~New AU Fic that has been dancing around my brain for over a month or two and so I am bravely going forth to try and put this out there to the best of my limited ability. This is going to be the longest Fic I have ever written. So for anyone who's up for another venture with me, please enjoy~

Chapter 1: "Nice to meet you too…"


"Excuse me Miss, are you in line for the bathroom?"

Michonne Des Vignes' eyes fluttered open to catch sight of a smartly dressed older woman staring at her inquisitively. "Oh, no," she responded, pushing herself from off of the wall she leaned against.

"Great." The woman stepped around her swiping at some sauce that stained the corner of her mouth, as she nudged open the polished wooden door to enter the ladies room.

Michonne took in a deep breath, the aroma of Italian sausages and pasta filling her lungs as she turned and placed her right hand against the sand textured wall to brace herself. Her fingers automatically rubbed against the slightly raised finish… it felt gritty to the touch. Lifting her left leg she tried to hook her index finger behind the strap of her new gold shoes. Too tight, the bloody thing was killing her, and absolutely refused to come off. "Oh for shit's sake," she muttered under her tequila laced breath. Or maybe, she was too inebriated to focus enough to slacken it. Why did she buy these death traps in the first place? They were too high, too gold, too expensive… and most importantly too-damn-tight!

'Stay calm Michonne. Don't get yourself so worked up.'

If only she had a blade she could then cut the stupid thing off.

"Hell." She almost broke a dang nail. Why was she doing this to herself? Tonight had been a horrid mistake. It had been forever since she'd been out on any sort of date, and she particularly did not want to be there. Due to nervousness, Michonne went overboard with the whole thing. Going on a costly shopping spree, she'd bought not only a new pair of fancy shoes, but also a new purse, and new accessories to match the brand new designer dress she wore… if only she could return them all…well, all except the dress. No that was a keeper. The sleeveless, black and gold printed, pencil skirt outfit looked quite flattering, if she could've said so herself.

Her stomach churned with regret…or was that the alcohol. Why on earth did Heath allow her to drink so much tonight? Such an irresponsible bartender. Oh please! Who was she kidding, how else was she going to make it through this dreadful blind date? Wait… dreadful was too strong of a word, more like bland… yes, her date with Mr. Gabriel Stokes was decidedly as dull and bland as standing in line at the 'riveting' Post Office on a Saturday afternoon. At least dinner itself was exceptional. Angelo's never failed to satisfy her.

"Looks like you need some help with that," uttered a raspy voice that, in an instant snapped her out of her rambling thoughts. Michonne's head jerked up. Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed at the intrusive stranger standing before her.

"No I got it." Pressing her lips together, she released the shoe she was contending with, and her leg straightened out as she rest her foot back down on to the hardwood floor. The victorious strap still in place, cutting its way into her skin.

The gentleman shrugged his shoulders, and without another word, continued his way down to the men's room at the end of the hall.

'Thank God.'

Shaking her head, Michonne then returned to her original position: eyes closed, with her back pressed against the cool, 'tangerine-dream' colored wall, arms locked across her chest.

"Tu vuo fa l'americano! Mmericano, Mmericano. Siente a me, chi t'ho fa fa?" She chimed in to the Italian folk song humming softly from the speaker in the ceiling just above her head. "…tu vuoi vivere alla moda, ma se bevi 'whiskey and soda'. Po te siente 'e disturba…"

Shifting her upper body from side to side in time with the catchy music, her hanging locs brushed the side of her rosy cheeks. Caught in a moment of delight, Michonne couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped her lips. Her mother loved that silly song, and unlike Michonne, she knew the whole thing by heart. Michonne and her brother, Heath, could never get it just right.

"It's a beautiful language," her mother would always say. "You have to allow yourself to really feel it baby." But Michonne could simply never, get it, just, right. The story of her life.

"Yes Mama…" she whispered, her smile broadening at the recollection. "Tu vuo fa l'americano-"

"You waiting for the bathroom, or hiding out?"

"Oh god." Jolted back to the present, her eyes flung open and she clutched at her chest.

"Oh I'm sorry." It was the raspy voiced stranger again. He smiled at her apologetically, "Didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't."

His eyebrows rose. He then nodded his head. "So…"

"So?" Why was he staring at her?

Shoving both of his hands into his pants pockets, he cast his glance around the wall she was still propped up against, behind a large braided Ficus tree. "You waiting, or hiding?" he repeated.

"That's none of your business," she scoffed.

"Just wondering is all." Peering at her, he found himself amused by her bluntness. Besides, it was curious why a knockout such as herself was skulking all alone in the back hallway of a restaurant.

Rolling her eyes, this man was not going to budge, "I'm hiding," she confessed.

'Okay would you go away now?'

"Well…" he continued.

'I guess not.' Her arms dropped to her sides.

"… don't feel too bad. My date just started and already I had to excuse myself."

Biting her bottom lip, an involuntary grin spread across her face. "You're terrible."

"Maybe there's a back door you can sneak out of," he joked.

Michonne tilted her head at him. "The thought has crossed my mind."

"But?"

She sighed at his nosiness, "…but he's a friend of a friend of course. And not just any friend… a church friend."

"Well then no," he chortled, "…you don't want that on your conscience. Maybe you should give him a chance then."

"You think so?"

"A man of faith? Means he's trustworthy."

"Not necessarily."

"True, but chances are he is. And you could never go wrong with that." The lack of which he had much experience with, regrettably.

Nodding her head, trust and reliability were the cornerstone in any relationship. Who could argue with that?

Now craning her neck around the tree, she peeked behind the wall, "Which one's yours?"

He stepped up behind her. "Uh about four tables up … next to the windows on your left."

"Brunette? Glasses?"

"That's the one. That's Olivia. My sister's friend." Whom she insisted could bring a little light into his tedious life.

"She's cute." Dressed in a black, silk and lace dress, her dark tresses were pinned in a playful up-do, and her nude make-up pulled together nicely with a pop of blood red lipstick. Looked like Michonne wasn't the only one to go all out.

"She's a sweetheart. Just not for me," he confessed, still hovering close behind her.

Michonne observed this gentleman's date as she fidgeted and fixed her dress repeatedly. "She seems nervous."

"I don't know about that. She's talked non-stop about anything and everything she's into. Like we're running out of time."

"Like you signed up for speed dating?"

If only, he was ready to make a switch right then and there standing so near to a beautiful stranger. But he stumbled back just as she turned to face him.

"Like I said… nervous." And why wouldn't she be. This man was… alluring. Her gaze traveled the length of him in his silver grey suit, and baby blue shirt, with the top collar button undone. He smelt like mandarin and warm spices for crap's sake. What was that? Cologne? Aftershave? Surprised at how she was even able to detect his scent above the garlic and cheese that permeated the air, she flicked her eyes away or she'd be caught gazing too long.

"Uh oh!"

"Well she's something," he added. "Got an extensive knowledge of coffee beans from around the world, cures meat in her basement, and even considering starting her very own gun collection. And that's 'just because'." Shrugging his shoulders he grinned at her.

Michonne smiled back. "A woman of many talents. Resourceful, disciplined, dependable… the kind of partner to have even at the end of the world. Lucky you."

"You too… lucky..."

Shaking her head, "He's too soft. I think that I've offended him at least five times in the past hour. It's just time to go," she groaned.

Furrowing his brows, "Can't be that bad?"

"No, you're right. Not that bad." Michonne just wasn't ready to get back into the dating pool. "And I'm always up for coming here, to Angelo's. It's my favorite restaurant."

"In Atlanta?"

"Period. Regular customer and everything." Old and quaint, she'd been dining at the warm establishment with her family since she was a child. "So if my dates go bad, at least I got a spectacular meal out of it. Is that sinful?"

"Absolutely."

Michonne burst into laughter at his candid response. "You should try the Tiramisu, or better yet there's a special on Friday's."

"It's good?"

"Divine." The best dessert Angelo's had to offer, in her opinion. She never enjoyed it anywhere else. Straightening herself upright, Michonne smoothed her dress, readying to return to the company of Mr. Stokes. However, she grimaced as she shifted her weight.

"I could fix that," he offered, his eyes dropping to her shoes.

"No."

Ignoring her, he held out his hand.

Fixing her gaze on his, she refused him.

Opening and closing his fist, he gestured for her to take a hold of him.

Her muscles tensed, "I, I don't know you," she chuckled.

Sighing heavily, the stranger lowered himself onto one knee. Before Michonne could step away, his fingers wrapped around her skin just above her ankle. The warmth of his gentle touch sent shivers up her leg… and her knees went a little weak. With his other hand he tugged at her straps, and then came a sudden release.

He looked up at her with a sly grin, "Name's Rick."

She raised a brow and shook her head at him, "Michonne." Her eyes bored into him, he was trouble. But still, she angled to her right giving him access to the other bothersome contraption. "Thank You."

He chortled whilst grasping her leg.

Michonne nearly licked her burgundy stained lips when he repeated the process: Fingers, warmth, shivers, release.

'Geez girl, it has been too long. Get a hold of yourself.'

He stood back up, clearly pleased with himself.

"It was nice to meet you…" Nodding her head towards the dining area, "… Time for me to get back."

"Yeah. Nice to meet you too." Rick indulged himself at the sight of her swaying hips as she traipsed away… her loose heels flapping slightly beneath her feet.


"I'm home," Michonne announced, as she entered her house. A spacious town home, located in a county merely thirty minutes north from downtown, it was a rental that met her needs just fine. With two bedrooms, two and a half baths, hardwood laminate flooring, and a gorgeous fireplace, it was thankfully affordable on her accountant's salary.

Opening up the closet to the left of the front door, she flung her shoes in the corner and hung her coat on its designated hanger.

Carol appeared at the kitchen's archway, "How did it go?"

"Fine. Where's Charlotte?" She walked past her and set her purse down on top the kitchen island.

"She's eleven, it's ten p.m. where do you think she is?"

"Let me go kiss her goodnight then."

"Not so fast Missy. Spill it."

Michonne glared at her Uncle's wife, "Not interested in seeing him again."

"Why the hell not? Gabe is sweet."

"Now I don't think that's enough Carol," intervened Morgan, her husband, who waltzed in with a drink in his hand. "Did you see it fit to marry me because you thought I was sweet?"

"I married you because you wouldn't leave me be."

He laughed, "It's true. Those damn cookies." He pecked her on her lips and she flushed instantly.

Michonne admired her Uncle, she admired them both actually. Having found love again, at that late stage in life, especially after such loss and heartache… it was the main reason why she allowed them to coax her back into the dating game.

Carol and Morgan met seven years ago at a support group for parents whose children had died. Aunt Jenny, Morgan's first wife, couldn't take the heartbreak, and so she left to cope on her own. On the other hand, Carol was already a divorcee, whose ex-husband Ed, was behind bars serving time on charges of domestic abuse. At first, they were barely cordial to one another, but after awhile, a friendship was formed. And with a little more time, love eventually bloomed.

"Oh before I forget," Carol returned her attentions to Michonne as she went into the fridge to grab a bottle of water. "Charlotte saw her father again on TV tonight… she asked about him."

Morgan placed his glass in the sink, "You need to have a talk with her."

"It's not so easy…" Michonne sighed, unscrewing the bottle cap before taking a sip. "… She has his eyes."

Carol folded her arms against her chest, "I understand sweetie. Things didn't end well so it's difficult. But still…"

"I think what my wife is trying to say is that your child needs to know more about the man. She's getting grown… fast… and she has the right."

"Yeah okay." Michonne's failed relationship with her daughter's father was not her favorite subject to discuss, but Morgan and Carol were completely on point of course, whatever residual feelings she had, needed to be set aside for Charlotte's sake.

"So things didn't go so well with Gabriel huh? I'm not surprised… he could be a little-"

"A little what?" Carol narrowed her eyes at him; she and Gabe were good friends. So considerate and helpful, and perfectly harmless, he was perfect for her husband's wary niece.

"A little flat, for lack of a better word."

"You're too kind," commented Michonne.

"Listen I know a fella who is just the opposite," he suggested. "Mr. Abraham Ford. He's our new football coach over at Graceway High." Morgan had been the school's principal for the past ten years. "Somewhat of a character but a straight shooter, witty, he might be your match."

"God I don't think I could do that again, not just yet," Michonne sauntered over to the trash can to dispose of the now empty plastic bottle.

"Come on, don't be stupid. Everyone needs someone," Carol said. "Trust us."

Michonne did, implicitly so. She doubted her own judgment. Other than her daughter and her brother, they were the closest family in her life. She leaned back onto her cream colored counter top and her hand swiped over mouth. "Your guy… Does he have wavy brown hair, mesmerizing blue eyes, and a tailor made silver suit?"

Uncle Morgan squinted his eyes, "No. Fiery red hair, handlebar mustache, and camouflage pants."

"Perfect."