the movie, anyway). Lines in bold and the title are quotations from the third movie in the Bourne series, Bourne Ultimatum. Feedback and concrit welcome.
Bourne Ultimatum, gen, PG.
He's coming home. How long do I have?
The asset should retain enough of the former emotional connection and psychological profile to be able to predict and manipulate human movements. It is imperative, however, that the asset not connect with the targets as human beings, or spend any mental energy on the reactions of the collateral that surround the asset and the target.
This is the most difficult aspect of my efforts thus far. I still sense some very minor emotional response from the current subject to his targets. I believe that exposure to children or family members (due to the subject's pre-enrollment history) will weaken the asset's commitment to the execution of his objectives. He imprints on father figures, and it has been difficult to avoid creating such a bond between myself and the subject.
I would not like to terminate this experiment, however. I have become fond of him, although I obviously must not demonstrate this fondness. He is very capable, and will make an excellent asset if these obstacles can be overcome.
--from the notes of Dr. Albert Hirsch
What connects the dots?
There is honking from the bridge, more and longer than the usual noises of traffic. Chanda looks up from the food under her hands and stands on her toes to look out the window.
A car plunges over the edge of the bridge. It is like a movie, or a dream, and for a moment she does not believe it. The car falls, and falls, and hits. The water rushes up and then back down.
Her hand goes to her mouth, and the spices from the food sting her lips. She watches the water, and the slowly descending bumper. She waits for someone to float up. No one does. People are gathering at the edge of the bridge. There is shouting.
"Chanda?" Samarjit leans in the doorway. His smile bright and sure on his face. It dims when he sees her expression. "Are you all right? Is it the baby?"
"No, it's not the baby," she says, turning back to the window. "Just an accident on the bridge. I was frightened."
"Was it bad?" he says, coming in to settle his hands on her shoulders. She leans back into his palms.
"Yes." He kisses her neck, and she brings her hand up to touch his face. "Those poor people," she says, quietly.
You have to let go of David Webb.
When Jason had started at the agency, he'd been working under a real jackass, this guy David Bilden. The guy was a douche, constantly busting his balls for everything, always with that self-important "Mr. Bourne" when he came into his office.
And it's not like he’s low man on the totem pole. Not like he isn't somebody. He deals in serious information, the kind of stuff they make him sign contract after contract to see, stuff he had to go through years of school and armed forces and working his way up to see. He's not some kid coming straight out of college, thinking he knows everything. He's been tested, he’s got clearance. But no, it's always "Mr. Bourne, I noticed that you assigned a security detail to the client in the Kurzet situation. I find that fascinating. Do you know why? Because the Kurzet situation has already been resolved."
So when a stranger comes up to him in a bar at a conference, and asks him if he wants to sell off some inconsequential information? Maybe he takes their card. Maybe he calls them, and maybe he goes through the files at work and picks some things out. Bilden's got it coming, he thinks.
He never meant for it to go this far.
The tape keeps his lips pressed uncomfortably together, and the bag over his head is making him sweat, even though the rest of him is aching with cold. The sweat drips down from his hairline, over his eyes and into his ears. It itches.
He can hear the old man talking, telling the guy to kill him. Just do it already, he thinks, don’t be a party pooper. He laughs, but his throat is raw, and no sound comes out.
"What did he do?"
"It doesn't matter."
Worked for a jackass, he thinks, and right before the asshole finally fires, I didn't do shit.
You don't deserve the star they'd give you on the wall at Langley.
"They're calling him a mastermind!"
"Honey, shh, you'll wake the kids."
"I can't-- this is-- this is my father. My father. I never--"
Annabelle leans her head against the door and listens hard for what her mother will say next. Mom's been crying all day, and she didn't come out for dinner or to kiss them goodnight. Annabelle saw the picture of Grandpa on television. Mom dropped a plate and Dad cursed for the first time ever. She doesn’t know what's wrong, though.
Grandpa didn't look like himself. He looked really tired, and he wasn't smiling. His hair was all messy.
"Is he a monster?" Mom says, and she's crying again. Annabelle presses her ear against the door, but Dad doesn't answer.
Are you okay? I think I'm fine.
Patient arrived complaining of severe headache and difficulty walking, demonstrated mild ataxia. Involved in automobile accident -- multiple car pile-up -- in previous week, treated on-scene for head trauma without fracture and released by paramedics. CAT scan scheduled, possible MRI if results inconclusive. Most likely severe concussion; pupils dilated and patient seemed confused and had difficulty with standard questions. Treated with acetaminophen.
CAT scan results received 8/17/07 CDN - ordered MRI. Patient remaining for observation: possible intervention necessary.
Acute intercranial hemorrhage at approx. 4:15 8/18/07 producing hemorrhagic stroke. Attempts to revive were ineffective. T.O.D. 4:27 8/18/07 signed Dr. David Foley.
Stand next to him, don't let him out of your sight--
"Fuck, I don't know." Andy sighs and glances down at his watch, leans out and looks for the bus. Ben called half an hour ago to complain about his girlfriend and their latest fight, and it's quickly devolved into a conversation about what Ben can do to win her back. It's the third such call this month. The bus is late. This is not Andy's day.
"Did you call her?" he asks, and steps back to wait under the bus shelter again.
"Yeah."
"Try calling her again." Ben clears his throat, and Andy says, "How many times did you call?"
"Three."
"Ben--"
"Okay, eight. I can't really call again, not yet."
"Is she worth all this?" Ben makes a noncommittal noise back, and Andy sighs again. Some man comes up and stands right next to him. He's cute, but kind of twitchy. He bumps his shoulder into Andy's, shifting closer, but it doesn't look like he's trying to pull. Anyway, there's Arram to think of, now. "Have you tried flowers?" Andy says, and the man bumps him again. Andy puts his hand over his wallet, just in case.
"No, I haven't. But she's allergic."
"Ah, right, forgot." The guy turns around, standing nearly chest to chest with Andy. He's listening intently to his cell phone, not saying anything. "Sorry, there's this stranger standing up next to me, it's very distracting," Andy whispers, shifting a little in place and shooting the man a look. Probably one of the homeless that wander around the terminal sometimes, though he doesn't look it; it's better not to back away from those types.
"Do you need to go?" Ben says, and his voice is light.
"No, it's not like that," Andy says, and then the bus finally pulls up. "Bus is here, finally, I can get away from him." The man hovers there while Andy boards the bus, then walks away, still listening intently to his cell. Andy shakes it off and drops his money in the slot. "Look, I'll think about what to do for her, all right?"
"All right, bye," Ben says, and Andy ends the call. Then there's shouting behind him. Before he can turn around, someone's got an arm around him, they're slamming him into the floor and there's a sting in his neck and--
--wakes up bench policeman prodding his shoulder. "Can't sleep here" gruffly. Andy sits up pushes back hood tries to blink the blur but can’t.
"All right," says comes out drunk mumble. Drunk? Not drunk. The policeman watch him stagger up walks off Andy tries to go home. He can't feet aren't working eyes don't focus. Shoulder slams into pole wait shit. Stand there lean on pole world is spinning stomach roiling he can’t-
Pocket vibrating try to get in the pocket can't try to get in the pocket hand won't fit try to get in the pocket and fumble out. Cell phone. Can't read thumbs on.
"Andy?"
He coughs gravel throat. "Fuck. Pick me up?" Sound odd drunk weird like Venice with that girl and the drugs. Drugs?
"Are you drunk?"
"Nn-nn." Too much to talk. Looks around. "Waterloo. South end."
"What-- Okay, I'll come," Arram voice sharp worried thanks someone anyone for Arram love him thank god love him home. "Wait where you are, I'll be there."
Ends call closes eyes clings to pole waits for end vertigo for Arram love him to come.
Look at us. Look at what they make us do.
There's no turning back, she'd said to Paz, when he first entered the program. Her hair was pulled tight against her scalp, and her blue eyes were ruthless behind her glasses. She had zits on her chin, though, and he’d focused on those.
I understand, he'd said, and signed next to the X.
He'd thought that he would die on a mission. Someone would be just a second too fast, or someone better at his job would come along and kill him. A bodyguard might get lucky. Maybe he would be caught, a civilian coming by at just the wrong moment, and someone would be sent to his cell to break his neck in the night. When Bourne had come back, he'd thought maybe him.
He had entertained all those possibilities, spinning out the scenarios while he watched shitty television in countless hotel rooms, waiting for his phone to ring. He'd never thought of this.
He downs his drink in a quick movement. Half the bottle left, but it doesn't matter now if he drinks it all. He refills the glass, and the whiskey slops over the edge, onto the table. He wipes it up with his bare hand. He's been leaving prints all night, when he remembers to do it.
He's got the TV on, more shitty hotel television. It's soothing at this point. It keeps him focused on the task at hand. Do you enjoy working in a fast-paced environment? a woman asks. Thick hair, thirty-six or thirty-seven, narrow nose with thin nostrils, thick-lipped mouth, square face. He knows to pay no attention to hair color or clothes. He knows that she would be easy to strangle, for a quiet, invisible kill. She probably has something in her car that would work.
Why didn't you take the shot?
It still doesn't make sense. Bourne's a smart guy. The best, the first. Didn't he know how this would end?
On screen, the woman's been replaced by actors from diverse races, moving around a doctor's office in neat white coats, broad fake smiles on their faces. A number flashes on the screen.
They'll probably reassign him somewhere, if he doesn't come up on charges. He could go back to the military, maybe, or be put on an elite squad. They'd pretend that the past three years of his life -- four including the training -- didn't happen.
A commercial for a knife that can cut through copper tubing is next. He knows sixteen different ways to kill someone with that knife while in an enclosed space. No, seventeen. But only if he has a handkerchief.
The barrel of the gun tastes oily and metallic. It's cold and heavy on his tongue. He knows how to do this. Inhale. Feel each finger. Exhale, and pull the trigger.
However, in spite of a three-day search, David Webb's body has not been found.
"Tim, c'mon!" His mom looks up at him, holding out her arms.
"No," he says, and holds tighter to the side of the jungle gym, "no."
"What's wrong with you?"
"I don't want to. Come get me."
She sighs and starts climbing up. She's frowning when she gets there. "Why did you come up here, anyway? If you don't want to get down, you shouldn't go up in the first place."
He wants to, though. He wants to be able to. All the other kids jump off the jungle gym, all the time. He just can't help it. Every time he gets up there, when he wants to jump down, he sees the shape of the man falling off the building, the way he went down end over end. Sometimes he thinks that he could hear him smack into the water, but he knows that can't be true. His window was closed.
He wraps his arms tight around his mother's neck. "It's all right, babe," she says, and he closes his eyes while she climbs down.
Can you commit to this program? I can.
"Mrs. Webb?" The man is wearing a full dress uniform. His hand hesitates at the handle of the screen door. "Ma'am, may I come in?" There is a neatly folded flag under his arm.
She starts to cry.
It gets easier.
"Nicky Parsons." That should be the first sign, because she trained herself out of that habit when she first got here.
"You have to run," he says. He sounds nothing like himself, but she recognizes him right away. "Get out of there now."
"Bourne?"
"You don't have long." Another sign: Bourne would give her the time down to the minute. Down to the second.
She's off the phone, suddenly, a suitcase splayed open on the bed, trying to pack for going on the run. Clothes, a snow globe from when she was a child, food, hats she bought in Paris, books, pictures; the things spill out of the suitcase, a tangled mess that won't ever fit. She stands there, helpless, trying to figure out what she shouldn't bring. She hears footsteps on the stairs.
The door bangs open.
She wakes up.
She always touches the side of the bed after a nightmare, though it's been years since anyone’s slept there on a regular basis. Nicky doesn't bring people home. She can't risk it.
She puts her feet on the floor. She grips the edge of the mattress. She takes a deep breath, lets it out. Might as well get up; she has some typing she has to do.
In spite of herself, she's fallen into little routines. She pushes open the door to the café on the corner. "Julie," George says, smiling. "You're up very early."
I had a nightmare, she thinks of saying, but instead she smiles and says, "I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."
"Good to be up early, anyway." He puts a mug of coffee and a muffin out on the counter. "Cranberry today," he says, and waves away her money. "You couldn't sleep, it's on me, go on."
"Thank you," she says, "you're too sweet to me."
"My best customer," he says warmly.
She wonders sometimes if they'll miss her, the people she nods to on the street, George, the man at the library who saves her copies of old newspaper articles. Sometimes she hopes she'll have enough time to stop off and say goodbye. Sometimes she hopes she won't.
"You're too sweet," she says again, and takes her meal to a table away from the window, where she can't be seen.
You can't outrun what you did, Jason.
-------------------
Thanks to fearlesstemp for inspiring, cheering, and betaing this. Basically she's the only reason I ever write anything fannish, ever.
Warning for spoilers (it won't make sense if you haven't seen the movie, anyway). Lines in bold and the title are quotations from the third movie in the Bourne series, Bourne Ultimatum. Feedback and concrit welcome.