Credits and Disclaimer: All characters associated with The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, and The Bourne Ultimatum belong to Universal Pictures, Doug Lyman, Paul Greengrass, and the Ludlum Estate. The use of these characters is for fun, not profit. This story is for entertainment purposes only, not profit. No harm is intended.

Caveat: This story was not Beta'ed, all mistakes are mine. This story is dedicated to Frust-Sheep for her encouragement of my 'pregnant Nicky' plot bunny. :)

When Mars and Venus Collide

Chapter 1: Impact

"We should go."

Staring at him staring at her in the mirror—their eyes locked, silently communicating what neither of them could say—Nicky knew she would never see him again. She could read his intent, his determination. The realization brought tears to her eyes. And although she was raw with need and regret, she tried; she really did try to swallow her tears. Jason was strung as tight as a violin and she didn't want to pluck his guilt. He didn't remember anything of her … of them … prior to his amnesia, so he couldn't know how much he'd shattered her in the café.

Later in the car he'd asked her about it, about what had been between them. She'd just looked out the passenger side window without responding. How could she tell a grieving, emotionally scarred man with no memory of her that they had once shared an incredible night together, or describe how she'd made him moan her name as he'd made her scream his? How could that one night ever compare with the love Jason had so obviously felt for Marie?

The thought of Jason and Marie together, and his tragic loss of her, was too much for Nicky. Tears flowed down her cheeks despite her efforts to quell them. She watched as his eyes tracked the glistening trails on her face and then returned again to her bright umber eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognized the clinical signs of shock and knew she was experiencing a delayed reaction from the encounter with Desh. Her mind was finally dealing with just how close she'd come to death. Any semblance of her impeccable, professional mask had crumbled and flaked away, leaving behind this fragile creature in the mirror with large, luminous eyes.

His mask had slipped as well. He either didn't know or didn't care that she could read his emotions—his need, his concern for her. She knew if she broke eye contact with him in the mirror, if she turned to face him, both of their stoic façades would slip back into place. But they were, both of them, caught in the looking glass much as Alice had been before tumbling down the dark hole.

Her breathing hitched as he pushed the door open and walked into the bathroom. The air was suddenly charged with electromagnetic energy. He stopped a foot away from her; his brow furled in concentration and his mouth set in a grim line as he studied her through narrowed eyes. She saw his nostrils flare and knew he was scenting her, trying to assess her physical state.

Treadstone agents, apart from having phenomenal intelligence, had all been excellent at sensory assessments in the field. It was, perhaps, a legacy of their prior Black Ops training. None of them had held a rank less than Captain in their former lives. All of them had been exceptional leaders. All of them had been decidedly strong alpha males in assessing the needs and welfare of their team, knowing one weak link could lead to failure and loss of life. She knew that somewhere between Madrid and Tangier, Jason Bourne had assumed responsibility for her. He had adopted her as a team member, as a pack mate.

He was suddenly so close behind her, she could feel his urgent need through the fabric of their clothes. His hard length burned the shallow valley between her buttocks as he moved impossibly closer to her. She relaxed her weight back against his solid strength. If the logical part of her brain hadn't been numb, she might have blushed at the way her hips moved against his groin seemingly of their own accord, teasing him. He captured her hips with trembling hands, stilling her movement, breathing hard. His eyes, stern and uncompromising, let her know this was strictly field medicine and nothing more.

A part of her was pissed, but the other part understood his reasoning. He couldn't allow himself to become emotionally invested, but he couldn't send her off into the fray in her present condition either. As she watched his cold sapphire eyes deepen into azure pools of molten heat, she realized this was field medicine for him as well. His eyes narrowed urgently, asking a question. How could she refuse him? She was so consumed with need she could barely breathe.


All restraint left him. He moaned deep in his chest as he pulled her back against his body. His hands moved up her stomach and cupped her breasts through her silk undershirt and bra. He fumbled with the zipper in her jeans and then shoved the rough material and her underwear down below her hips, letting gravity complete the action. His eyes closed briefly as he thrust inside her tight, moist sheath. The electric heat of his touch ignited her, molding them into one being. The sex, fueled by adrenaline and need, was fast and rough.

Nicky collapsed against the sink, gulping air in through her mouth. The tight, painful knot of need in her was finally sated. She sensed the same release in him, as his urgent touch became a light caress along her skin. He leaned over her and turned her head until he could reach her lips with his. He claimed her mouth with a deep, wet kiss and then moved his jaw along her cheek until his mouth was next to her ear.

"Sweet Nicole," he whispered.

She froze in place for a moment and then pushed against his warm weight, lifting until she met his lust-kissed eyes in the mirror. She stared at him, searching for some sign of recognition. But the look he returned was puzzled—concerned. He didn't realize what he'd said. He didn't remember Paris.

She broke eye contact and then turned and touched his face with her fingertips. She wasn't surprised when he pulled away from her touch and adjusted his clothes. As she watched, his profession mask slipped back into place.

"We really should go," he said, checking his watch. "We gained a 12 hour window when you coded in for Desh and we're now down to 10. He'd be expected to destroy his cell phone after coding in, so they won't attempt to reach him. Vosen will probably send somebody in from another city to verify the kill."

He paused and stared at her, his eyes steadfast on hers, not straying to encompass her half-naked state. "Nicky ... are you listening to me?"


"You've got 5 minutes," he said. And then he turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Ten minutes later Nicky found herself being led through the back streets of Tangier. The shops, vendors, and haggling customers were a blur in her peripheral vision. Bourne seemed to have a destination in mind, so she wasn't surprised when they entered a cyber café just before dusk. He steered her to a small table in a corner with two computers and handed her one of his credit cards and a slip of paper with a billing address.

"It's clean. It's drawn directly from a secured bank account in Hamburg, Germany. The billing address is a post office box belonging to the bank. Book a flight from Rabat to Lisbon. From there you should be able to fly anywhere. If you have a location or starting point in mind book it now, but from a different computer." He handed her another card. "And use this one."

She clicked into the Delta web-page and booked her flight to Lisbon, then moved to another computer and booked a second flight/vacation package. She printed out her tickets and handed the cards back to him just as he finished printing out his own ticket. She knew better than to ask about his plans.

It was well after dark when they reached the bus terminal. Bourne bypassed the ticket counter and moved instead to the third row of baggage lockers on the left side of the building. He motioned for her purse and sat it in the open locker, checking her passports and credit cards. Nicky wasn't technically a field agent, but all agents stationed abroad were trained as one. She'd left her field box behind in Madrid with her weapon, but she carried her own passport, an alias, and $15,000 with her at all times.

Instinct had urged her to secretly create a third alias after Berlin. If Treadstone had become anathema to the Agency, someone might eventually decide her existence was a risk they couldn't afford. She pulled one of the passports from his hand.

"This one is new," she said, as she handed it back to him. "I created it last month." She watched as he scrutinized the Canadian passport, and the Canadian driver's license inside, looking for mistakes.

"Good work." He handed the items back to her. "They'll monitor your credit card use, so we'll get rid of these as well," he said, removing all four cards from her wallet. "They'll probably assume you're traveling with me, not alone. That should work to your advantage for a while."

He pulled out her small digital camera and checked the prints, noting the photo she'd used for her new passport and license. He also pulled out three blank passport shells with official seals attached for Germany, The Netherlands, and France. She couldn't help the surge of pride she felt from the look of admiration he shot her. It took a lot to impress Jason Bourne.

He returned her purse and then opened the black bag in his locker. He put her passports and credit cards inside and then pulled out six bundles of bills and handed them to her. Her mouth dropped open. The bundles were one-hundred dollar bills.

"This is sixty-thousand dollars. Jason, I can't accept this."

He simply stared at her until she put the money in her purse. He stuffed another bundle into his jacket pocket and closed the locker. Nicky wondered briefly how many lockers like this one he had scattered around the world before he took her elbow and steered her over to the ticket counter. She didn't believe it was mere luck when the agent informed them the bus to Rabat was boarding and said they should hurry.

When they reached the passenger-loading zone she turned and faced him. He seemed to look at everything but her, and then he seemed incapable of looking at anything but her, drinking in her face with eyes grown dark with emotion. Nicky read it all: regret, sadness, pity, concern, and resolve. It was too overwhelming, so she simply turned and walked away.

"It gets easier," he said.

She looked back at him and then boarded the bus, knowing she'd never see him again.

But she'd been wrong.

Five days later, Nicky was sitting in a tourist bar in Sao Luis, Brazil reading a copy of Jane Austen's Persuasion when a CNN broadcast caught her attention. Heads might roll over a secret assassin program called Blackbriar, that sources say was allegedly headed by CIA Deputy Director Noah Vosen and sanctioned by CIA Director Ezra Kramer. She recognized the man identified as Dr. Albert Hirsch as the mystery man in the photo Jason showed her in the cafe. She wondered briefly if Pamela Landy had survived the fallout, and then she went back to her book.

Her attention was caught again when the broadcaster identified the man allegedly instrumental in disclosing the Blackbriar information as one David Webb, also known as Jason Bourne. Nicky stared at his photo, rolling his real name around in her mind and savoring the taste. But her heart skipped a beat as the announcer went on to say David Webb had been shot and had fallen 10 stories into the East River. She breathed again when he reported that after three days of searching the river, David Webb's body still hadn't been found.

She smiled. Jason … David … was alive.

Nicky left the bar with new purpose. The first thing she'd done upon arriving in Sao Luis the day before was purchase a new laptop and graphics software so that she could alter the photo on her new identifications. She'd increased her age by 6 years and hoped the black eyeliner around her eyes, muted lip color, and minimum makeup made her look a bit older.

At 5 o'clock she boarded a 70-ton luxury liner with a group of international tourists for a one-month cruise around the South American coast. Her Canadian passport, driver's license and birth certificate had passed inspection at the pre-boarding immigration station. She handed the Purser her boarding pass, along with the ticket she'd purchased on-line in Tangier, and was welcomed aboard the Sea Nymph.

Her destination was the third to last port of call--Montevideo, Uruguay.

Nicky read the instructions written in Spanish on the back of the box again, focusing on the lines that read "If the stick turns blue, the results are positive. If the stick turns pink, the results are negative." Her hands trembled as she performed the necessary steps meticulously and then flushed the toilet. Per the instructions, she placed the stick flat on the lip of the sink with the 'results' window face up. She looked at her watch and sat on the edge of the tub. Her hips barely touched the surface before she sprang up and rushed from the bathroom into the kitchen, where she wet the dishtowel and wiped the clean counter, sink, and cabinets. She checked her watch again and moved into the small living room, where she straightened the neat stack of magazines and readjusted the figurine in the center of the oval coffee table. She checked her watch again and moved through the open patio doors onto the balcony, griping the railing hard to keep her hands still.

A breeze from the bay moved through her hair as morning sunlight danced upon the water. Three stories below her, children laughed and played in the streets. Voices lifted up to her from a small knot of tourists, lost in the winding cobbled lanes of Ciudad Viejo, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Montevideo. But none of it touched her. She was cocooned in a cone of silence, the eye of an emotional storm, and the second hand of her watch signaled the impending gale. She had 2 minutes … 1 minute … 59 … 58 … 57 seconds to wait. She took another deep breath and pushed away from the railing and walked slowly back into the bathroom. The strip in the 'results' window was blue … positive.

Nicky opened a different pregnancy kit, checked the expiration date, and repeated the test. The results were 'yes' for pregnant. She opened the last kit and repeated the test. Her urine in the small cup containing the stick turned blue. She walked into the living room and sat in the corner of the couch with her legs folded beneath her, fighting anxiety, willing herself to remain calm, to think logically. Just then a whiff of cigar smoke from her downstairs neighbor floated through the open patio doors, and the nausea she had battled off and on all week surged forth.

She rushed into the bathroom, threw up her tea and toast, and dry-heaved until the involuntary spasms ceased. She hugged the porcelain bowl for a few moments and then climbed to her feet and leaned over the sink. She swished water around in her mouth several times and then splashed water on her face, neck, and chest. The cool water felt good against her flushed skin. She dragged her left hand back through her short dark hair and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She could almost imagine a pair of deep sapphire eyes staring back at her, lids heavy and lust-kissed.

"That isn't helping, Nicky!" She chastised herself. "Focus!"

When had she last had her period? In Madrid … she'd last had her period while stationed in Madrid. But how long was that before she'd left Madrid for Tangier? Two weeks? Three weeks? It had to be Tangier. It had been nearly a year since she'd had sex with anyone before Tangier, and she hadn't had sex with anyone since Tangier. She'd been in Montevideo, Uruguay for about six weeks now, which meant she was at least two and a half months pregnant.

Nicky sat on the couch with her head in her hands. She'd go into town tomorrow and see a doctor to confirm it. But then what? How could she possibly run now that she was pregnant? She'd have to take care of herself; eat right, take special vitamins, and get enough sleep. Sleep would be an issue. Every strange noise in the night forced her to grab the small hand gun she'd purchased in Sao Luis and sit up until dawn with the lights on.

She stretched out on the couch and considered her options. She struck the most practical option from her list and moved on. She could contact Landy and test the waters, find out exactly how dire the case was against her. Perhaps in light of the whole Blackbriar revelation the standing kill order against her had been rescinded. The last option on her list, contacting Jason ... David ... was out of her control. She wouldn't know where to look for him, and wasn't too sure she wanted to. He didn't remember Paris and he was still grieving for Marie. He had moved on, and she needed to do the same. She'd find a way ... she had to.