I don't own anything of the Bourne Franchise.
'It get's easier'
Nicky thought she would vomit when she heard him say it – getting easier…Bastard...Whirling around she very nearly cried out, but stopped when she saw the look on his face; he was merely trying to placate her. So she nodded, swallowing the scream that threatened to engulf her, and boarded the bus. Jason Bourne was out of sight by the time she had found her seat – once again leaving her.
Whilst she sat there, Nicky wondered why she had never cried; she hadn't cried in years. There were often times she desperately wished she could alleviate the ache that dulled her movements, a pain that only ever peaked when she had to fulfil her duty and act as his contact point. At those times, despite swearing to herself that she wouldn't, Nicky found herself searching his eyes for any hint of recognition - and hating him when she couldn't. Well trying to hate him – on some level she envied him – Jason Bourne bore no memory of his alter ego, had no recollection of the life of David Webb or why he was driven to resort to such an extreme form of escapism – a reality that Nicky was burdened with every day.
Sighing, Nicky glanced at her reflection in the bus window; her short dark hair didn't really suit her and yet she quite liked it – it was such a change from her usual appearance and she relished in the fact that often she didn't recognise herself; allowing her a certain level of freedom and the split second of delicious escapism that she craved. Her thoughts now wandered to recent events; Madrid and Tangiers, like Paris and Berlin were the adrenaline fuelled experiences she had come to expect from this new Jason Bourne. The old Bourne was efficient, reticent and cold…and then Marseilles had happened, and the Bourne whom she had become reluctantly accustomed to had changed – becoming haunted, unpredictable and so much more human than Nicky could have imagined. This new Bourne who had threatened her, and for the first time in her life had frightened her, this Bourne was becoming more like David Webb then she would have liked.
Finally allowing herself to fully examine territory previously prohibited by her drive for self preservation, Nicky pondered who the man was who had accompanied her to the bus station. She first noticed the change when he confronted her in Berlin, his anguish and grief so palpable, mourning the loss of his girlfriend. Nicky had tried to pity him, to feel something for his pain and to a certain extent she had been successful; but underneath the surface, in the dark recesses of the loneliest nights, when hope abandoned her and she felt like she was drowning in her own grief: Nicky was relieved – relieved that he was hurt as much as she was; that he hadn't completely escaped from punishment. Though not for the same reasons, Jason Bourne was still paying penance and Nicky felt somewhat compensated.
But it could no longer be denied that this newer Bourne was losing his assigned character and gradually reclaiming his lost one; perhaps that was the reason why she had wanted to help him, or why she had very nearly divulged the information she had sworn never to allow him. And then when they were in the hotel room, after he had rid them of Desh, she had watched him as he had examined the bruises and blood on his hands, and she had finally seen what she had been searching for years – David Webb had looked up at her at that point, a brief minute that had shattered Nicky's carefully built resolve, and she had reached out to him as he had described the weight of his actions upon him. But even then, Nicky thought as she watched the countryside go past, she found that she missed the old Bourne – the man who really didn't care about her or anyone else for that matter. That Bourne bore no real resemblance to David Webb and Nicky found that she could become as emotionally detached as he was; preferring to believe that David Webb had died years ago.
Resting her head against the window, Nicky cursed herself and David Webb and Jason Bourne knowing that really, even in the middle of the night when she wished him ill, that she would always love him.