Set during 1x22 "Pandora". I read a poem by Mahmoud Darwish, and became obsessed.
They drove to a safehouse she kept outside of the city. It was their emergency place for when things got bad. And God did things go bad. But they were alive; they were safe. That was all that was important. They removed his tracker and stitched the wound closed, swapped a couple of cars while they traveled, and stuck to the backroads to ensure Division wasn't following them. The two appeared to be in the clear for the moment. They could settle and relax for the night, or at the very least take the time to attend to their injuries.
Adrenaline gone, Nikita was stiff. Her broken ribs screamed and her head pounded. She tried to push past that, as she trudged into the house and turned on the lights. Michael was close behind her, searching for a place to hide the black box he stole. It was a significant victory for them. They had a black box and they stopped the attack on the CIA. However, nothing felt as though they had won. Ryan was going to prison. The loft was destroyed and raided. Percy was calling for blood. And Alex- Alex was lost. Their team had been battered and broken. There was nothing to celebrate.
Nikita came to a stop in the bathroom, placing her arms on the sink to support herself as she doubled over. The drugs she had been injected with had run their course, but the cracked ribs continued to give her trouble. She understood that getting shot saved her life, yet she could've gone without the intense pain. Ice and ibuprofen should have done the trick. She'd just have to remove her top first. Pulling down the zipper of her jacket was the easy part. Moving her shoulders to take it off, not so much. Fortunately, Michael caught up to her in the bathroom with a first aid kit in hand.
"Hey, hey. I got you," Michael gently stilled Nikita. He slowly removed her jacket and slipped his hands under her tanktop. She winced, brown eyes squeezing shut. He abruptly stopped, giving her a moment to settle her breathing. She couldn't get a full gasp and the rapid shallowness only made the pain worse. In an attempt to fight it back, she grit her teeth and clenched her fists. He soothed her as best he could. He slid her hair out of its ponytail, massaging her scalp and kissing the top of her head. A light smile pulled at her lips. Her breathing evened and she was able to open her eyes. Once she did, she spotted deep bruising along his wrist.
"What happened?" Nikita managed to take his hand in hers and studied the abrasions with a concerned gaze. Sighing, Michael explained Percy discovering him as a mole and chaining him up in Division. His story wasn't as dramatic as hers (Birkhoff had let him escape and decrypted the box for them), he didn't want to focus on it. However, it caught her attention long enough for him to pull off her tanktop. He gave her a moment to recover before moving on to her sports bra. She took the pause to tenderly kiss his injury. As soon as her ribs were taken care of, she'd attend to him. He deserved the same treatment she received.
Michael hurriedly wrapped Nikita's ribs with an Ace bandage after taking off her bra. The pressure and stabilization would help with swelling. She stayed still the entire time, not willing to move and disturb his movements. She also didn't think she could move much. Ignoring the pain of cracked ribs only worked when her adrenaline spiked. Since she was finally able to rest, her actions had caught up to her. Michael smoothed the bandage tenderly, trying to express as much care as he could through his touch, "I think there's some ice."
"No. You first," Nikita gently grabbed his injured hand. She took Neosporin and gauze from the first aid kit, and applied them to the skin that had been rubbed raw. Her movements were slow and stiff, yet she was able to patch him up without difficulty. She pressed a kiss to his wrist for added measure, and he smiled. He drew her into a light embrace, placing yet another kiss to her crown. Despite her discomfort, she canted closer to him. His shirt was wrinkled and dirty, but she didn't care at the moment. She simply wanted to be held in his arms, "There should be clothes in the bedroom for later."
"How bout now, and I get you that ice," Not letting go of her, Michael suggested. Nikita nodded, mostly because the chill of the room was affecting her exposed chest. He gathered her clothes and helped her shuffle to the bedroom. The clothing options were sparse, but it had to do in a pinch. She pulled out one of his button downs she could comfortably slip on for the night, while he settled on sweats. Although he tried to help her change, she waved him off- she'd be fine, he just needed to get the ice. He was reluctant, but followed her wishes.
When he returned, the shirt was partially buttoned and her boots and pants were off. She was having trouble with her socks, however. Michael handed her the icepack, urging her to sit on the bed. Nikita did so gently. He removed her socks and began to massage her tired feet. One of her hands pressed the ice to her side, the other combed through his dark hair. She made him connect his green eyes with her brown, speaking softly, "You can take care of yourself too."
Tears instantly welled in his green eyes. With everything that happened that day, neither had had a moment to process anything. There were a lot of thoughts and feelings left unsaid and unaddressed. All of those crashed into Michael in that second. He had been chained up in that cell, unable to help Nikita when she needed him. She had been shot (and sort of killed if Division believed that to be true), and left alone out there. He wasn't able to be there for her. He could've lost her- he thought he had. Nikita pulled him into her, ignoring pain and discomfort. She held onto him tightly, and assured him she was there with gentle words and tender touches. Choking back tears, he could barely talk. But he had to try for her, "You were dead."
Nikita just nodded. She explained what had happened with Alex and Ryan, and that being 'dead' saved a lot of people from Division. The statement was true, yet that didn't mean that Michael had to like it. Conscious of both of their injuries, he clung to her as tightly as possible. He attempted not to cry, however having her in his arms and breathing her in was just too much. The tears flowed at the relief that she was safe and sound. He could feel her crying as well; the fear of Alex shooting her and leaving, and not knowing what was happening to Michael inside Division finally overwhelmed her. The couple comforted one another. Their bodies were as close as they could possibly be (she threw the ice across the room so there was nothing between them).
At some point, the two kissed. It was more desperate than anything else. Nikita was frantic when she gripped Michael's shirt and yanked him on top of her. She ripped at buttons, needing to feel his skin against hers. Too many close calls and too much time apart was eating away at her. She wanted to put the past behind her and focus on the present. She had to know that she was there with him. Michael returned the affection. He laid Nikita comfortably against the pillows, his hands traveling along her body. The feel of her so alive overcame his frayed senses, and he began to ease.
Her shoving at his shoulders caught his attention, and he rapidly tore off his shirt. While she started work on his belt, he popped open the buttons of her shirt. Michael worshiped her exposed skin with kisses, and Nikita sighed. She unclasped his belt, fumbling with the fly of his pants. He didn't help as he distracted her with urgent kisses on her neck and collarbone. A moan escaped her full lips, hips reaching up to brush against his. Shifting so that he was settled between her legs, he answered her silent plea. His heated breath, fevered kisses, and whispered devotion painted her bronze skin, "They asked 'do you love her to death?' I said 'speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life'."
"What?" Although he spoke between the kisses he trailed along her chest and breasts, Nikita was captivated by every holy word. Her fingers ceased their frantic need to tear away his pants. Instead, they reached to tug lightly at his hair. Michael's green eyes were alight with love and awe as he looked at her. Her heart stopped, so did her breath. All she could do was hope that the same warmth reflected in her brown eyes.
"It's a Darwish poem. I just, uh, thought it was fitting," Michael replied sheepishly. His self-consciousness was immediately dispelled when she kissed him passionately. Words were never easy for Nikita. They often got trapped in her throat and hid away in fear. But action, she was great at action. Her lips fused against his poured out every ounce of love she felt for him. She gripped at his strong biceps, tugging him closer to her despite her cracked ribs. He steadied her with gentle hands on her waist.
The poem never seemed so right before. Michael had felt himself dying in that cell when Birkhoff told him she was dead. All the light and hope in the world disappeared with Nikita gone. He was a broken shell of himself, attempting to continue their fight for her, until he heard her name again. She was alive; he heard her voice on the coms, and saw her standing outside the loft. Since she was in his arms, he could breathe easily again.
Nikita's need for Michael to remove his pants and boxers called to him. He rolled over and threw off the clothes, along with his shoes and socks. She slipped her arms out of the shirt and shoved it away from her. As she arched her back to remove her underwear, however, her ribs screamed. Biting back a shout and wincing, she fell against the mattress. He was quick to her aid, brushing wild dark hair out of her face, "Whoa, hey. Slow down."
"No," Nikita managed to spit out. She forced herself into a sitting position. Michael reached out to support her, but she pushed his hands away to crash into his lips. She didn't care about injuries or past events; she just wanted him. Her hands were needy, as they caressed his heated skin and trailed along the defined lines of his muscular back. Soon, her mouth left his lips to trace patterns along his jaw and neck.
"Nikita," Michael husked. Although he enjoyed what she was doing, he didn't want her hurting herself as she did it. His smoky voice made her smirk and rock her hips forwards. Their hips were so close to touching, he twitched and she moaned. However, he stopped her before she could close the distance between them. She whined in protest, but he didn't relent. He kissed her tenderly, fingers lightly skimming under her breasts. He was trying to get her to slow. They had all the time in the world together.
"Michael. I love you," Fidgeting in his hold, Nikita protested. She was wet and wanting, and she didn't have the patience to wait any longer. What was the point of all the time in the world if they couldn't get a jump on it immediately. She grabbed him and twisted and pulled. He gasped, and his fingers finally entered where she wanted him most. Their lips met once more while they moaned, breathing each other's names.
"I love you," Eventually, Michael whispered against her lips. He pulled away from her, and smoothed the bandage covering her ribs and the one covering the stitches of his removed tracker. It was silent, but his meaning was clear; they'd move slow. If either of them were in pain, they'd stop and reassess. Nikita nodded, wrapping her limbs around him and drawing him in for a long, languid kiss. Tenderly, he laid her on the mattress and removed the underwear that had tangled on her impossibly long legs. Neither broke their kiss or the closeness of their bodies.
Michael did have to separate from her to get a condom they figured was in the bathroom, though. Nikita stared after him, a lighthearted and freeing smile blooming across her features. He caught the look when he returned, and he flashed his own bright grin. The couple collapsed into giggles. After ragged emotions and a seemingly never ending day, what else were they supposed to do. Michael rejoined Nikita on the bed, the kisses he gave her full of laughter. She held onto him beaming as brilliantly as ever.
Protection rolled into place, he slowly entered inside her. Both gasped and moaned, and fought off the need to rush. The couple established a tantalizing rhythm that didn't irritate any of their injuries. Whereas her hands traveled along his skin with tender caresses, his lips mapped her body with loving kisses. They moved as one, hearts striking the same beat. Moans and panted breath set the music to which their bodies danced to. Michael and Nikita were entrapped in their own kind of intimate bubble, one that could never be burst.
While they kissed, caressed, and moved, they smiled, giggled, and moaned. The couple worshiped each other, and expressed all of the love in their hearts. Nikita was the first to reach her peak, talented fingers and thrusts sending her over the edge. She mumbled his name on a moan like a prayer. Close behind her, Michael chased after her high. He smeared a sloppy kiss to her jaw, her name escaping past his lips like the holy word that it was. After calming, he attempted not to collapse right on top of her. Instead, he flopped over on his back. She instantly tucked herself into his side. They needed to clean up and redress before they slept (they also needed to discuss what they were going to do, since they were both running from Division with a stolen black box), yet they were content just being in one another's arms.
The even rise and fall of each other's chest lulled them into a relaxed doze. Michael tightened his arm around Nikita, kissing the top of her head. It was barely loud enough to be a whisper, however, he spoke his plea in the silenced air around them, begging her to hear, "Don't go, ever."
"You're stuck with me forever," Nikita breathed, holding tightly to Michael as she succumbed to her exhaustion.