Disclaimer: You know the drill by now. They're not mine.

A/N: Gorgeous cover art courtesy of the super talented Hans Woody.

So, I recently read the Bourne Supremacy script, and was intrigued by the ending-it's not quite what was in the movie. I highly recommend y'all check it out, because there are several fascinating scenes that didn't make the final cut (fair warning, though-there is an unfortunate amount of foul language), but here are the two relevant scenes-the first for context, and the second because the questions it raised are the reason this was written.

[Directly after Bourne exits Irena's apartment]
BOURNE trudging along. Across the snow. He's done it. And he really can't take another step. There's a bench. He sits down. Out of gas. He just might die here. We slowly tilt up to the multi-colored Moscow tenements.

You didn't answer my question.
Why you're alive?
You're alive because you're special. Because she kept you alive.
(she smiles)
Because we want you back on our side.
BOURNE silent. But hearing it. PAMELA leaves the file.

Lastly, huge love to the brilliant, brilliant Mellia Bee, who was kind enough to beta this for me. She's a wonderful human, and also happens to be one of the reasons I'm writing fanfic. Not for nothing, but she's also my favorite fanfiction author ever. Her stories are absolutely beautiful, and I highly recommend you check them out if you haven't already. You won't regret it.

Irena Neski stares at the door for what feels like an eternity after he leaves.

She stares until the pounding of her own heart reaches her ears and on an impulse, she races to the window, straining to catch a glimpse of him before he disappears forever.

Her breath catches, fogging the glass.

He's there, sitting on a bench in the park below. As she watches, he tilts, slowly sliding to lie down. She turns away.

He left bloodstains on her carpet. She tries to get it up. Her mind is sluggish, numb.

When her fingers feel raw from scrubbing and the stains have gone from crimson to faded brown, she finds herself back at the window. He's still there. She pours herself a drink and barely notices the way it scorches its way down her throat. She looks again. He's still there.

She goes out. What are you doing? her mind screams as the frigid wind whistles across her cheeks. She doesn't have an answer for it.

He's unconscious when she reaches him, one limp hand dangling over the side of the bench.

She stares.

The snow accumulates on his coat and in his hair and she stands there, watching. She's numb.

A surge of emotion she can't name rages up in her chest, and she shakes him. He doesn't move. Her hand comes away bloody. A lump burns her throat as she shakes him again.


Tears spring into her eyes. Another shake.


She's crying now, face wet in the frigid air. She takes his white face in her hands. It's cold. Too cold. "Wake up!" She's angry. She shakes him again. "Wake up!"

His eyes crack open. Bleary. Barely there.

They stare at each other.

Then he breathes a soft "I'm sorry," and his eyes slip closed once more.

No! She shakes him. Hard. Violent. But he's gone.

She's shivering. He is not.

Reaching into her pocket, she dials 03. She doesn't know why.

She sinks to the bench beside him. A few inches between them.

It snows. The swings creak. She shivers. Hands in her pockets. Sirens in the distance, nearing. They sit. Two lonely waifs in the cold night.

The medic tells her she can come. He thinks the are connected. They are, but not in any way he might think.

Without really knowing why, she climbs in and sits against the wall. The doors clang shut, and they're off.

It's bumpy and loud and everyone is shouting-core temp-subclavians-too much blood-shock-through-and-through.

She hugs herself. What are you doing here?

Someone slides an oxygen mask over his face and someone else is opening his coat and cutting away his shirt. Her hand is pressed to her mouth before she's realized it's moving. There is so much blood. Someone is wiping it away and someone is attaching monitors and Irena is not a doctor but she knows a heartbeat should not be that slow. The bloodsoaked disposable towel is discarded, and Irena turns away at the sight of the red wound pulsing blood in time with the beeping of the monitors.

She looks up and someone has put a blanket around her shoulders and there is one on him, now, too. They are shining a light in his eyes and then they are pressing hard on his wound and she half expects him to react, but he doesn't.

Then the vehicle shudders to a stop. The sirens are gone. The doors swing open and they rush the gurney inside and Irena is pushed along in the current.

Then they're inside and the walls are green and the air is warm and she catches one last glimpse of the man who killed her parents before she is left behind, alone in the hallway. The silence rings in her ears.

"Excuse me?"

She looks up at the woman before her. Blonde. Professional. Pretty.

"I'm Pamela Landy. You're the one who brought in Bourne?"

Irena pulls her sleeves down to cover her palms. She folds her hands, eyes down. "I didn't know his name."

There's silence, then, "You look like you could use some coffee."

Irena looks up. Pamela has a soft smile on her face.

"What do you say we find the cafeteria?"

Irena hesitates. Nods.

The cafeteria is deserted, lights low. They get coffee in paper cups. Pamela doctors Irena's up with cream and sugar. "It'll help," she says. It does, a little.

They take a table by the window. Irena looks out at the lights of Moscow.

"So you found him," Pamela starts eventually.

She shakes her head. "He found me."

"He found you?"

She nods. "In my apartment."

"Your apartment? Did he say why?"

Irena meets her eyes. "He said he killed my parents."

A beat, then, "What's your name?"

"Irena. Neski."

Something happens in Pamela's eyes. "Okay, Irena. Can you walk me through what happened?"

She does, and Pamela is making notes in an orange folder even after she falls silent.

She stares out the window. Her breath fogs up the glass. Pamela's pen scratches.

"Tell me his name, again?" Irena's voice is thready, unfamiliar to her own ears.

"Bourne. His name Jason Bourne."

Fog on the glass, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Jason Bourne.

"Is he going to be all right?"

"He's in pretty bad shape." Pamela catches her eyes. "Do you want him to be?"

Irena looks out the window. She doesn't answer. She doesn't have answers.

A long moment passes before Pamela speaks again. "You know...If he does live, it'll be because of you. You might have saved his life. Why?"

"I don't know." She is tired and confused overwhelmed. Her breath hitches. "I don't know." The tears spill over and Pamela Landy holds her as she cries like a child.

Later, Pam drives her home. "Will you be okay alone, Irena?"
She will. She's been alone for eight years.