Complexity in Simplicity Art Gala Exhibition
She was having the dream. Again.
The one she'd had after falling asleep next to Rick on the bus to Timber Falls, the one where a faceless man had his hands on her, touching her, stroking her legs, touching all over her and it felt so good—
Michonne woke with a gasp and blinked open her eyes to the dimly lit atmosphere of their Nightjar room. She took a soft breath and looked down at the blue beneath her. She realized her head was resting atop the firm shape of Rick's chest, and she was supporting a bit of her head under her fist.
She looked up to gaze at his sleeping face but found herself looking into his eyes.
She opened her mouth. "W—"
"Aht." He held up a finger in her face. "We're 'pre-dating', as you said."
"Yeah?" Her voice was gravelly in her own ears.
"Yeah, so, you don't have to jump up and insult me." He gave a half-shrug. "This is what couples do."
She blinked against his shirt. "So, you're saying I have to endure this?"
"Precisely."
She sighed, and just looked at him. Rick's hair was in thin wet ringlets around his head and he was wearing different clothes, dark grey pants and a navy-blue sweater. He must've recently showered.
"You fell asleep on me." She said low, into his chest.
"I know."
"You told me some crazy shit."
"I know."
"You don't regret it?"
Rick shrugged. "Why would I?"
She watched the blue in his eyes as she spoke. "You were sleepy, literally on sleep's edge, spouting your darkest secrets. I would."
"Are you implying we aren't ourselves when we're tired?" He was looking down at her, seemingly invested in the conversation she'd begun, interested in what she had to say, a rare occurrence for her.
"That or maybe we're too much of ourselves." She moved her cheek against the soft yarn of his sweater. "A vulnerable, exposed side of us that steals the show when we're sleepy."
"And when someone else happens to be around…"
"…we let it all out." She finished for him. "Yeah."
"Interesting theory." He curved his lips downward. "But that's not what made me tell you all that. You asked on the bus, and I just answered, maybe a few hours late, but I was suddenly in the mood to answer you. Like—"
"Like the exposed version of yourself!" She snapped her finger, pointing at him. "You couldn't tell me on the bus, but—"
"I was tired on the bus too."
"Yeah right, or you're just desperately trying to prove me wrong." She rolled her eyes.
"Whatever, get off of me and get ready so we can go."
"Go?" She blinked up at him.
"There's an art exhibition I'm trying to make." He said. "I want you to come with me."
"Aw." She sat up, sliding her legs over the edge, her voice grating and tired. "You want me to go with you."
"Just get ready, will you?" He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and turned up the television which was showing a horror film.
"I missed this."
Thalia was lying on his chest, tracing slow circles across his thin shirt, her voice soft. Early morning sun pierced through the half-open windows.
Malcolm had her clutched in the circle of his arm. "You wouldn't if you stayed for more than every other week."
She chuckled, looking up at him. "As much as I love being apart of this…little family of yours, I have my own back in Washington."
"Move them down here." He said. "It'll fix all our problems."
"Problems? Like that pestilential daughter of yours?"
"Yes. She just needs people." He said, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. "After Belakane…I think she needs someone to attach herself to. I thought those friends of hers would help, but I suppose I was wrong."
She stroked his chest. "What did she do?"
"Yesterday, I told her the relationship with the Grimes boy wasn't received well in the media—"
She chuckled. "I told you that was a bad idea. You should've known."
"Yeah, well, I told her they could stop flaunting to the media, they could never be in the same room again." He said, shaking his head. "I thought she'd jump at that, she hates the boy."
"But?"
"But a friend of mine saw her getting on a bus to Timber Falls with him." He sighed, shaking his head. "I think they've developed feelings. I think they're in an actual relationship."
"Malcolm!" Thalia sat up beside him with a jolt. "And you're allowing this? Why aren't you on your own bus down there right now?"
"Seems futile at this point." He removed his arm from around her. "It doesn't matter what I say, she….she just won' t listen to me."
"To you." Thalia, clutching the sheets over her chest with one hand, reached for her phone on the bedside table with the other. She tapped at the screen for a moment, until her phone chimed. "There."
"What did you do? If she isn't listening to me, she most definitely won't listen to you."
"Then I'll make her. You know me. I can." Thalia brushed her dark curls behind her ear. "I just bought a bus ticket to Timber Falls."
"I know. I'm late." Michonne grumbled as soon as she'd locked up after herself and joined Rick at the car. He was in the front seat, and she'd just pulled open the passenger's door, and was stepping up into the car, her layered thin chain choker jingling around her neck during the hassle. She shut the door and strapped herself in, popping another peppermint in her mouth she'd stuffed in her clutch from the lobby.
Michonne, puzzled by the lack of talking Rick was doing, turned to face him. He'd usually be babbling her ear off at this point but looking over to him, she saw that he was gazing at her.
Her crunching slowed, and she stared around in confusion. "You're staring at me like I have lipstick on my teeth…"
"Michonne…"
"Well, do I?" She turned his rear-view mirror toward herself to look but there was none, her dark red lipstick hadn't reached her teeth.
"It's not that." He shook his head, staring at her as if she was an alien. "It's just you're beautiful. You look stunning."
Michonne rose her brows and straightened the mirror, and looked at him, then down at herself. He'd said art exhibition and she instantly thought rich, expensive people so she'd thrown on a black sequined dress that stopped halfway past her knees. It had a plunging neckline with thin silver chain straps that crossed over her back to form an X. Due to the cold, she'd thrown on her coat atop it.
And her braids, she'd pulled that up into a high bun, a few braids dangled loosely by the sides of her face. She hadn't brought any earrings, she thought they'd go great with the outfit. But makeup, she did bring, and she'd done a simple layer, some faint eyeshadow, a bit of eyeliner, heavy on the lipstick.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
He started the car. "It's not necessarily nice, it's reality, it's fact. You see it and you know it, like seeing a piece of bread and knowing it's a piece of bread."
He pulled out of the Nightjar Inn's parking lot and onto the road, those icy roads. She shivered as a thought occurred to her.
"Are you seriously trying to defend complimenting me? And with bread? We're 'pre-dating', like you said." She popped another peppermint in her mouth. "You don't have to do that."
"No, you said that."
"Still, you don't have to."
"I guess old habits die hard." He made a turn.
"Well, you know what they say…beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
He peered at her from the corner of his eye. "Yeah."
"You know…" she sighed as they came down an icy road, "we don't have to do this, don't you?"
"Hmm?"
"My dad, he, uh, told me that the media doesn't like it, doesn't like us. Us being together will actually affect the town's voting decisions, affect how they see our parents. They'll hate them." Michonne gazed at the side of his face, watching the way his brows pushed forward as he listened to what she had to say. "So what I'm saying is…if-if you're only trying to discover—unearth whatever this is because you thought you'd have to spend so much time with me….you can stop. We can just never see each other again."
"That's close to impossible in a small town like Vanity Front."
She sighed, rolling her eyes. "You know what I mean, Rick."
"No." He said simply. "No, I didn't do all of this because of that. That's pretty stupid to ask me, Michonne. Are you stupid?"
"Shut up, it wasn't a question. And it's not stupid, it's a pretty reasonable reason."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"So, are you? Only trying to unearth this veiled attraction between us because you thought we'd be joined at the hip indefinitely?"
"Maybe a little."
"Okay, that's fair." He said, maneuvering the car to the side to fit in through the gated parking lot doors. She was amazed at how foggy Timber Falls could be as they pulled into a parking space and Rick stopped the car.
"This art thing you have…it's cute." She said, undoing her seatbelt, and opening the door. "It's one of your charms—well, your only charm."
"Really?" Rick opened his own door, then looked back at her. "The pearls don't do it for you?" He wiggled his brows to enhance his eyes, and they seemed to twinkle an incredible blue as he said that.
She shook her head. "Nah."
He chuckled and they exited the car.
They headed out of the parking lot and down the sidewalk. Rick led the way and Michonne clacked across the earth in her black heels, shivering slightly. Her coat was thinner than it should be.
They approached the gallery building. A banner was set up.
Complexity in Simplicity Art Gala Exhibition.
Fancy, expensive cars were littered across the street, masses of snow piling up at their wheels.
Rick pulled open the glass door and let Michonne in. He followed after her.
Immediately, she was warmed. She wanted to gasp as she took in the area.
It was a splash of art, too much art to even fully process with her eyes. So, something easier to take in were the guests and there were a lot of them. They stunk of money and they were in each corner of the room, gazing at pieces, drinking wine, discussing with artists. The room was a bunch of murmuring with low evening music.
"Rick, this is…incredible." They walked deeper into the gala side by side, her mouth agape as her eyes went from piece to piece.
The art wasn't fit into the usual gallery structure with artwork spaced out along a white wall. The art seemed to be conjoined. Where one art piece ended, another started. And there weren't just paintings, there were some feathered works, fabric strips, origami. It was an assemblage of color, pale pinks, dark reds, sky blues, turquoise and ambers.
"Isn't it?"
She looked over to him and saw the awe she felt in his eyes but ten times more intense. If it was possible, she could see his raw fondness for the art as he gazed at it. She liked that look. But with that affection, she swore she saw pain.
"You must attend these all the time." She said. "You are an artist, after all."
"No, I…hardly have the time." His voice was soft, his eyes hadn't left the art. "It's sad, really."
Michonne opened her mouth to offer something cheerful, but another woman's voice cut through hers.
"Rick?"
They both turned around, facing the tall form of a woman.
She was white, with pretty dark red hair and gorgeous brown eyes. She wore a pink satin gown and small brown heels; her hands were clutching a champagne glass in front of her.
Her eyes slid past Michonne and to Rick, and when they were set on him…Michonne swore she saw the fondness that Rick had held toward the artwork in them.
Michonne looked from the woman and Rick, breathing in slowly, the air was thick in their unspoken history. Michonne could practically taste it.
"Um, hi." Michonne said to cut through the atmosphere.
The woman blinked, as if snapped out of a trance, and looked away from Rick, to Michonne. "Hello. Carla. Dixon. You must be Michonne Jesekai."
Carla? The Carla?
"And my brother Jeffrey…" Rick had said the night before. "He…messed something up for me, and I was so angry... but that's another can of worms, I won't get into that."
"Of course you won't. So, what did you do to make him run away? What was your revenge?" She'd asked.
"Sleeping with his wife, Carla."
"You know about me?"
Carla tipped her glass into her own mouth, sipping her wine. "Well, I am married to a Grimes."
Yes, you're married.
The woman wiggled her fingers in the air, indicating the fat rock on her ring finger and it was a gorgeous little thing. A squared diamond that sparkled to match the extravagant ambiance of the exhibition.
"This is the last place I expected to see you, Carla." Said Rick, finally speaking.
For an odd reason, seeing—no, feeling the history in the atmosphere between Rick and Carla made her feel ridiculous. Pursuing Rick when he's clearly got other attachments. Jessie and Carla, two gorgeous women each with their own appealing distinctiveness's who rather obviously wanted him.
Why was she here, with him, and they weren't? What could be so special about her?
A caterer was passing with drinks, and Michonne stole away a glass of champagne, she downed it, then slapped it back on his tray. She smiled at the caterer and he headed away.
"You think I could resist after the one you took me to last year?" Carla's pretty amber eyes were bursting affectionately.
"That was last year?" Rick's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Feels like forever ago."
Carla nodded slowly, her long chain earrings jangling. She was perfect. Every little movement, every little thing she did sparkled or sparked. Jingled or clinked.
"Well, I'll be with my entourage." Carla said. "We're considering the Perch piece, so try to avoid that one, will you?"
She offered a wide smile, gave Rick one more sparkling look before heading past him to entangle herself into a small group of people.
"So…it's been a few hours and you've already met Carla." Rick said, shaking his head. "Who's next, Jessie?"
Michonne turned her head to her side, catching a couple share a kiss.
It was the smallest thing, the woman's hands slipping into the man's curls, his lips on hers, but enough.
Michonne clutched her legs together as the one thing that had been nagging at her since the moment she stepped foot in Timber Falls throbbed through her body.
She looked at Rick.
A mistake.
He was staring ahead, and his curls were perfectly curving over and behind his ears, silky and dark. His nose, that flawless structure…and his lips, she remembered how it felt when they were on hers. Her chest was on fire.
"Rick."
"Yes?"
She looped her arm through his and lugged him after her as she crossed the gallery floor. She advanced toward the back near the STAFF ONLY doors. It was far from the event, and beside those doors her eyes landed on the bathroom door.
She headed to it and pushed that door open, slipping inside, pulling Rick after her.
The bathroom was almost as, if not more, fancy as the initial event. There were pink hand towels, and an expensive-looking plush red couch, it smelled of perfume.
She pressed Rick to the wall and moved into his space, Michonne pressed herself into him, burying her head into the curve of his neck while using one hand to clutch the side of his head. Her nose brushed the skin of his neck, and she breathed him in. That Rick scent, some perfume he must've put on. She felt Rick's hands come up to rest on the low of her back where the dress exposed her skin, his hands were cold against her skin as he held her in.
Put it on a leash.
Michonne took a breath, shutting her eyes, then stepped back out of his arms, reaching up to rub her forehead.
"Sorry, that was..." She trailed off.
"We're in a gala bathroom and we haven't even purchased anything." Rick said. "I'm sure you just broke a bunch of proper etiquette regulations."
"Not helping." She groaned.
"With what?"
She dropped her hand from her forehead and swallowed hard. "The fact that I've been…unconsciously imagining ripping your clothes off all day."
Rick's lips parted and his brows rose, eyes widening a little. He looked genuinely surprised.
"Yeah." She shook her head.
"You too?"
She blinked at him, perplexed. "Me too?"
"What do you think I've been imagining since the moment you got into my car in that thing?" His eyes dropped to her dress, her sequined black dress.
"Oh…thank god it's not just me." She released a breath of relief, walked in the other direction then back to him. "Rick, my body is on fire. It's like—it's like an itch and I'm just…it's-it's too much."
"So, what do you want to do about it?"
She stopped pacing and glanced at him, biting her bottom lip. "I don't know, let's just…go back to the motel and-and—"
"And have sex?"
"Hey, you said it." She gave a half-shrug.
"I can't." Rick said, stuffing his hand into one pocket. "No, we can't. We have dinner at the Anastasie House, remember?"
"Dinner at the who?"
"My family's home."
"No way." Michonne shook her head. "I'm not going to that."
"Come on, Michonne." He groaned. "Play the part. Pre-girlfriends attend family dinners, pre-girlfriends play the buffer at said family dinners. I need you."
"And I'm sexually frustrated." She went to door and pulled it open, Rick came after her and they headed back into the event. "This is ridiculous."
"It's one dinner."
She turned her head to him as they walked. "It's not just dinner, it's—"
She whirled to look ahead and see where she was going and saw that a waiter was carrying a tray of filled champagne glasses, sloshing with golden wine so she took a step back to avoid actually clashing with the waiter and heard a snap. Her heel had broken, and she was nearing ground.
And Rick was there, hauling her up in his arms the way he'd held her while she was sleeping. This kept much of the events guest from looking further. The waiter walked past, and most of the attention was off of them. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders to hold herself up.
"Rick, stop." Michonne said in embarrassment, her eyes low.
Him holding her, and their bodies once again pressed against each other was annoyingly effective at this point.
"What? I like carrying you." Rick didn't seem to be bothered by the few eyes on him as he headed toward the doors of the gala, her in his arms.
She shook her head frustratingly, her bun flopping behind her, staring at him with suggestively disappointed eyes. "You can carry me, but you can't sleep with me?"
He looked up to her, his eyes reluctant. "I can't miss dinner."
"I know." She groaned, dropping her head and burying her face into his shoulder, still clutching him for balance. "You know you're not helping my ever-increasing hypersexuality. At all." She murmured into the fabric of his top.
They headed out into the evening blue sky, cold wind hit her like a wave, but she liked it, that crisp feeling as the wind passed over her face, her hair. It was cleansing.
"Yeah, neither is you pressing yourself against me like that."
She raised her head and smirked at him. "Rick…my heel is broken. We're going to have to go back to the inn."
"For shoes. We're not missing dinner, Michonne."
"No fun."
And they'd drove back to the inn in a silent ride consisting of Michonne attempting to gather herself and all the libido that seemed to be bursting out of her. When they parked, got out, and slipped inside, Michonne went straight for her things, while Rick dropped down on the bed and turned on the television with the remote.
Her phone buzzed when she went for the pair of boots she had worn initially, she took it out of her clutch, looked at it and sighed.
"Who just made you look that disappointed?"
She looked up at Rick, setting the phone on the bed. "Um…my father."
"Oh."
"Exactly." She dropped down onto her bed and began removing her black heels, she dropped them on the floor and slipped her feet into the boots.
"Do you plan on forgiving him? Your father?" Rick asked from his reclined position on the bed. He watched her fitting her feet into them.
She sighed again. "Yeah…but, I don't know what to say." Michonne said from her bed, looking at him as she spoke. "I want to forgive him, it was a human mistake—well, an odd and violent human mistake, but a mistake."
"Don't be an idiot, you could've been killed." Said Rick who looked back at the television, a romantic comedy was playing. "Plus he tried to threaten my father and who knows? Maybe kill him. That man is demented."
"Okay, not too much." She frowned, looking down to strap her boots up.
Rick sighed. "At the very least, we've been nonbelligerent about this whole situation, never resorting to any physical violence—"
"Like Frederick?" Her voice was sharp, which made him look at her again. "Was he nonbelligerent?"
"Watch it, Michonne." He warned.
"No, you watch it. That's my father you're talking about."
He raised his brows. "The same father that threw you at us to fix his problems like you were just another tool in his shed? That one?"
Michonne watched him in disbelief, before gathering herself, her choker, and pulling herself off of the bed in silence. She padded into the bathroom.
"Michonne—come on."
She heard him shut the TV off.
"No. That was low, even for you." She said, pulling the cold silver around her neck, attempting to clasp it.
He entered the bathroom and stood by the door, watching her. "Was it, though? Really?"
She frowned, shaking her head. "No."
"Exactly." He set his foot out to come closer into the bathroom.
"No." She repeated, holding out her hand in his direction.
"Relax, I'm just trying to help you with that." He said, walking behind her and taking each side of the choker from her.
The cold metal brushed her skin as he worked, and his own hands she could feel against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. She stared in the mirror at herself and Rick hovering behind. She watched his determined eyes.
"I can feel every movement of your fingertips on my skin." She said, shutting her eyes. "It's not helping."
"Sorry." He said, and there was a click. "There."
His hands dropped and she opened her eyes, looking up at herself in the mirror. The sequined black dress, the silver choker, her high bun. Perfect.
"Thank you." She turned to look at him and patted his shoulder. "Let's go."
She moved past him and back into the main room.
"Of course."
And they had gotten back to car, and Michonne sat in the passenger's seat of Rick's car as he drove across a bridge headed toward the Anastasie House, staring at the blankets of snow covering the town.
The entire day, on her own, she hadn't spared a painful thought toward her father, toward her friends. In fact, she had forgotten about everything back home. And it was good. It felt good.
She was enjoying herself.
No—she was enjoying herself…with Rick.
Today, she thought she witnessed another side of him. She turned her head to look at him.
Not just his behavior toward her, not just that. His fondness of art, the love in his eyes when he looked at those pieces. It actually warmed her heart to know what he loved.
Thalia Lawson-Jesekai sighed, sitting at the very back of the bus that was headed to Timber Falls, and pulled out her cellphone. She went through her contacts.
Michonne.
She began punching in a message.
ME: Came down to Vanity Front this morning! You weren't here :( Malcolm said you were going away, but never told him where. Where are u? We just want to know you're safe before we head out to a charity event!
(…)
*JUST NOW* MICHONNE: Don't worry. I'm with Sasha, we're in Timber Falls staying at the Blue Nightjar Inn. We're safe, promise. Back on Monday.
