A/N: Thank you to r, Traveler of Worlds, s23hang, Marilyn x. Maelwys, and lazaefair for your reviews! You all rock! I apologize for not updating in such a long time!

Zero Hour

It was an airy entrance, creamy white, with crown moldings under every ledge. Sophisticated. Uncomfortably sanitized-looking. Did the landlady come in and dust every day?

Jason looked around and then strode off through the nearest doorway. I shut the door. Mmm, this place smelled of money. "Hello?" Hugging myself, I followed Jason, peering into the room. It was a sort of office-living room, with shelving, a desk, and a bank of floor to ceiling windows flanked by sheer white curtains. Aha. There were some potted plants sitting on the wood floor in the sunlight. The landlady probably watered them.

I turned and moved toward the next room, hearing Jason drop his keys on the desk.

This was a bedroom with a king-sized bed, more tall windows, and weightlifting equipment. Jason walked up beside me.

"Are you sure this is all yours?" I asked, dazed.

"I guess." He passed me and entered the bedroom, lifting up something on the nightstand. I followed, pulling my bag off, trying to take it all in.

Jason Bourne was rich. Not that this was news; he had, after all, nearly bruised my nose twenty thousand dollars in cash. But still. My mouth was dry.

He walked out. I slowly opened a door and found his closet. A neat row of shirts interspersed with a few suits presented itself to me. He did live here. It was going to be okay.

I crept back through the flat and found him in the office, flipping through a book.

"Any clues?" I asked.

"I think I'm in the shipping business." His voice echoed a little on the high ceiling.

"So it's all coming back, huh?" I smiled.

He flipped to the end of the book and shut it. There was a slump to his shoulders as he studied the other books on the shelf.

Oops. I quickly changed the subject. "Do you mind if I…use the bathroom?"

He turned, surprised. "Uh, sure." He cracked a tiny smile.

"Okay." I smiled back and hurried down the hall, tearing off my jacket. The bathroom was connected to the bedroom. It was clean and open, with a freestanding tub and neat wood counters. I got a glimpse of myself in the small mirror above the sink and winced. I was lucky he'd asked me to come up – I looked like an ogress. My mouth tasted like I'd been eating garbage.

I turned the tub faucet on high, flicking my fingers in the water. Cold. No matter. I pulled a toothbrush and toothpaste from my bag and got to work brushing my teeth, brushing with one hand while pulling my boots off with the other.

The counter was clear except for antibacterial hand soap. The hand towel was green, as was the single set of towels hanging near the tub. I touched them; they were dry. There were no rugs on the cool tile.

I opened his medicine cabinet and poked around. Hand cream. Ibuprophen. Advil. Extra razor blades. Nothing uncommon.

I rinsed out my mouth and stuck my blue toothbrush in the metal rack under the mirror. I admired it there. Then I began to pull the pins from my hair, disliking the way my hair didn't fall down. It was too greasy. I yanked the last pin free and dug out my cheap bottle of shampoo/body wash.

Did he have shampoo?

Yes, a bottle of Provence Sante shampoo and body wash. Like mine, but more expensive. The height of efficiency. If I'd doubted this was Jason's bathroom before, I didn't any more.

I tested the water. It was as icy as when I'd turned it on.

"Um, Jason," I called, "there's no hot water. It's freezing."

His voice floated back. "A-I'll go, uh…try the water in the kitchen. Why don't you just stay in the bathroom," his voice faded; he was moving around; "I'll-I'll see if I can…get it hot."

The water gushing from the faucet lessened. He'd turned on the kitchen water. Faintly, I heard him speak. "Yeah, it's really cold in here, too."

I stopped unfastening the back of my skirt and tested the water again. Still cold. I flicked the faucet off, shaking my hands. I wanted to be able to hear him. I marched out of the bathroom, holding my skirt closed in back. "The water is still cold-"

He was coming toward me. His nasty sweater was gone, revealing a loose, long-sleeved shirt with dark stripes. He stopped just shy of the kitchen doorway and leaned on the doorjamb. "Yeah, it's cold in the, uh, kitchen, too. I got it…running though." He met my eyes, pressing his lips together regretfully.

I nodded and zipped my skirt back up.

"So…" He moved through the doorway, brushing the corner of his eye, and faced me. His lips were pressed together again, but this time the expression was awkward, like he was waiting for something.

"What?" I looked at him sideways, unable to stop grinning. I'd never found awkwardness so endearing.

"Nothing." He shook his head, his crooked smile betrayed by an odd ferocity in his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"Mm-hmm," he said lightly. "Yeah."

Maybe he really was a psychopath. Maybe this was the part where he did something bad to me. I tried to smile but my cheeks felt plastic.

He swung his eyes to the right and his entire form went quiet, his smile disappearing. I uneasily followed his gaze, leaning forward. There was a short corridor leading to the bedroom.

Suddenly, Jason began walking toward the frosted window at the end of the corridor.

"What is it?" I asked. "Is something wrong?"

Jason looked over his shoulder at me. The minute he stopped watching, the world tried to kill him. The window shattered and a man in black swung in on a cable, a huge gun blasting from one hand. A deafening rat-atatatatat sounded above the clinking glass and bullets whizzed past me. I whisked myself back around the corner, only realizing I'd done so once I was pressed back against the wall.

A pause. Then the gun went off again and I couldn't breathe, picturing Jason riddled with holes, dying, leaving me along to face the man who had swung straight through a window. I threw myself further back as bullets hit the ceiling, punching a line back toward the window. Still the glass crinkled. A grunt. Then more gunshots.

And then, the clacking of a hammer on an empty magazine. Something hit something; someone grunted; the glass clinked; someone growled. Panic roaring through me, I peered out and saw Jason rolling on a bed of glass with his attacker, a man with a crazy head of blond hair.

Jason was alive!

His elbow slammed into the man's face, stunning him. Jason hit the gun away. The man's arms curled around Jason's neck in a choke hold and he bent, biting at Jason's ear. Jason curled and then his knee landed in the man's face. In a cacophony of grunts and the raw smack of skin on skin, Jason forced the man back. They…just moved. Hitting, blocking, twisting. Every motion was deadly crisp.

I had no coherent thoughts, but I knew. This guy was insanely trained. And Jason, the man who had slept trustingly in my car, was meeting him blow-for-blow.

The assassin hauled off a roundhouse kick that caught Jason in the face and sent him flying down the hall. He slid past me on his back. Instinctively I stepped toward him, but his attacker was coming right after. He looked me in the eyes as he passed. My blood froze at the feral expression on his face: it was my death sentence.

Jason was already on his feet. They stalked toward each other like bulls, shoulders hunched, fists balled. The instant the other was in reach, those rock-hard fists were flying. I couldn't tell if any blows landed in the tangle of flying arms and ducking, twisting bodies. The harsh noises resounded through the flat.

Jason ducked, kicked the back of the assassin's thigh, kicked, hit the man in the back of the head. He fell on his face. Jason's foot hit him again and he rolled away, sitting up with a terrible glare. Two bloody stripes marked his left cheek. With a metallic chink, a small blade flipped up between the first and second fingers of the assassin's right hand.

"Jason!" I shrieked, reaching out. They engaged again and I watched helplessly, heart in my throat. Again and again the assassin stabbed and Jason blocked him every time, at last catching his arm and twisting. The man withdrew slashing, forcing Jason to back into the study.

I could hear the knife singing over their fight. My feet dragged me after. They feinted, stabbed, ducked, dragged, and then Jason had the assassin bent in half, hand behind his back. Teeth bared, Jason was twisting the assassin's wrist, trying to force him to drop the knife. The killer struck out at him once. Again. Jason blocked with his elbow.

The impacts were horrendous. Why weren't bones breaking?

The assassin bucked Jason off and Jason landed on his back. Before the man could attack Jason's feet hit him in the face, one right after the other. The assassin stumbled over a coffee table and landed on a couch.

Like a spider, Jason propelled himself to his feet and backed away, his sweat-sheened face intent. The assassin peeled himself off the couch and they stared at each other. The assassin's glare was vicious, boiling. Jason's expression was impassive, cold.

Jason's legs hit the desk. His hand scrabbled behind him, in the pile of money there.

What, was he going to give his attacker paper cuts?

No. Jason was going to die.

I was going to puke.

The attacker hurtled across the room, throwing a mind-shattering kick at Jason. With one angry slap, Jason deflected it, forcing the assassin to stop in his tracks. Exchanging blows, they moved, Jason forcing the assassin back.

Then something glinted in Jason's hand and the man gave a surprised grunt. He fell backwards and Jason followed with fluid deliberation.

My eyes fastened on Jason's left fist where something glinted. A pen jutted toward the floor, ready to stab. It was already dripping blood.

The assassin peeled himself off the floor.

Jason circled, predatory.

Suddenly, tingling with horror, I knew who was going to lose this fight.

The attacker rallied, kicking. Jason deflected him again, ducked under his leg, and stabbed again and again, finally grabbing the man's arm and jamming the pen straight down between his knuckles. The wet ripping sound made me gag.

The blade landed on the floor.

Jason kicked the killer in the chest. With a muted cry, he fell backwards over the desk. He made a choking noise as the furniture thundered around him.

I couldn't tear my eyes from the man I'd brought to Paris. Jason's face was lowered, focused, his hands ready. The assassin hauled himself to his feet with an awful noise. Dark dots were all over his arms and chest. Blood streaked his cheek. Head lowered in massive concentration, he wrinkled his nose and pulled the pen right out of his hand.

Shudders tore over my entire frame.

Then he was moving, faster than ever. But he was running in the wrong direction: toward Jason Bourne. Jason deflected a blow and then stomp-kicked on the assassin's calf. With a crunch, the man's calf bent outwards. Jason was still moving, pulling the killer's arm around over his shoulders. A brutal yank, another crunch. The man's arm bent in the wrong direction. His eyes were wide now; he let Jason throw him to the floor and lay there, broken.

I felt like I was floating. Stuff in my stomach was truly boiling up toward my mouth. Jason knelt beside his attacker and ripped off his bag. Suddenly, the bag was flying straight at me. "Open that," he barked; "tell me what's inside."

I kept trying to speak, but I couldn't. The bag tumbled upside down and stuff fell out. Two papers came last.

"Who are you?" Jason demanded.

I looked up. Jason had one hand around the man's throat; the other clutched his hair. The assassin didn't answer, just moved a little. Jason slammed his head against the floor. "Who are you?"

The papers were in my hand and I was choking on shock. A long ways away, Jason was asking the same question, except in different languages. Some I hadn't even heard before.

I was staring at Jason's picture, at a dozen of his pictures. All different. There was a picture of him in the US Embassy. Someone was watching him!

Then I looked at the second paper and my own face stared back at me.

The room spun; I sank to my knees. Pictures of me with all the hairstyles I'd ever had. Pictures of me from the US Embassy, yesterday. "He's got my picture!"

Jason looked at me. "All right-" he lifted a hand "-hang on-"

"This is Zürich, yesterday!" I was on my feet, rushing toward them though Jason was telling me to stay back. "Where did you get this?" I shoved the paper at the assassin's glazed eyes. "How did you get my picture?"

Jason grabbed my arm. "Marie-" he pulled me up and away.

"Where did you-" I yanked my arm free and rushed back, "Where did you get this from?"

Jason's arms wrapped around my waist from behind, hauling me back, carrying me toward the doorway as I fought him. His deadly voice cut through my panic. "I'll do this!" He set me down, eyes glaring. "You stay there!"

"You-"

He raised a hand, pointed at me. There was blood on his fingertips. "Stay there!"

"He-" behind Jason, the assassin was on his feet. Jason turned and the killer finally ran in the right direction: straight for the nearest exit.

The windows.

He blasted through the glass and threw himself over the railing. A second later, tires screeched and someone on the street gave a terrible scream. Jason jogged to the window and looked out at the street.

More screams, more people seeing what Jason, the man I had helped, had done… but why – it didn't make sense-

Jason just turned away and checked his watch. Then he rushed to the desk and began stuffing the money and passports into that cursed red bag. "Where're your shoes? Get your shoes."

"Sure, yeah, sure," I babbled. "Uh, he went out the window; why would someone do that?"

"We can't stay here. It's not safe." He piled more into the bag. "Look, I can get us out of here, but we gotta to go now. We gotta go right now." He hurried to the closet.

I shut my eyes, knees weak.

"Okay, look, uh…" he walked past with a heavy brown coat, breathless, "you could wait. You could wait for the cops; it's okay. You just wait for them to get here. But I can't. I gotta go." Coat on now, he slung the bag over his shoulder and looked at me. "Marie?

Go with him? Stay for the cops? I'd seen the end of my life in that attacker's eyes. I'd seen the end of my life in…

"Marie?"

The next thing I knew he was putting my jacket on me. He practically carried me out the door and down the stairs. Around. Around. Around. The red carpet like blood beneath our feet.

I couldn't even feel mine.

We came around the last curve and I saw the landlady who had beamed at Jason sitting on a little bench in a hallway. She was gazing up to the side. Where were her glasses?

There was a hole in the middle of her forehead and a shiny red line was squiggling down her nose-

I don't know what sound I made. Maybe I screamed. But Jason's voice was in my ear, brusque. "Quiet. Be quiet." He pulled forward; I didn't know where we were going. The bile that had been edging up my throat burst out of my mouth, bitter, mind-numbing. It splattered on the floor and Jason dragged me right through it.

He opened those metal doors and we burst into the street, the sirens wailing loud. Concerned chatter drew my eyes to the right and I saw the assassin lying facedown in a sprinkling of glass, his legs on the sidewalk and his torso in the street. Beneath his head was a pool of-

"Don't look," Jason ordered, his hand on my shoulder pulling me around. My hair flew into my face. Voices whirled by, and the roar of cars. The next thing I knew Jason was pulling my car door open and pushing me into the passenger seat.

He was taking out my keys and dropping my bag into my lap. He was in the driver's seat, starting my car, driving my car. Driving my car through Paris in the morning after stabbing and breaking a man.

A real, living man.

There are…

No…

Words.