AN: Last Chapter! A bit longer than the other ones though.. Enjoy! :)
"Finish what you started."
She gulped, wondering how their night out had spiraled them here.
Their evening had begun just pleasantly, both of them drunk on the success of the op. They had feasted on the most exquisite Italian pasta, drank the best and most expensive Brunello available. Afterwards, they chose to stroll through Venice alongside the Grand Canal. Eventually, Nikita pulled them to a bench near the banks of the canal. She moaned as she pulled off her shoes, dropping them unceremoniously to the ground. In a surprise move, Michael drew her feet up onto his lap. They had locked eyes and both of their breathing accelerated. At last, Nikita broke away, choosing to stare at the lights glinting off of the dark water. She couldn't do this, not now. She had just slept with and killed the same man in the past twenty four hours. Still, she couldn't help but allow the soothing ache in her chest to bloom. To further jumble her already muddled mind, Michael began to soothingly rub her exhausted feet.
'Tell me what you're thinking," he whispered, running a hand down her ankle.
"Bad things," she replied, not stopping to catch the words that tumbled out.
His lips twitched. "What kind of bad things?"
"Never mind," she sighed, crossing her arms. "It's nothing."
Nothing that she could tell him. Or anyone. Rumpled sheets. Tangled limbs. Bare shoulders. Parted lips. The images flashed whenever she closed her eyes, as though they were tattooed on the backs of her eyelids.
"Nikki." He leaned forward, eyes piercing into hers. "We don't usually keep stuff from each other."
She took a deep breath. "I can't. I'm sorry."
Drawing her legs away from his loving hands, she inserted them back into her shoes. Standing up, she quickly strode away.
"I'm sorry," she called back again. Tears began to form in her eyes, clouding her vision. She didn't get very far before Michael caught up, catching her arm in his.
"No." He grabbed her shoulders roughly. "Why can't you tell me? Are you in trouble?"
"I might be," she replied cryptically, before pulling herself away and continuing to walk. "Why do you want to know so badly?"
"Nikita, you can't tell me something like that and just walk away."
They had reached the limousine and their chauffeur obediently unlocked the door for them. Sliding in, Nikita immediately retreated to the far corner of the vehicle. Her efforts were futile as Michael followed, trapping her in a corner.
"Tell me now."
She couldn't. What would happen? She valued what she had with Michael more than anything else in the world. Working for Division didn't give you many friends for life. Rejection was something that she'd be fine handling if it wasn't from Michael. And what if Percy found out? The thought of Michael being cancelled flashed through her mind. She didn't mind being cancelled—she didn't exist—but the thought of Michael's life, extinguished at a Cleaner's hand, made her physically ill. She shivered and shoved the notion away, deep into the recesses of her mind, hoping it would never resurface again.
"I can't."
"I'm not backing down on this, you will tell me."
When they'd finally reached the elevator, Nikita braced herself against the brass railing, waiting for the barrage of shouting to ensue. But he didn't shout. Didn't say a word. Michael leaned in, until she was forced to press herself against the wall. His hand found hers, fingers delicately tracing the calluses left there by guns and pistols. He slowly dragged his hand up her arm, painting it with a slow burn. His other arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her slim body towards him. Pressing his lips to her ear, his hot breath unfurled around her cheek.
"Now, will you tell me?"
Her eyes were closed, arms locked at her sides. Her lips trembled and she cursed inwardly. Thankfully, the elevator's merry 'ding' saved her and she dove away from Michael, stumbling into their suite. He shot after her, catching her elbow, and spinning her back towards him, while simultaneously leaning down. She whirled back to him too quickly and his lips were too close. Stopping herself an inch from his mouth, Nikita froze, her limbs locking themselves into place.
"Michael, I—" The words were throaty and unsure. She gazed deep into his eyes and hoped that he could understand.
Michael leaned forward, allowing his nose to draw a line up her cheek into her hair. He placed a hand on her waist and the other on her cheek, slowly moving his thumb around in its customary circles.
"I know."
Slowly, his lips skipped from her temples to the corner of her lips. She turned her head and their lips met in a chaste kiss, filled with some answers, but dominated by a single question.
And Michael answered it. His hand snaked upward to grasp the zipper and he yanked it down with surprising force. Grabbing at the collar of his shirt, Nikita quickly unbuttoned it with shocking ease.
He pulled her into the bedroom, their remaining clothing forming a Hansel and Gretel trail behind them. Tongues clashed as the door crashed open before Michael pulled back slightly, breathing heavily.
"You know this is a bad idea right?"
Nikita smiled, hand slowly tracing his cheek. "I know. Which is exactly why we're doing it."
She leaned forward, touching her lips to his and they tumbled onto the bed. The contact caused Michael's common sense and his brain to plug back in. He immediately pulled back away from her, already ashamed of his ardent actions.
Nikita' eyes darkened and she slowly sat up. "Did I do something?"
He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the siren's song her body was crooning to him. Slowly shifting himself away from her, he murmured softly, "We—we can't do this."
She automatically froze, the blood running through her veins solidifying. There it was. The rejection that she had so desperately feared and avoided was slapping her across the face.
"Michael," she breathed, not caring that her voice was needy and desperate. She placed her hand tentatively on his arm, fingers trembling.
"No." His voice was gentle, but devoid of emotion. He hastily stood up, running his hand through his hair. "I can't."
The rejection was replaced with a stinging embarrassment, galvanizing her temper. Her fingers were gripping the bed's headboard, knuckles shining white through her skin.
"I forgot that you were Michael," she hissed, pain spearheading its way through her heart.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, eyes narrowing.
"It's you, Michael!" she snarled through her teeth. "Always a stickler for the rules, always following Percy's ass. God, are you even capable of thinking for yourself?"
He stared at her, despair flooding through him. Twin spots of rouge had appeared on her cheeks and her eyes were shining with angry, unshed tears. The veins in her neck were straining and the sculpted muscles of her biceps were rigid. He wanted to hug her, soften her severe stance, mold her body to his. But she flinched away when his hand brushed her wrist.
"Nikki—" he began.
"Don't call me Nikki," she said icily. Raising her head, she gazed at him. Her eyes were empty, devoid of the passionate blaze that always burned incessantly behind them. "And you were right. It would've been a mistake."
He nodded mutely and turned away, yanking the door open. "I'll sleep on the sofa tonight."
The door clicked shut softly and Nikita succumbed to her anguish. Wrapping a pillow in her arms, she buried her face in, letting the unshed tears fall. Never. She had never experienced pain like this. She had gone through drug withdrawal, rape, torture in Amanda's chambers. But nothing compared to the yawning chasm of agony that had opened between them. She whimpered softly before biting down on her lip, muffling the sound. The ache in her chest throbbed desperately. Two weeks left.
Slowly, he slid to the floor, back pressed to the wall. Of course he just had to ruin that moment. His arms were tragically empty, longing to be wrapping themselves around a particular long-legged brunette. He'd already known that he was in too deep, but he was unaware of the fact that he was in that deep. It was cheesy and embarrassing, a feeling that made him want to tunnel into a hole and never have to face her again. And now, she—the newfound love of his life—hated him. Resting his head on his knees, he moaned softly. Two weeks left.
"W-what?" he asked, shock choking his words. He was aghast, jaw hanging wide open.
"I said—" she repeated testily. "You can sleep in the bed. As long as you don't do anything stupid."
Shrugging his shoulders, he turned away, feigning nonchalance. "Frankly, I prefer the couch. It's been pretty comfortable these past two days."
She laughed maliciously. "I knew you'd be too much of a coward."
He couldn't resist the jibe. "Fine then, I accept your offer."
"Okay then." She gave herself a mental high-five. The other day, while rummaging through her suitcase, she had discovered that Amanda had packed none of the recruit clothes she was accustomed to wearing. Her hands had come up with piece after piece of lacy, silky lingerie and no sweatpants. A delicious plan blossomed in her mind and she laughed devilishly. The next two weeks were going to be extremely entertaining.
Nikita emerged from the bathroom and lay down on the bed, stretching luxuriously. She watched slyly as Michael's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.
"What?" she asked innocently, cocking her head to the side.
"Nik, why are you doing this to me?" His hands clenched, balling the sheets up between his fists.
"Amanda didn't give me a lot of options," she replied, stroking the plum satin. "And besides, it's too hot for anything else." She pointed at his forehead. "See? You're not even wearing a shirt and you're already sweating."
And with that she rolled over and muffled a giggle into the pillow.
Michael breathed a sigh of aggravation before laying his head onto his pillow. Glancing over at Nikita, he suppressed another groan. The straps of the rich purple babydoll curled gracefully around her shoulders and the flared skirt was draped delicately over her thighs. Her hair rippled softly over her pillow, exposing the side of her face. He could see that her cheek was turned up in a grin. She stretched languidly and the hem of the nightgown crept up several centimeters. He swallowed thickly. It would be a long night.
As the night progressed, Nikita's stance relaxed and she curled up into a ball, her body inching itself closer to Michael. Unsurprisingly, he hadn't slept well, dozing fitfully before jerking himself awake. He rotated his neck to see her face turned toward him, lips slightly parted, eyes still closed. Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss against her nose before sliding out of the bed and shutting the door quietly behind him. The moment the door closed, Nikita's eyes shot open and she sat up immediately. She stared at the closed door, confusion and shock written plainly on her features.
Nikita awoke slowly the next morning, keeping her eyes squeezed shut. She stretched slowly, kneeing Michael in the stomach. Her eyes flew open to see him rubbing at his muscled abdomen, an expression of mock irritation playing out on his features.
"Michael," she gasped. "I thought you—" She snapped her mouth shut, biting her lip.
He looked at her, suspicion in his narrowed eyes. "You thought I what?"
"Never mind." She slid out of the bed, hurriedly easing herself into a robe. Glancing at him from the corner of her eyes, she saw his mouth curled into an unusual smile. He seemed to be in an awfully good mood, considering the embarrassment and unease that still lingered between them and the large red mark plastered on his abdomen.
"Percy called," he said nonchalantly.
She didn't turn around. "What did he say?" she asked, still facing the wall.
"He said he's ridiculously proud of you," Michael said.
She revolved on the spot, eyebrows quirked up. "He said that?" she laughed, incredulous.
"Sort of. I only modified it a bit." Michael grinned, his blue eyes gleaming.
She rolled her eyes at that. Never in a million years would Percy bother to pay any of his agents a compliment. The utmost praise he could give out was not to cancel someone.
"In fact," Michael continued. "He's so proud of you that he's going to assign you another mission."
She planted her hands on her hips. "Another mission?" she snarled through gritted teeth. "Well, you can tell him to go shove that mission back up his—"
"Nikita," Michael said warningly. He took her hand and pulled her down onto the bed next to him. His expression softened and he smiled reassuringly. "I know you're exhausted and we have…issues, but this is just intel, nothing bad." He massaged her shoulders gently. "And I'll be with you the entire way."
"Great," she muttered sarcastically under her breath. Another mission. With Michael. She felt the desperate need to get roaring drunk and pass out for a couple weeks. She exhaled noisily, and stood up, releasing herself from his comforting hands. "Fine. But no married couple BS."
"Actually…"
"No," she groaned, massaging her temples.
"Sorry," he apologized. "But I haven't even told you where we're going." He handed her a manila folder and she flipped it open to reveal a photograph of an island swathed in palm trees and towering hotels.
"Hawaii," she breathed.
AN: I hope you enjoyed my first fic! Think I should keep going?