He didn't know how to describe the feeling in his chest. It couldn't have been pain; she hadn't hit him that hard when he had pulled her out of that alley. However, it definitely felt as though he couldn't breathe. It couldn't have been heartbreak- could it have been. Did seeing her like that really break his heart. Honestly, at that point, he wouldn't have been surprised. His feelings for her had always been all over the place. He could never pinpoint just what she did to his heart. It was frustrating, and it sort of made him desperate to understand it. Maybe that was the beating inside his chest. It was desperation.
How else could Michael describe the rush of anxiety that overcame him when he realized the junkie doing whatever she could for a hit was Nikita. It shouldn't have been possible. Yet it was, and the fact nearly killed him. He had to do something to help. He needed to keep protecting her- even if he had broken that promise already. The best he could come up with was dragging her along with him to his safehouse. Hopefully locking her in a steaming bathroom would get her clean. It worked for recruits who had relapsed. But she had always been different. He had to be careful as she finally came to, "Relax, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Let me out, Michael! Let me out now," Nikita screeched. Although she was clearly going through withdrawals- shaking, sweating, eyes clouded over- she managed to muster all of her strength and push harshly against her bonds. Michael probably shouldn't have zip-tied her wrists to the handle of the cabinet. She wasn't his captive; he was only trying to help her get clean. However, he knew how dangerous she could be- high or not. Her bonds were for both of their protection, especially since he was determined to be with her every step of the way.
"Not until the drugs are completely out of your system," From his perch on the toilet across the bathroom, Michael informed her sternly. He could've been anywhere else in the safehouse, waiting for Nikita to sober up and fight her withdrawal. But he didn't think he could leave her alone. His heart was already pounding furiously against his chest from the sight in that alley. Leaving her only made it worse. So he suffered the steam from the hot running shower filling the closed off room with her. It was the only way he could remotely feel better.
What was it that had Michael so wrapped up in her that seeing her high nearly ripped his heart out. He and Nikita had tried to hurt one another on a mission months ago- she was probably even trying to kill him. So why was he risking everything to bring her to his safehouse. Sure, she had been unconscious for the journey. But that didn't mean it was any less of a stupid idea. That would be what Birkhoff said once he found out. However, Michael couldn't have left her like that, not that Nikita cared, "Ugh! You fucking bastard! Just let me out and give me a hit!"
"No. I'm not letting you get high again," Michael's voice was grave, stern, unflinching, even if he did shift away from her when she lunged again. Fortunately, Nikita didn't notice. She tugged at her bonds, kicking at the cabinet and yelling. It was as though she was a caged animal. Her dark hair was frizzy and wild, her brown eyes were blown wide and unfocused, and her bronze skin had paled, track-marks appearing faintly on her arms. If she could break out of that room and run away, she would. He hadn't helped her; he deterred her.
"Why the fuck not?" Her scream was hoarse, the words as desperate as Michael was feeling. What the hell had happened to her. Months ago, Nikita was the star of Division. She was their best and brightest, and she did everything she could to take out their rogue agents. She had almost succeeded in that mission by brutally maiming Birkhoff and shooting Michael. However, both managed to escape and survive- just barely. So how in the hell had Nikita gone from being a ruthless killer back to being strung out on Ketamine. What could've possibly made her relapse.
"You did not work so hard to get yourself clean only to fall back off the wagon," Shoving his questions aside for a later time, Michael replied. That certainly was a reason why he wouldn't let Nikita take a hit. She had fought against her addiction years ago and won. All of that hell she had been through couldn't be repeated. He wouldn't wish that on anyone. Except, Nikita only glared at him. She knew Michael enough to know he was holding back. What he had said wasn't the full truth. There was another reason for kidnapping her and locking her in an improvised steam room. It was the same reason he stayed by her side and kept staring at her like he was.
"No. You don't get to care. You left," However, Nikita didn't give two shits about what that reason was. Her voice dripped in venom, and she did her best to hold a steady glare. The harsh pants of her heavy breath made it difficult, yet she wanted her lividity to be palpable. Michael had to know how much he had fucked up by leaving. And not just in regards to the fact that Division was hunting him down. He needed to realize that he had burned every single thing there was between them when he had left her to the wolves.
Michael couldn't play dumb- he couldn't pretend he didn't know what had happened to Nikita when he escaped from Division. The first time he saw her on a mission meant to kill him, he knew how deeply that hellhole had sunk their claws into her. That bright gleam of gold he had seen in her brown eyes disappeared. Amanda and Percy had beat it out of her. Yet that was even more of a reason for him to continue his fight. He couldn't allow Division to destroy all of the good in the world, "That doesn't mean I'm not still fighting for you. For all of you."
"You promised to protect me. But you left. You lied. Just like everybody else," There were tears in Nikita's eyes. Whether they were from the pain of her withdrawal or the weight of her words, Michael honestly didn't know. Her tone was like fire. It was so harsh and destructive, it could burn them both. He had broken that promise. By escaping from Division, he had left all of his recruits unprotected to the full torment of Amanda and Percy. Although guilt ate away at him, he didn't regret leaving. It was his best chance to protect more than just the agents.
"Ending Division is the only way to keep people safe," Michael wouldn't lie to Nikita. There was no use in it. He had never lied to her about his mission to burn Division to the ground. It was mostly so she would understand why he had turned his back on an organization he once fought for, but a part of him also hoped that she would one day join him. Birkhoff eventually had, after all. Maybe she could too. He doubted that then, however. The way she regarded him was so full of bitter hatred. There was no way she would ever budge from her current position.
"Why?" It was more of a demand than a question. What was Michael thinking when he left. He had to tell her. A part of him was yelling to tell Nikita the full truth, every ugly bit of it. Yet he held back. His excuse was that Birkhoff didn't know the full truth. However, that was a stupid reasoning to fall back on. He just didn't want to admit it. Admitting it brought more pain and heartbreak than he was currently in, and he couldn't face that. Besides, it was supposed to be about Nikita and helping her get clean. They could focus on him later.
Nikita appeared to have calmed down more. She continued to shake, sweat, and regard her surroundings in bewilderment and fear, but she had stopped screeching and yanking at her bonds. It was possible Michael was getting through to her. Or, her withdrawal was subsiding. Either way, he thought it was worth the risk to turn the conversation back on her. He was beginning to believe she wasn't at Division anymore. The time she had been absent from the field, and the fact that she was high proved something. She had to have escaped like he had- for some reason. Her motivations were just so confusing to him, "Why did you leave too?"
If she was surprised that he had figured that out, she didn't show it. Nikita regarded Michael for a long time, as if gauging if she should be truthful or not. He hoped that she would be. All he really wanted was to understand her. He had always wanted to understand her- what made her so different, why did he always feel things so powerfully around her. Her answer could help him realize why she was so special to him. Or, she could remain vague, frustrating him even more, "I was in danger. But I survived on my own. Just like I always do."
"You call this surviving? Strung out on Ketamine and whoring yourself out?" He shouldn't have said that. Michael should never have said that. He wasn't thinking. His anxiety and desperation choked out of him harshly. The Ketamine was really only a guess. He knew that had been her drug of choice before Division, it couldn't have changed after. But the 'whoring' comment was based entirely on what he had seen in that alley. In an effort to get drugs, she had offered herself up to a dealer. Michael had stepped in to stop it, resulting in a fight. Except, that wasn't something he should've called her out on. He had to help her, not shame her.
"I'm going to fucking kill you!" It was too late to take any of that back, though. Launching at Michael with a pair of scissors, Nikita screamed. She had distracted him by engaging in conversation. While he was preoccupied trying to talk sense into her, she had freed her wrists from the zip-ties and grabbed scissors that were on the counter (Birkhoff used them to trim his growing hair). Michael leapt to his feet, prepared to fight her off. However, Nikita surprised him, as she always managed to do.
Quickly, she turned the scissors on herself. She flipped open the blades and held them firmly against her throat. A slow streak of blood fell from the opening cut. Michael pulled himself back instantly. He was afraid if he rushed Nikita, she'd slit her throat right in front of him. Panic and desperation clinched his heart so tightly, he couldn't breathe. All he could do was gape at her for a second. Her glare and stance were unwavering. She was really going to do it, unless he stopped her. He had to stop her, "Whoa, hey, Nikki. Give me the scissors."
"Don't call me that," Nikita snapped, pressing the blade deeper into her neck. Her blood spilled faster, the dark stream halting Michael's heart. She was willing to die right there in front of him, for a reason he still didn't understand. Then wasn't the time to dwell on that, however. He had to act immediately. Her withdrawal symptoms made her weak; she was on her feet, yet she was unsteady. He had to use that to his advantage. Before she could dig the scissors into her throat again, Michael lunged at her. He wrestled the scissors out of her fierce grip, and threw them across the room. Nikita tried to chase after them, yet he pulled her tightly into his arms.
"It's okay. It's okay," Whispering gently into her ear, Michael brought her with him to sit back on the floor. Nikita fought, screamed, and struggled the entire time, but she couldn't break free of his hold. He had her arms locked in his own, and once they were seated her legs were trapped in his as well. There was nowhere for her to go, and no way she could escape. That didn't mean she'd stop trying, though. She thrashed against him violently. If her body wasn't so weak and sick, maybe she could've broken free. She was losing steam fast.
"Why won't you let me die? Why won't you ever let me die?" With harsh, panted breath, Nikita seethed. She attempted to keep squirming, but her head was swimming and her stomach was churning. She couldn't fight anyone; she could barely fight what the drugs had done to her. Michael wouldn't let go of her, though. He kept his strong hold, especially after what she had admitted. All she wanted to do was die- it didn't matter how many times he had tried to save her. She didn't want to exist anymore.
"Because this world needs you, Nikita," He quit thinking. To get Nikita to absolutely, one hundred percent believe him, Michael spoke from the heart. The effort might have earned him an attempt to thrash her head against his, but he could feel her anger waning. Actually, he could feel a lot of her. Her skin was flushed and burning, her heart raced as her body shook, and each intake of her breath was more labored than her last. There was a chance the improvised steam room wasn't helping her get clean at all. In fact, it might've been making it worse.
"You're such a terrible liar," Nikita huffed. Although she ceased fighting, she remained tense in his arms. She wouldn't allow herself to relax- if she even could relax with the way her stomach burned. Cramps were painfully rolling through her, worsening the migraine that pounded her head. Her eyes wouldn't stay open any longer. She had to close them, and she had to lay her head back. It was more comfortable to rest it on Michael's shoulder than to lean forward.
The rest of her body involuntarily relaxed at the sensation. Nikita hated that she found Michael so comforting, but she was too exhausted to fight it. The way he held her more gently and securely made her emotions worse, but her situation better. She sighed. He brushed her wild hair out of her face, green eyes studying her in concern. Whispering once more, his voice was soft despite his commanding words, "Then tell me why you want to kill yourself."
"Because I deserve it. All monsters deserve to die," The answer was full of conviction. Nikita believed in what she said, and there wasn't room for argument. She cracked open her eyes to stare at Michael, daring him to contradict her. He knew what she had done. He had been on the receiving end of the terrible things she could do. There was no redemption left for her. The end of her story was a quick and meaningless death.
"You're not a monster," Michael just had to keep fighting for her. His green eyes bore in hers, pleading with her to believe him. Nikita wasn't the horrible person she thought she was. Sure, she was an assassin and a bit of a bitch. But she wasn't a monster. He had seen who she really was all those years ago. The woman who smiled and laughed as brightly as she did wasn't a monster. The woman who was willing to sacrifice her heart to save others' couldn't have become a monster. He wouldn't believe it.
"Then explain everything I have ever done. I killed so many people, Michael. Most of them were innocent. And for what? Not for this damn country. I'm a murderer, plain and simple. And I should be killed," Twisting in Michael's arms so they were face to face, Nikita seemed desperate. It was as though she wanted to prove she was a monster. She wanted it known that she didn't deserve forgiveness or a happy ending. She never did, and she never would.
"I never thought that. I know you are more than what Division made you. You are stronger than that hellhole. Hell, you're stronger than me. You deserve to live, to fight. You always have," Pulling her ever so closer in his grasp, Michael argued fiercely. He didn't know what Amanda or Percy could've said to her to make her believe otherwise, but that wasn't what he had taught her when he was her handler. Nikita always deserved her second chance. Even after the missions she had done, she still deserved to eventually be happy.
Violently, Nikita slapped Michael, "You son of a bitch. You dumb, stupid son of a bitch."