A/N: Part Two of Election Night is a prequel. Rick and Michonne meet from opposite sides of the aisle...

Enjoy!

"Look alive, Grimes. I'm not paying you to stand around looking pretty." The sardonic southern accent bit at Rick's ears, immediately rubbing him the wrong way. The man from whom the voice emitted completed the image. Over six feet tall with unnaturally perfect hair, Philip Blake was the picture of conservative family values to his potential constituents. Those who worked with him knew better.

Phillip Blake was an asshole.

Rick swallowed thickly, biting his tongue for presumably the hundredth time this morning. His boss took his silence as compliance, already moving along on his list of people to verbally abuse.

"This Michonne, she's gaining in the polls," Philip's southern accent was far less polished behind the scenes.

"She's a novelty, sir," Blake's assistant, Milton, a mousy man with rectangular glasses, piped up on queue. "They'll grow tired of her. My numbers—"

"Are bullshit," Blake finished. "I'm not taking any risks. Find me something I can use against her."

It took every ounce of self-control for Rick not to roll his eyes. Philip Blake would have made an excellent dictator in another life. His hatred for his opponent burned bright. Rick suspected that the fact that a Black woman had the gall to run against him burned the hell out of Blake's chaps.

"She's a problem," he clipped out, pausing to adjust his hair and tie in the mirror backstage. "She needs to be dealt with."

Rick's eye twitched again.

"She's young. Unseasoned. You have the support of the party—" Milton tried again.

"Find something I can use," Blake interjected, acting as though his assistant hadn't spoken at all.

"I will," Milton was doing the stuttering thing again. Rick almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Where the hell is my wife?" Blake turned his attention elsewhere, eyes sweeping for the platinum blonde. Rick hadn't exchanged a word with her in the month since he took this gig, and he didn't care to change that. Mrs. Blake was just as unpleasant as her husband.

"I'm here," she appeared in a click of heels and a cloud of perfume and bad attitude, her waves of hair seemingly glued around her head. She took her husband's arm. At once, their scowls melted into smiles that could have graced a Colgate ad. Rick watched them sweep onto the stage, happy to retreat to his place with the other bodyguards just behind the curtain.

He spotted Abe, an old colleague, standing up ramrod straight. The redhead caught his eye, grinning.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Abe started in immediately. Rick felt his mood improve marginally.

"Abe," he nodded.

"Shane hook you up?" he asked, shaking Rick's hand.

"That obvious?" Rick took his place beside him, facing the pulpit. His clients had emerged to raucous applause. Rick's stomach turned.

"Politics ain't really your scene," Abe snorted lowly.

"And they're yours?" Rick scoffed. He couldn't imagine a more politically incorrect person than the man beside him.

"I at least served old Uncle Sam," Abe grinned. "You couldn't cut basic training."

"It's good money," Rick shrugged slightly. This was his daily mantra.

"Better you than me," Abe's eyes locked onto the Blakes. "Ain't never seen a bigger pair of assholes."

Rick held in his laugh and his agreement. "How's your girl?" he asked.

Abe's smile widened. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the arrival of the client in question.

"Excuse me," a lilting voice drew Rick's attention. His eyes flickered momentarily to the woman walking out on stage, head high and shoulders back.

Rick dropped his jaw. He'd seen pictures of her, clips on the evening news. None of them did her justice. He hadn't seen a person look less like a politician. Her dark locs were fixed back from her forehead in a simple but striking updo. Her skin seemed to glow under the stage lights, dark like polished bronze. She swept past him in a swirl of vanilla and sandalwood, her heels clicking as she took her place on the podium. Rick stared in shock.

"Is that her?" Rick whispered under his breath. He wasn't looking at the Blakes at all anymore.

"That's her," Abe smirked knowingly, his eyes never leaving his client. "Michonne Bechet. Atlanta Councilwoman. Might be an Obama in the making."

"Holy shit," Rick's statement came out almost as a gasp. "I'm going to kill Shane."

Abe chuckled, arms folded in front of him, the hint of amusement playing beneath his facial hair. "Walsh did you a favor."

"How do you figure?" It damn sure didn't feel like a favor from where Rick was standing. From where he was standing, it looked like Abe got to guard the gorgeous, progressive candidate while Rick got stuck with Philip Blake.

"He knows you, man. You couldn't handle her," Abe's lips barely moved as they muttered quietly to one another.

Rick didn't answer. There were plenty of ways he suddenly wanted to handle the woman in front of him, none of them professional. "You might have a point," he admitted.

Abe grunted his agreement.

Rick wasn't one for politics, but he paid close attention to the debate that night. He'd heard Blake's stance a million and a half times, but Michonne's words stuck with him. She had vision, she had panache, she had charisma, and she was a hell of a looker. Michonne faced the jeering crowd without so much as flinching. If Blake's sardonic insults affected her, she didn't show it. She answered the debate questions in a clear, high voice, outlining her point until even the crowd seemed to silence before her.

Blake hated her.

"Find me something on her," he reiterated that night, taking a break from his hooting and hollering and cursing to address Milton. "Before this gets out of control."

By debate number two, it was clear that the situation had long since gotten out of control. Michonne was gaining in the polls. Blake couldn't maintain his polite façade. Their meeting at a charity ball quickly divested into petty remarks. Rick reddened behind his boss while Michonne took the insults on the chin.

"Asshole," Abe was angrier even than Rick, his eyes burning holes into Blake as he sipped champagne and schmoozed with donors.

"Dick," Rick agreed, fighting the urge to knock his employer in the back of his head with the butt of his gun.

"Abe," they were interrupted once more by the dark horse candidate. She looked stunning in her little black dress, her hair pulled up in a bun.

"What do you need, darling?" Abe came to attention at once. Rick resisted the urge to step forwards towards her.

"I'm tired," she announced this with the air of one discussing the weather. Only the weariness in her eyes betrayed her actual feelings.

"All right," Abe nodded, mobilizing her people at once. Rick was left standing there, staring at her, anger burning in the pit of his stomach at the way this woman was treated. She glanced back, her expression mildly curious.

"Don't let him bother you," Rick's mouth was moving before he even realized it. "He's scared of you."

She looked surprised for a fraction of a second, then her expression changed. Her laugh, clear and melodious, got him through the rest of the night, even as Blake snarked at everyone around him.

"Thank you," she told him as Abe swept her off, throwing Rick a knowing look from beneath his bushy brow.

Rick and Michonne met again at a community center groundbreaking. She was just as stunning in jeans and a blouse as an evening gown. She smiled at him this time, greeting him kindly as she passed. Rick ignored Blake's burning glare to smile back.

"Maybe you're not useless after all," Blake mused later, unaware of how close he was to getting punched squarely in his face. "She's likes the working class type. Talk to her next time. See what you can find out."

Rick seized the opportunity. He found her a week later, sitting at the bar, her ankles crossed, her hair hanging freely down her back. He beelined for her.

"Rick," his name sounded regal coming from her lips. "Should you be talking to me?" she seemed amused. Her hand cupped her chin as she stared up at him, her confidence burning bright.

"It's my day off," he told her. This was true. Both candidates were stationed in the same hotel. He bumped into her at the bar downstairs. He'd come down to meet Abe for a drink, but changed course the moment he spotted her.

"Blake gives you those?" she quipped, sipping prettily from her beer.

Rick laughed. Behind them, Abe watched, amused. Rick caught his eye, silently begging his friend to leave them alone.

"You owe me," Rick read Abe's lips from across the bar. Rick happily sent over a drink to keep him occupied.

"How do I know you're not a spy?" Michonne questioned lightly a few moments later. There was something underlying in her tone that let Rick know she was not joking.

"You can ask Abe what I think of my employer," Rick didn't miss a beat. Truth was, he hated Philip Blake. Work had become the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

"What do you think of me?" she asked, taking another draw. Rick's eyes flicked to her lips. He swallowed thickly.

"I might vote for you," he told her, taking a gulp to steady himself.

"Just might?" she sounded so incredulous that for a moment Rick feared she was serious. Then she smiled around the mouth of her bottle. Rick grinned back.

"Learn anything interesting?" Blake asked the next morning.

Rick had learned her favorite drink, her cat's name, that she loved action movies, and got into politics to fight for the voiceless.

"Nope," Rick answered. Blake glared. Rick did not flinch. Blake eventually moved off.

"Are you making a move on my client?" Abe asked later, when both of them were stationed behind the scenes of debate number 3.

"I'm thinking about it," Rick did not hesitate to answer. It was all he seemed to think about.

"You're going to get fired," Abe rolled his eyes.

"Might be worth it." There was no might about it. If Rick had half a chance, he'd take it.

"I'm going to regret this," Abe sighed, then pulled out his phone. "She asked me for your number."

Rick punched it into Abe's phone at lightning speed.

Her first text came the following Saturday afternoon. Phillip and his wife were drunk at the pool and Rick was bored to tears.

"What's it going to take to get your vote?" the question blinked up at him under the bright light of the afternoon sun.

"Want to talk about it over dinner?" he text back, waiting with baited breath while the three dots flashed at him.

"It can't be public."

Rick's heart jumped. Trying to contain his excitement, he text back. "I know a place. No one will bother us."

Her response took a full five minutes, but eventually it pinged in.

"Sounds great."

Rick read her message, sitting contently and grinning while Blake yelled at Milton from across the pool.