So I decided to add a companion/sequel piece to Turning Point since it was politely asked by a reviewer and demanded by my beta. Hope you all enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Walking Dead.
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As Rick's hand drifted further south, his fingers brushing lightly against the thin trail of hair leading down to his groin, his movements were momentarily halted by the sudden knock at the bathroom door. The noise cut through the calm of the bathroom, startling Rick from his hazy task and causing him to wrench his hand guiltily away from his lower region.
"Occupied!" he called out, his voice rough with frustration. His hand was repeatedly clenching into a fist, and he hastily grabbed the slick bar of soap from the shelf in an effort to replace its intentions.
It was muffled, and the constant pattering of water splashing against the shower floor didn't help matters, but he could still hear the voice on the other side of the door distinctly say, "Hurry it up in there! Others wanna shower before bed, too!"
Michonne. Fuck.
He nearly dropped the bar of soap as he begun to scrub himself furiously, his nails angrily scraping against sensitive skin. He was vigorous, almost as though he was attempting to wash his body raw as a form of punishment for what he had been about to do. He tried to focus on the abrupt strokes of the soap on his skin, his chest, and ignored the reverberating echo of Michonne's voice in his mind, ignored the pictures forming in his vision of what she probably looked like, clad in that ridiculous constable uniform, her brows pinched together in the annoyance that had almost leaked into her voice, her words dripping with ebony clearness, her plump, naked lips pressed into a tight frown-
Rick scowled and scrubbed harder.
"I'll be out soon!" he replied over his shoulder, forcing his voice to keep as calm as possible. There was no answer, and he assumed that she had left her post by the bathroom door. He stopped his abuse with the soap and sighed heavily, propping an arm against the cool wall of the shower and resting his brow against his forearm.
How pathetic. He chastised himself, sliding his head down the length of his arm and began repetitively hitting his head against the bone of his wrist with light thumps. Here he was, practically pining over a strictly off-limits woman. It was as if he were back in high school, back when he was constantly worrying over how he came across to other people, especially once girls became an interest. He hadn't felt like this in a long time. The last time he felt like this was when he pursued-
Rick stifled a groan, setting his jaw tight and clenching his eyes shut. Images of his late wife danced behind his eyelids, prompting the guilt and shame to return ten-fold, accompanied with a sense of anger. It had been over a year since Lori's death. How long was he supposed to be a widower before he was allowed to move on? Was he even allowed to move on? Was it worth moving on, if it was to pursue an impossible target, in a world where they may not be alive tomorrow?
These questions, Lori, Michonne, they all flooded his mind, probing and prodding, each demanding attention and nourishment. He moved away from the wall, yanking the shower knob into the off position. He could feel the beginnings of a massive headache forming between his eyes, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose as he opened the door and stepped out of the confined space, grabbing his towel in the process. He wouldn't allow himself to dwell on this. He couldn't. He had to stop thinking about Michonne, he had to shove down the infuriating voice that told him that this was something to consider, he had to force thoughts of Lori to the back of his mind. He had to focus. He couldn't dwell.
Rick threw on a pair of baggy sweats that came from the clothes lent to him by Deanna's people, and grabbed his plain shirt from where it lay on the sink, wiping at the stray droplets of water on his bare chest, and opened the bathroom door.
He gave a small start when he came face-to-face with Michonne, a ready towel hanging off her arm, unmentionables poorly hidden within the thick cloth, and staring back at Rick expectantly.
"About time," she muttered, a tinge of irritation underlying her statement.
He felt grateful that the hot water had done its job to pinken his skin, hiding the embarrassing blush he felt warming his face. He furrowed his brows and moved to step outside. "Well, shower's free now."
Her eyes narrowed. As they maneuvered around each other, Rick leaving the bathroom while Michonne walked in, he felt his thigh brush against her hips. His heart jumped, and he turned to glance at her. She met his gaze steadily, and then slowly dragged her eyes down.
Not dwelling didn't seem possible now.