This was a Richonne Writing Network AU scene challenge. Just a scene.
Michonne stood in the Roosevelt Room of the West Wing gazing at a portrait on the wall but her mind fixated on one thing — the whereabouts of her latest brief notes. Her folder had a draft, perhaps the second of eight revisions over the last twelve hours. Information was fluid due to situations on the ground; it was an unstable world. She would have to make due with her good memory and grasp of numbers, and while they never let her down, she wasn't interested in bullshitting the President of the United States.
"You appear lost, can I help?" A minor British accent interrupted Michonne's thoughts.
Her back stiffened as she stood a little taller and pushed her shoulders back. The nerve. "No, I'm where I belong," Michonne said as she looked over and locked eyes with the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations. "Mr. Grimes, ah, thank you. I'm here for the brief."
Mr. Grimes stood in the doorway with a smile on his face and a hand in his pocket, looking casual and confident. "I meant lost in thought. Need an ear? I find when I explain the topic to someone else I see the holes, see where I'm going wrong."
"Oh, sorry." She was accustomed to men thinking she didn't belong in whatever room she was in unless it was to take their lunch orders, and a woman with authority in the Department of State was like a unicorn. Sometimes she was more defensive than a situation deserved, especially after one of her male subordinates, of all people, accused her of being confused regarding comments she made during a team meeting about the upcoming Cuban elections. "No sir, I'm reviewing the overnight changes for the brief."
"You're from State." It was a statement but with a tinge of surprise.
"Yes, sir."
"Please, call me Rick. And you are?"
"Michonne Todd."
"I don't want to interrupt you," Rick said, but he stepped further into the room.
She looked down at the paper well aware of his presence and therefore incapable of focusing. Rick Grimes was something of a rock star in D.C. A gossip column mainstay, he was equally known for his stylish attire; good looks; and upbringing as he was his intelligence. It was a nationalistic uproar — similar to changing French fries to Freedom fries — when the President added him to the White House staff, but no one could deny his political skills. He navigated the hill like he lived on K Street all his life instead of Kensington.
"Violating the ceasefire within hours of the declaration creates problems for your brief. Understandable if things change between first thing this morning and the meeting."
If they weren't confusing her for an assistant, they were assuming she worked the Africa desk. "If you're talking about Sudan, I don't work African Affairs, sir." Her voice had more bite than she intended.
Her patience was thin, and not just due to professional matters. She sent her personal life into a tailspin when she finally called off her engagement. Long ago she knew she couldn't walk down the aisle to start a life with Tony but she was more concerned with the disappointment across two families and three generations than her own happiness. She looked down at her hand and noticed she was running her thumb against her ring finger. It felt odd not seeing the emerald-cut ring she pretended to love.
He cocked an eyebrow. "I see I upset you," he said. "That wasn't my intention."
She stared at him as if daring him to admit he made assumptions.
He placed his hand over his heart. "But my apologies all the same. What is your area of expertise?"
"Cuba desk. I didn't know you'd be sitting in on this meeting."
"Well, I'm not. I was walking by and saw you. I assumed your area was Africa because I happen to know that's the only thing the president wants to discuss this morning. It seems there was a mix-up in communication."
Michonne pressed her lips together and stifled her groan. This new administration was not exactly ready for prime time, and that was putting it nicely. They were smart as hell, probably the most intelligent people to occupy the White House, but they didn't have much experience. If they didn't bring in the people they criticized the entire campaign — career types who knew how the sausage was made — there would be no second term. "No, I didn't get that message." She grabbed her briefcase.
"I'm sorry you had to come this way for nothing."
"It's only a mile away." She placed the file in her briefcase and secured it on her shoulder. "Thank you for the heads up."
"You're welcome." He walked past her and down the hallway.
She stood just outside the room she called her office to confirm they didn't need her at the brief and watched Rick walk away. A woman stopped him in the hall; she touched his arm three times in less than thirty seconds, tossed her head back and laughed like whatever he said was hilarious while still looking like she was in the middle of posing for a selfie. Two more women joined them and Michonne imagined this had always been his life. Intrigued by it all, she couldn't turn away. She understood the appeal but hoped she was more composed in the presence of an alluring man.
Suddenly he looked over in Michonne's direction. She diverted her eyes then headed for the exit. Rick Grimes in the flesh far exceeded the man in the glossy magazine spreads. Just before she turned the corner she dared to take another peek to find him still staring at her. How was it possible for someone to look better than airbrushing?