Like drinking salted water...
So mizzy2k is doing this, it seemed like a fun idea. Plus I'm a copycat.
Pick a pairing and a one word prompt and I will write the kiss that goes with it.
Simple as that :)
Pick a pairing and a one word prompt and I will write the kiss that goes with it.
Simple as that :)
P.S. Sorry for the 5 or so months it took me to get it done...
Michael and Birkhoff get captured and tortured during a mission in Belize; they get them back, but Birkhoff is a patchwork of bruises and burns and Michael has a dislocated shoulder and a three broken ribs. Nikita takes one look at them on the floor of the getaway van and decides enough is enough, they're taking that vacation they've been talking about for so long, all of them.
They end up in Aruba, a secluded villa on a white sand beach, the six of them laying around in swim-wear and eating barbecue, it's strange, but kind of nice, almost like they're a real family, instead of whatever it is they actually are.
They make Mojitos one night and sit on the terrace, it's late and the evening is warm, the sunset and the sand and the idea that they can all actually relax means that they all get just a little sloppy. Ryan and Sean carry Birkhoff to bed around two, Nikita takes herself off shortly after, a kiss on Michael's cheek and a stroke of Alex's hair and she is gone, moving silently into the house like the killer she was trained to be.
The two of them sit in silence as the waves lap gently at the shore and an errant cricket chirps merrily somewhere close by. Michael shifts to pick up his drink, winces as his shoulder jerks uncomfortably. He is healing, but slowly, he is not used to there being things he can't do.
"You alright?" Alex keeps her voice casual, Michael doesn't like people making a fuss.
"Just a twinge." He tilts his head and quirks a smile her way, lips pursing in that way he does that she sometimes thinks is just for her. She thinks she amuses him, somehow, just by existing. That he watches her try and figure out her life and it sort of, tickles him, or something.
Alex smiles back, her cheeks warm from the alcohol, her head light from the sunshine, she feels calm in a way she hasn't in a long time. She kind of finds him amusing as well.
"I should go to bed." She says eventually, when she realises how long they've been just sat there smiling at each other. Michael purses his lips again and nods, she wishes she knew, sometimes, what it is she says or does that makes him smile like that.
"You should." He takes another sip of his drink. Alex rolls her eyes.
“You should too.”
Nodding as he swallows, Michael pokes a playful finger at her.
“You,” he tells her pointedly, playfully “are not the boss of me.”
Alex laughs, drains her glass.
“A fact I do not deny. That is a title reserved strictly for Nikita.” She resists the sudden childish urge she gets to poke her tongue out at him, like she's eleven, like she's never hurt anyone or lost anyone and like he never taught her what it was like to hold someone by the throat and watch as the light fades from their eyes.
Something ticks in his expression when she mentions Nikita, some of the ease in his smile slips clean away, like falling off a cliff. He clears his throat and suddenly there is something cool in the air between them, an unwelcome breeze on such a balmy evening.
“Michael?” He meets her gaze but doesn't speak, Alex knows not to push him.
“You're right,” Michael says at length, “we should both be in bed.” He is gone, a scraping chair and two strides through the patio doors into the dark of the house.
Alex surveys the debris of their evening, half empty glasses and a collection of half-squeezed limes - Birkhoff had a thing for tequila and Nikita had a competitive streak, the two of them were poor influences on everyone else - and decided it could wait until morning before silently following Michael inside.
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She stops in the doorway, hip leant gently against the frame. It is cool through her sun-dress and she shivers slightly at the contact. His eyes find hers in the darkness, and he smiles again in response to her questioning look.
Methodically, as Michael does everything, he rinses his glass and stacks it on the drainer, wipes his hands on a towel and then moves to pass her to the stairs.
“Michael.” Alex stops him with a hand on his wrist, barely there, not enough to really stop him if he wants to go. But he waits, glances down at her, their faces close, his breath causing ripples in the soft hairs by her ear.
When he looks at her sometimes it seems as though he has so much to say, so much he would tell her if...she doesn't know what if, actually. If something were different. But no matter how many times they share this look, how many times she thinks he's actually going to talk to her, he always remembers himself, and the expression always ends up the same way.
Don't worry about it Alex. His eyes tell her, as though she had better things to worry about than the people she loves. As though she won't worry about him even if he tells her not to. As though she has a choice in the matter.
His palm is soft against her cheek, softer than you'd imagine, for someone who could kill you in under five seconds. But then her hands are remarkably soft also, it's not quite the barometer you might think it to be. His lips are warm and rough on her temple, chapped from too much sun and salt. He lingers, longer than is appropriate for the brotherly gesture he means it to be. He always does.
“Good night, Alex.” He says, to the side of her head, and his thumb strokes the apple of her cheek just once before he retreats.
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However, the thought of Michael kissing anyone like that ^ is yummy.
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