A/N: I really enjoyed The Bourne Legacy, and the Aaron/Marta relationship. I couldn't resist writing something; this takes place both within the movie, and post-Legacy. I'm going from memory when it comes to the scenes within the movie, so they may not be perfect.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to the original characters of The Bourne Legacy.

The first time he held her hand, he was stunned by how soft her skin was.

She was a fast runner, better than he'd expected, but still they needed to move faster, stay together; he reached down, grabbing her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and pressing their palms together. Her hands were soft and smooth, a kind of soothing balm against his rough, cracked skin.

For a moment, he wish he hadn't touched her; hadn't soiled her skin with his blood-stained (even if only figuratively) hands.

But then he remembered the blues and greens and the way his very way of life hung in the balance, and he pushed the momentary regret away, refocusing. Because maybe her hands were just as bloody as his. He ran a little faster, feeling her hand tug on his before she sped up as well, trying to match his stride.

Even when they slowed, able to walk, he kept his hold on her hand, seeming to be unable to let his grip go.

She didn't let go either.

The second time he held her hand, he could feel her shaking with fear.

They hurried through the crowd leaving the facility, the large Austrailian man that had been tailing them on the ground. He could feel how nervous she was; he squeezed her fingers gently, trying to reassure her.

The Phillipines were loud; louder than the US had been, even. As they walked through the streets, looking for a place to stay, he kept his firm grip on her hand. He couldn't lose her here.

As they walked, he felt himself begin to weaken; the virus that was floating through his bloodstream was beginning to rear its head, and he knew they needed to find a place to stay before he could no longer stay upright.

She noticed; she had him lean up against a wall while she went to inquire about a room; the group of people smoking behind him filled his lungs with the acrid tang of their cigarettes, but it kept his focus on the present. His head swum; sometimes he was Kenneth James Kitsom back at his initiation to Outcome, sometimes he was Aaron Cross, waiting.

She helped him up the stairs to their room, her slim arm around his muscular torso, holding him upright. He fell onto the bed, exhausted, beginning to shake from the cold he felt pressing in on him. She helped get him situated, stretching him out and covering him with a blanket.

He was falling asleep when he felt the gentle pressure of her lips against his forehead.

The third time he held her hand, he was shaky with fever and damp with sweat, half-delirious.

He tried to get her to leave; to take the money and passport and go. She could make it; things were different in Europe- she could start over.

Her body was so warm against his; her forehead pressed into his and all he wanted was for her to never let him go. He tried to remember the rules; the ones that said you couldn't get involved with anyone, but everything was so murky and jumbled in his head- and then he remembered that the very people who had made those rules were trying to kill them.

She tried to get him to lay down, to relax and go back to sleep, but the thought of being too far from her caused him physical pain. He weakly tried to tug her down with him, but had no strength; she seemed to understand, though.

Gingerly, she lay down beside him on the narrow bed, wiping his sweaty forehead with a lukewarm washcloth, trying to cool him down. His name escaped her lips in a pained whisper; a still-conscious part of his brain wondered if she thought this was her fault.

It wasn't. He'd asked her to do this, he'd wanted it; he'd made her do this.

His hand grasped her hip in fever-warmed fingers, brushing his thumb along the bone, feeling her draw her breath in sharply. Her skin was like velvet under his damp fingers and he breathed her name, the blackness tugging at the corners of his eyes again.

He fell asleep dreaming of her skin.

The fourth time he held her hand, he had a gunshot wound in his thigh and his body was sore from sliding across the cement.

"Can you help us?" she'd asked, sounding exhausted. "Please?"

His leg didn't hurt as much as he'd orginially thought; she helped him to his feet, and with her help, was able to limp to the man's boat. Once there, she helped him below deck, taking the first aid kid with them. The wound wasn't deep; she cleaned it and stitched it up, biting her lip every time he grit his teeth against the groan of pain.

The watch he'd taken off the overseer at the company paid them passage on the man's boat; he didn't ask questions, and his sons were able to translate for them. He still had the money and the passports; when they tired of the sea, they could start somewhere fresh- somewhere remote and quiet.

She was quiet the first week; he didn't know what to say to ease the sadness. She'd left a family, a life behind- he'd had none of that. He'd lost his life when Kenneth James Kitsom had been 'killed' by a roadside bomb in Iraq.

She seemed to find respite in his embrace; in their small compartment below deck, she spent each night in his arms, clinging to his muscular frame. He said nothing; he merely held her close, his hands memorizing the skin of her arms and back, his mouth leaving kisses in her thick, dark hair.

Slowly, he watched her come alive again.

The fifth time he held her hand, they were on a boat, far away from civilization.

"Are we lost?" she asked, sitting beside him and looking at the maps in front of him.

"No," he answered, shaking his head and looking at the coordinates.

"Oh. Because I was kind of hoping we were lost," she said, and there was that mischevious twinkle in her eyes he'd grown to love. With a grin, he pushed the maps away, reaching for her hand, his thumb running over her knuckles. She met his grin with one of her own, her face lit up in a way that made her even more beautiful than before.

She reached up to brush some hair from his eyes and he caught her wrist gently in his fingers, turning his head to press his lips to the inside of it, his eyes still locked with hers.

A spark of happiness danced across her irises, her lips curved upwards into a pleased smile.

"The captain said he can anchor soon and we can go swimming; there are dolphins in this region," she said casually, but he could see the excitement she was barely containing.

"I've never swam with dolpins before," he said, and she couldn't stop the grin from sliding over her face. "Or a beautiful woman."

Her eyes widened slightly, though the pleased look didn't fade.

It merely brightened.

The first time he kissed her, they were watching fireworks.

The captain had anchored them just off the coast of Japan, and there was a celebration of some kind going on. The sky lit up with each explosion of red and blue and green and orange and purple.

But he wasn't looking at the sky; he was looking at her face.

In her eyes, he could see each explosion of color; they lit her face up, highlighting it, illuminating her beauty. She was mesmirizing; intoxicating, addicting, stunning.

She was radiant in the light show.

She caught him looking at turned to meet his gaze, tilting her head slightly in question. Her hair was long and dark and loose around her shoulders, spread out over her bare shoulders. His breath caught in his throat, and when she opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong, he pulled her closer.

And for the very first time, Aaron Cross kissed Marta Shearing.