Her head rests on his chest, and she can hear his even breathing and the steady heartbeat. She clings to the lingering vestiges of sleep, not yet ready to wake. If she does, he will, too, and once he's up, she'll lose her favored sleeping position: sprawled across his hard body, their legs tangled together, his arms secure around her slender frame.

At night, they lay side by side on their thin sleeping mats, talking until she falls asleep. It's become a habit, a holdover from those early days on the run when restful sleep was impossible; when they'd waited for more agents to replace the one they'd killed; expected a betrayal from the ship's crew which never came; anticipated being hunted by the shadowy organizations whom they had once served, now determined to kill them. He always sleeps on his back, left hand under his pillow, wrapped around the gun. She begins the night on her back, sometimes on her side, usually facing him. But by morning, she will have migrated to this position, her body draping his with trusting familiarity.

They've already gone over everything she can remember about her work at Sterisyn Morlanta: all the tests they conducted, the other Outcome agents, the people she worked with and for, the drugs she helped developed, how the building was laid out, where the chems were administered, where paperwork was filed, the security systems; he's been thorough in debriefing her. Now their late night conversations are deep, truthful, moody and intimate; in the dark there can be total disclosure. She tells him snippets of things almost forgotten in the life of Marta Shearing; he shares half-remembered fragments of the existence he knew before he became Aaron Cross and the enhanced life that he's led in the last six years. He doesn't pull punches. She knows all about the ugly, seamy requirements of his life in Outcome; the things he's done, the people he's killed. He told her everything over the course of endless days and nights, in a flat, emotionless voice, but she could hear the doubt, see the anguish in those pale blue eyes. Morally reprehensible, absolutely necessary. A sin eater she helped create.

He never falls asleep until she's drifted off. It's purposeful, she thinks, to give her a sense of safety; that at her most vulnerable, he will watch over her. But it's not just an illusion: it's the truth. How many times now has he proven that he will protect her at the cost of his own life?

They are not lovers, but it's only a matter of time. She knows how he feels about her. He doesn't try to hide his attraction and never has. Even during his examinations at Sterisyn Morlanta, there was always something about the way he responded to her, that initial intense scrutiny, followed later by the light-hearted flirting. She sees the way his eyes light up when she smiles or laughs, occurrences now infrequent and rare; how his gaze lingers on her, cataloging everything from head to toe; the stillness of his body when she's near. There's no question about his interest. But Aaron is careful to keep his hands to himself unless she intiates contact or reaches out for him. He never rebuffs her touch; but his response is controlled, affectionate rather than passionate. He's waiting for her to make up her mind.

What does she feel? Attraction? Of course; what's not to like about near-flawless physical and mental conditioning? Guilt-ridden? Yes. That perfection is her creation, the results of her intellect, her pursuit of science…her fault. Frightened? Sometimes. Not of him, but what his presence represents: why they're running for their lives.

For thirty-four years of her life she had an identity, a purpose, a course wrapped up in the name of Marta Shearing, Ph.D.. Now she's a blank, a nomad, a ghost. Nothing's permanent. Their names and their histories are as fungible as the places in which they've holed up. Eleven months, six countries. They've been in Ho Chi Minh City almost two months now; it's the longest stretch of safety they've had yet. If Aaron has a plan, he's not yet shared it completely with her. All she knows is that he's looking for someone, a man named Jason Bourne. Two someones, she amends. He's also talked about Eric Byers. She remembers the cold, steely-eyed, retired Colonel. They met when he came to Sterisyn Morlanta's office for a meeting with the company's CEO and she provided a briefing on the results of the nine Outcome Agents. Aaron has filled in the gaps and she understands now that Byers was the man in charge, the mastermind behind Outcome, Treadstone and other programs she'd heard about.

"LARX," she told him. "The day I gave a briefing, I saw files for a program called 'LARX.' It's got to be the next generation of chems, fine tuning out the variances and noise."

"Noise?"

"Emotional response - empathy, sympathy, fear, guilt…they're filtering out the capacity to respond humanly and humanely."

That explained the asset in Manila who kept coming on like the Terminator.

They stay small, keep to themselves. Everything's paid for in cash. Their days are varied and they develop no routines. They're never hostile to their neighbors but they are also not welcoming. No one notices. Everyone's focused on their own isses of survival anyway to notice two quiet, unassuming French citizens, Alain and Jeanne Sevigné. They speak French with one another, perpetuating that myth.

Morning is the only time they are so physically close. She loves the feel of his body, the heat of his skin against hers, the warm crook of his neck where she nestles her face. He smells like the sea, and wind, and death: bracing and sharp. The thin layers of clothing between them aren't enough to disguise his physiological response; she can feel the hardness of his body nestling against the soft apex of her legs, and she rolls her hips against his. A sudden hiss of indrawn breath, the stiffening of his arms around her, and a short snarl are enough to know he's awake.

"Doc." His voice is low and hands resting at the small of her back are tracing circles against the soft skin under her T-shirt. He moves to dislodge her, but she resists, burrowing into his arms. "C'mon, Doc."

"Leave me alone," she mutters against his neck. "Sleeping." Her eyes closed, she rolls her hips against his again.

"Doc." Now it's a warning and the hands stop their idle tracing, sliding to her waist to hold her still.

"This feels good," she murmurs.

"Yeah, Doc," he agrees. "It does. But it's going to get a little more painful for me if you don't stop and roll off me."

"If I stop, do I have to get off?"

"Bad choice of words," he grunts, as he shifts her lower half so she's no longer resting on top of him, but next to him. She misses the intimate contact and buries her face further into his neck, the arm thrown across his chest now tightening into a hug.

"Marta," he whispers softly. "C'mon. We gotta get up."

"No, we don't," she protests. "There's nothing we have to do. We don't have to go to work, we don't have to go get supplies, we don't have to do anything."

"We can do something," he says softly, suggestively.

And there it is, that choice he's always left to her. She says nothing, doesn't move. His hands lift hers from his shoulders and he pushes her gently onto her back, rolling to his side to look down at her. His blue eyes are gentle, enigmatic. She raises a hand to the scruff on his face and he turns to kiss her palm. The familiarity of that gesture makes her catch her breath. It's the sort of interplay that goes on between lovers, not two people trying to figure out if they are or aren't.

Yes, they can do something, she thinks. Something they've wondered about, considered frequently and have yet to act upon. They can do something. Jeanne Sevigné wouldn't have hesitated. But Marta Shearing. She's still lurking about, still pondering. Not yet ready.

He can read her easily, quickly. Looking down at her, he can see the hesitation, the refusal. There's no rancor in his expression but he is just familiar to her as she to him: she notes the lingering traces of regret in his eyes, the soft, disappointed sigh as he distances his body from hers. She wants to reach out, pull his hot, hard body against her again but she stays still.

"We need to meet someone today," he tells her.

She lifts her head and looks at him, her eyes wide. "Who?"

"Someone who can lead us to Jason Bourne."

"When did you make contact with him?" she asked.

"Her," he corrected. "I've been tracking on her for a while. She's lived in Ho Chi Minh City for the past year. In District 11."

"Who is she?"

"A former analyst at Treadstone," he says. "Her name is Nicky Parsons."

"Would she help us?"

"I don't know. But I do know that where she is – Bourne won't be too far away."

"Why?"

His eyes are very blue, very direct. "Because she's to him what you are to me."