Disclaimer: I don't own Nikita, and that's okay. This is for the Mikita peeps who wanted a dancing Mikita fic. Dedicated to all of the wonderful people who share my love of this ship. I hope you like it!
XXXXXX
It's hard to remember where it all started sometimes.
Michael takes her arm, pulling her away from everything, and wonders why Nikita has to complicate things so much—because this is what she always does, and it just makes things harder.
XXXX
It's easier when he doesn't have to feel, when he doesn't have to worry about getting too close to a recruit. But those days are long gone, and now it's just him and Nikita.
Somehow he became to the go-to person for dance lessons at Division, because in another lifetime that sort of thing had mattered to him. It doesn't—at least not as much anymore. Now he's the person who has to make sure that all of the recruits have the necessary basic skills, then he passes them on to their next lesson in subterfuge, in pretending to be people they aren't until they become it. Until they lose themselves in that personality, that character, and all they are is pawns.
He hates that part of the job most, but the best part is now, when he gets to dance.
He remembers what his mother used to say about the importance of focus, and about how sometimes you have to lose it, and other times you have to give into it.
He remembers how his wife used to comment on how he put her dancing to shame, and 95% of the time wouldn't dance with him, and would pass him off to someone else—she wasn't a fan of it at all, that it wasn't even fun.
He remembers dancing with his daughter, and letting her little feet sit on his shoes as he swayed, and he remembers her bright smiles and giggles as he spun her around and around.
Dancing doesn't really mean much of anything anymore though-at least he doesn't want it to. But it does. He hates that(but he also kind of loves it).
After a few days all of the latest batch of recruits he's teaching to dance have reached an acceptable level. Except one.
Nikita.
It's always Nikita, it seems.
She's about to be promoted, he can feel it. He's nervous for her, and glad that she'll finally be gone—and also aware that this means they'll spend more time together outside the walls of Division.
That's about as terrifying as things can get.
He sighs as he watches Nikita walk into the training room he'd been using for instruction and wonders why he hadn't requested that Amanda be present—because being alone with Nikita is never easy for him, but it's that that reminds him why: he can't be weak around her, he can't treat her unlike any other recruit.
They settle into a comfortable position, their hands in place, connecting them.
As they twist and move with the beats of the music, he realizes that she can dance.
He raises an eyebrow and makes eye contact.
She smiles. "What? Did you think I'd turn down the opportunity to dance with you away from the eyes of others?"
He pulls away. "I think that's enough." He leaves her at that, the music still playing ominously, and Nikita feels her heart break a little—but the real break doesn't come till much later, but it's something she can already feel coming.
XXXX
It's just a mission.
They really aren't cut out for this kind of mission though-but they can do it.
They're playing a couple, and he's her partner, and he wonders if he can handle this, and she's wondering exactly the same thing.
They walk into the club and start to dance, because it's either dance or drink, and dancing is the better option here.
It's a sensual sort of dance, a sliding up against your partner sort of dance. They do it a little less dirty than those they're surrounded by, but that's okay, no one notices.
And yet there's a magnetism.
They get scarily close, and Nikita looks up at him, and their eyes are so dark they can't speak. They can't do much of anything, except try to sever the connection and get back to business.
They make their way through the club, trying not to brush up against each other, and failing, and try to focus.
The memory of their skin in such close contact doesn't clear, so they separate-which almost gets them killed, by the way-and when they reunite they just seem to collapse in each other's arms. Just for a moment, a weak moment that ends all too soon, to keep this platonic, to avoid feelings.
It's already too late, of course.
That's the last time they ever work together that closely on a mission though.
XXXX
"Do you remember the last time we danced?" Nikita asks wistfully.
Michael tilts his head, a slight smirk on his face. "Of course I do."
Nikita smiles back at him. She leans forward as if to say something else, but she's interrupted by the host for the evening, a nice old man with a penchant for throwing fancy parties where very dark dealings happen. Nikita is waiting patiently for the opportune moment to ruin Division's op, and just go home to drink her wine in peace.
"Ah, my dear," he turns to Nikita. "You must join in on the fun."
Nikita smiles back. "Of course. Would you care to dance?" She's absolutely serious, and it's partially because she should probably stop making smalltalk with Michael—though it isn't her fault that Percy chooses to pull off quite a few stunts at these parties.
"Oh no, dear." He turns slowly to Michael, who is standing right next to her. "But if you want to dance, this young man here should dance with you."
Nikita can feel a bit of inner panic at that idea—"But I'd love to dance with you."
"My old bones can't take it," he chuckles.
"I don't think—" Nikita starts to say. But then Michael grabs her hand and assures him that they'll dance.
"Why did you do that?" Nikita asks as he pulls her onto the dance floor. She natural shifts into position against him, as if she's done it a million times before.
At that moment the music heightens—a sort of intensity settles over them.
They fluidly dance around, like some sort of beautiful work of art in the process of being created—they are Michael and Nikita, Nikita and Michael, and somehow they are one.
The music is slow and soft, and they glide around, and there's a pumping in her heart.
She can't tell, but his is beating horribly fast too.
She wants to relax in his arms more than anything she's ever wanted anything before, but she doesn't, because she isn't a fool, and she knows how this story ends if she does.
Somehow they manage to dance their way to the edge of the dance floor and out of the eyesight of the host, and they spin quickly around the corner, Michael shoving Nikita up against the wall, arm under her neck.
"Nice dancing with you, Michael," she lifts her leg up slightly, warningly towards his center.
He isn't a fool. They both ceasefire, and Nikita pulls away, and Michael follows her.
They walk slowly, surely, and even pass a few smiling people.
The finally get to an empty hallway and Nikita just turns to him. "Why did you do that?"
Michael tilts his head slightly. "Do what?"
He sounds like he doesn't know what he's doing, but he does know, they both know he does, so she's infuriated.
She slaps him. Nikita isn't a slapping kind of girl, but at this moment, right now, it seems like a rather rewarding idea. And it is. It feels wonderful.
But then he looks at her, rage practically rolling off of him, and his gaze makes her feel like she's on fire.
She breaks it, because they both know where this is going, and know it can't go there.
She opens up a door, and goes in without looking, and he follows.
They notice they're back in the main hall, and they look around and have to hold in a sigh.
They can't exactly just walk along the edges, or walk right through, it's rude and conspicuous, and they don't wish to be either.
Nikita mentally curses the fact that almost every door in this house seems to lead back to the ballroom and grabs Michael's arm. Hard.
He pulls back, and she's right up against him, but this time it's different.
The music shifts, and it isn't soft or slow, it's romantic and hot and hard.
It's ironically sort of perfect.
He looks around, determines the quickest route out. "Why isn't there a back door in this place?" he practically grunts.
She twists around, pulling him hard up against her. "I don't know. I'm only here because you are, after all. Whatever Percy is after better be worth it."
"Percy isn't after anything," Michael says, and he knows it's a lie. They glide past another couple, and he dips her down, not even trying not to look down her dress—and slides his hand up her leg, sliding the gun strapped to her leg out of it without a single person other than her realizing it.
He pulls her back up. She glares at him. "It's a set up," she realizes. The only thing Percy is after is her. Dead, of course.
He shrugs, feels guilty, doesn't show it.
She pulls him closer, stomps harshly on his foot, making him grunt in pain. They stop for a moment, just a short moment, so that no one notices. They just stare into each other's eyes, and it's clear that Nikita feels betrayed, but she's always rather seen this coming. They can't do this forever, right?
She pulls him painfully across the floor, and when they finally reach the other side she nudges him harshly into the wall, but nicely enough so that it just seems like a friendly nudge. "I hate you."
She's never said it before.
"I hate you too."
Neither of them realize that what they're saying with their mouths is not what they're saying with their eyes—which is along the lines of how could you, you hurt me, and most importantly I love you.
But that's besides the point.
Nikita pulls him out of the room and out into the air, grabs at him, uses a technique she knows, and watches as he faints.
He's going to hate her more for that later, but that's okay. She pulls him out of the way before disappearing, not quite knowing how many of Percy's goons are waiting just to pounce on her.
XXXX
Fighting is a sort of dance.
A dance they'd done many times before, both in training and outside of Division.
Rarely is there a winner when it comes to the two of them, because it's usually just a standstill, because neither of them wants to be the winner any more than they want to be the loser.
So as Michael slams her down against a table, breaking it in the process, that's okay. And Nikita kicks him away, letting him fall harshly to the ground, and it's okay.
This is just a moment like any other, they both take the pain, and deal with the fact that they are enemies.
Nikita and Michael go hand to hand, arm to arm, leg to leg, and it's like porn for fighters—and it's a complex sort of dance, maneuvering so that each movement is powerful and almost graceful, but not quite.
Nikita twists Michael's arms harshly, and suddenly he's on the floor and she's gone.
XXXX
After it's all over, they have nothing to say to each other, not yet.
Instead they hug, just body to body, soul to soul, and it's perfect.
It's complicated because Percy's dead, and they've been enemies for so long, and because it's hard to say what happens next, but right now it's simple.
They're in each other's arms, and they're almost starting to sway back and forth, not quite dancing, but not really not dancing either.
The world goes on around them, but for now it's just the two of them, in a bubble.
XXXX
"You're going to rip my dress," she says.
"You should have gotten a better dress," he replies.
"I like this one, and if you rip it . . . " her words are laced with her threat.
He looks around, "Don't worry."
"Don't worry?" She raises an eyebrow. "You want someone to see your wife of mere hours practically naked? I didn't know you were so . . . forward thinking."
She's just teasing, he tells himself. Ripping her dress would not be cause for taking it off. He feels a perfectly rational surge of jealousy at that thought.
He pulls her closer to him, kisses her hard on the lips, and everything seems to spin, round and round, as if the world is dancing around them, celebrating their marriage.
When they finally pull apart they smile.
For the first time she leans her head against them, and they sway around the room with the music, not really paying attention to anything but each other.
"I love you," she says softly.
"I love you too," he replies. "It's kind of obvious though. We did just get married."
It's said with a distinct sort of sarcasm, and she just smiles.
She seems to be pulling him further and further from the center of of the room, until the attention is no longer on them, until suddenly they're close enough to the exit that Nikita just pulls him around into a storage closet, melding herself against him, shoving him against the wall. Then she just goes for it.
She hikes up her dress and jumps up slightly, wrapping her legs around him, grasping so tightly that he rather thinks she's never going to let go.
He's okay with that.