For a prompt on tumblr: "Mikita shower scene."

((I'm still accepting prompts, so if you want one filled, drop one in my askbox: andyouweremine-dot-tumblr-dot-com-slash-ask))

Comfort; 401 words; PG-13

There's so much blood.

It was one of the youngest recruits. (Julie, a voice in her head whispers. Her name was Julie.)

Amanda's mole shot her while trying to escape. (Amanda killed her.)

And now there's so much blood. Nikita's arms are covered in it, her hair is matted with it, her dress is drenched in it.

As they wheel the body away, Nikita can't hear anything but the sound of Julie's cries.

(I don't want to die, I don't want to die. Nikita, don't leave, okay? Please don't leave me. I don't want to die alone.)

She looks down and there's blood on her hands.

Suddenly Michael's hands are on her shoulders, and he's pulling her down the hallway, away from the blood on the floor. (On the floor, on her hands, on her dress, on her - all the blood on her. Not Amanda's fault; Nikita's fault. Nikita's responsibility.)

The recruits shower in this big tiled room with shower heads lining the walls, and that's where Michael takes her.

He unzips her dress with careful hands. She doesn't know where he throws it; she doesn't see. It's on her body one second and landing against the floor the next. Her undergarments follow a second later, along with Michael's tie and suit jacket.

She shivers. Michael reaches over and turns the water on. It thunders against the floor and echoes around the room. She hears him talking to her, his voice is soothing and reassuring, but she doesn't know what he's saying.

(Her hands are covered in Julie's blood.)

He coaxes her under the stream of hot water, grabbing a bar of soap and gently washing the blood from her hands and arms.

When he finishes, he turns her around and shampoos her hair. He takes his time, thoroughly massaging her scalp and meticulously getting all the blood out.

It mixes with the water as it swirls down the drain.

She collapses against him, and he holds her up. She's getting his shirt all wet, but she doesn't care and he doesn't seem to either.

When they kiss, it's wet and needy. When he sheds his shirt and uses his body to press hers against the cool tile wall, she doesn't care.

When she finally falls apart in his arms and cries into his shoulder, the pounding of the water against the tile helps muffle the sound of her sobs.