Title: The Notebook

Jason, Jason/Marie, post-Supremacy, pg-13

Summary: Sooner or later Jason has to face their notebook, and all the memories that go with it.

xxx

He should write it down. She'd always encouraged him to write down everything he remembered in his nightmares, every detail, every mention. Every clue. He'd blown up at her over it shortly before they'd been separated. He hadn't meant it, and it reassured him knowing that she knew so. She had been worried about him. He thought she probably still was.

He pulled out the notebook that they'd had by their side during the past two years. Every memory, documented in writing both his and hers. They'd talk about it, he'd write it down, and she'd add things he'd told her but had forgotten to include. It was part of their routine. He traced his fingers over the words she had written. He remembered how they'd enjoyed writing up their meeting and every moment they had spent together since. It was more than just a book of unforgivable memories; now it held happiness mixed in, innocence blended with frailty and horror. He remembered her laughing as she read what he had written about their first car journey together. He had told her that he liked her rambling and she'd smiled. He wouldn't be able to do that anymore.

He hadn't written in it since the night they'd discussed his, at the time, latest nightmare on the balcony. Hadn't had the chance? Hadn't wanted to? He wasn't sure. He'd been so focused on making them pay. Making them pay for ruining his life, for ruining their life; most of all for ending her life. She had so much more to live for, and they'd taken it all away. Now he had nothing to live for but retribution. After that, he wasn't sure what he would do.

He continued to flick through the pages. He'd skimmed over their mingled writing up of their meeting, almost smiling at the memories, his comments about her speed-talking, her retorts, snippets that they could remember of their conversations that had been important to them. He hadn't known why they had written them down, it had been a warm afternoon on a beach in Burma and Marie had thought it would be fun. He flipped through every mention they'd added since then, and realised how much he was going to miss her stealing the pen from him to add things; how when he stubbornly hung onto it she'd run out of the room and return with another, and they'd both attempt to write in the book at the same time. It had made the memory of his nightmares easier; lightened the heavy feeling in his heart every time he woke up from one.

Now he had to deal with them alone. She wasn't there to wrap her arms around him when he awoke shaking, nor was she there to bounce ideas off of or to discuss new clues with. But worst of all she wasn't there to tell him that they would get through it together, that he had her by his side and that she wasn't going anywhere so long as they both should live. He suddenly wished he'd made her swear that even death wouldn't separate them. Make that promise. But he knew she would say that not even death could separate them. He wished he could believe that.

'That's why we write it down. Because sooner or later you'll remember something good.'

He'd told her that he remembered something good all the time. He'd looked to her to make sure she understood that as long as he had her he would be fine. But he would always remember something good, even now, because he would always remember her. That was the only comfort she could provide him with now – the memories.

And so, because she would have wanted him to, he picked up a pen and added to their notebook what he could remember of the last few nightmares. It was harder now, what little happiness had been involved in the process dead along with her. Robotically he wrote up important facts, nothing less, nothing more. And he did so because the sooner he ended it, just as he'd promised her he would, the sooner he'd be able to see her again.

Fin