The sun was slow to rising that autumn morning, struggling through the clouds. The Hotel Hawthorne sat serenely in the dark, its occupants quiet, at rest, none the wiser to the threat growing on the outskirts of the city. On the top floor, Michonne began to stir, waking up to discover that she was essentially pinned to her bed.
For a moment, she panicked, preparing to fight her way free. Realization dawned and awareness sharpened. The weight holding her down was no threat, but the form of one US Marshal Grimes.
She craned her head, observing him in the low light, debating slipping free. Rick was still deep in sleep, breathing peacefully. His salt and pepper beard had made even more headway overnight, dusting his chin and cheeks. His coif had seen better days, though Michonne had to admit that the wild mess of curls pressing into her shoulder and pillows was not wholly unappealing. One muscled arm and leg were thrown over her waist, holding her tightly in place.
His weight was comfortable, familiar, a call back to an intimacy long lost to her. Michonne's stomach dropped at the sensation, adrenaline filling her. She should move, slip from the warmth of this bed and Rick's embrace. She should lay her plans, begin the hunt, rally others.
Instead, she laid still, watching him.
Her hand moved nearly on its own accord, fingering the silken tendrils of his hair. Across her stomach, Rick's hand flinched, tightening around her, drawing her ever closer. He sighed, tugging her beneath him.
Michonne froze, her breathing stammered. The heat of him against her was undoing her completely, sending her into a tailspin. She curled her fingers into the sheets beneath her, deciding at once that this had gone too far.
"Morning," Rick's voice was gravelly, his eyes still shut as he mumbled to her.
"Morning," Michonne cleared her throat. "Are you feeling better?"
"I'm feeling great," he smiled, fluttering his eyes open. "That tea of yours is a miracle cure."
"Family recipe," Michonne whispered, hoping that he couldn't feel the frantic fluttering of her heart against his chest.
Rick sat up, angling himself above her, a flush creeping up his neck as he looked at her. "Should we get up?" he asked lowly, his arms tightening around her.
"Probably," Michonne swallowed, watching as Rick did the same.
"Yeah," he mused, adam's apple bobbing. "Probably."
Instead, he leaned down, drawing her upwards, and kissed her. It was like an electric shock. Michonne responded at once, gasping. She clutched at his shoulders with half a mind to push him back. Instead, her hands clasped at him, taking stock of the warmth of his skin, the strength humming just beneath. Rick tilted his face, deepening their connection, coaxing her lips apart. All desire to flee was lost as he gasped, sucking at her.
She held him close, arching up into the heat of him. His hands, calloused and rough, wrapped around her waist before trailing down, unabashedly exploring her beneath the soft cotton fabric of her pajamas. She moaned against his mouth when he cupped her ass, a needy, plaintive sound. Rick pulled back to grin.
"Stay in bed with me," he requested, kissing her neck for good measure.
Michonne complied. Their exploration became feverish, hands groping, tongues wandering, their breathing broken. She wrapped her legs around his narrow waist and squeezed, drawing a delightful groan from him. Rick reached for her hands, pinning them to the bed, leaving her open to his advances.
Her need for him grew, igniting into an inferno, spurred on by the feel of his lips, his touch, the clipped phrases falling out of his mouth. She wanted him desperately, misgivings fading away until it was all she could think of. Her eyes fell shut as his palms found her beneath her shirt, massaging and pinching in turn.
"God," she sighed, arching into his touch. "Rick."
"Rick?" It was not the Georgia accent she suspected, but something deeper, more familiar. "Who the hell is Rick?"
Fear seized her as she opened her eyes. "Mike," she stammered at the other man, younger, taller. His face creased, anger coloring his handsome countenance.
"Who the hell is Rick?" he repeated, shaking her a bit. "You've got a new man?"
Michonne squirmed, seeking to free herself. "No," she protested, pushing at him. Mike pushed back harder, pinning her.
"You gonna kill him?" Mike questioned. All traces of youthfulness was disappearing from his face, his dark skin going ashen, his hair graying rapidly. "You're going to kill him like you killed me?"
Before her eyes, he melted away, death seizing him even as he spoke.
"You're gonna kill us both?" Mike accused.
"No," Michonne thrashed, forgetting her magic in lieu of panicking. "No Mike, no-"
Hands seized her shoulders, shaking her forcefully.
"Hey," it was Rick's voice again, laced not with lust or longing, but concern. "Michonne, wake up."
She blinked awake, coming to reality. Her skin was sweat-soaked, her heart racing.
Rick leaned over her, his face creased. "You're having a nightmare." His voice was soothing, low in the dark of the bedroom. "It's ok. You're awake now."
Michonne nodded, drawing in a deep, ragged breath.
"Just breathe," Rick instructed, his hand moving from her shoulders to cup her face. His fingers worried at her throat, finding her pulse. "Look at me and breathe," he inhaled slowly, waiting until she mirrored him. "You ok?" he asked lightly. His hand slipped from her neck, finding her locs instead. He toyed with them almost absently, watching her expectantly in the low light.
"I'm fine," Michonne said, satisfied that it sounded true. She ignored the flush of her body, the aftershocks of her dream. "How are you?"
"Feeling great," he grinned crookedly at her. "That tea of yours worked. Want me to get you some?"
She laughed, albeit a bit forced, her pulse jumping. "I'm ok," she assured him, sitting up. Rick moved back a bit, but remained close. Michonne could see the faint brown freckles banding across his nose. She quickly looked away.
"Must have been some dream," he observed, tilting his head at her. "You started screaming." Embarrassment flooded her. Rick only shrugged. "I get 'em too," he whispered. "No shame in it." He smiled at her, just a slight quirk of his lips. His hand dropped from her hair to land on her arm, the rough fingertips brushing her skin. Her breath hitched again.
Michonne only nodded, wiggling free of the warmth of the blankets. "I need to get up," she said, refusing to look at him.
"It ain't sunrise yet," Rick pointed out.
She swung her legs sideways, putting space between them. "The enemy isn't sleeping," Michonne said. The floor was cold beneath her feet as she moved away from him.
Rick nodded, tossing the blankets back to follow her. He stood expectantly on the other side of the bed.
"I gotta check in with the local precinct here. They're out searching for Dixon. They don't know he's-" he broke off, clearly unsure how to describe it. "I'm going to keep looking for him. See if I can't catch him before…" Rick trailed off again.
"I'll come," Michonne offered.
"I appreciate that," he nodded.
"Might be better if your people don't know I'm there though. Some people don't have the highest opinion of me."
A smile tugged at Rick's lips. "The Sergeant thinks you're pretty."
Michonne laughed, caught off guard. "Sasha Williams? Grew up with her." Michonne shook her head. Sasha knew better than most what she was.
Rick shrugged. A silence grew between them, charged.
"I'll…" Rick cleared his throat. "I'll go back to my room," he stammered. His eyes fell on a pile of his clothing on a chair near the bed.
She nodded, unable to speak, and watched as he collected his belongings. He paused when he'd pulled it all into his arms, his hat balanced on top.
"Thank you, again," he said. "I really appreciate you saving me."
Michonne felt the first genuine smile of the day tug at her. "I'll meet you in the lobby," she told him.
With a nod, Rick was gone. Michonne shut the door behind him, her mind spinning. Calming herself, she took a deep breath. Sighing, she headed for her bathroom, determined to put the dream behind her.
-l-l-l-l-l-
The water from the shower beat down on Rick's sore muscles. He turned the heat up, bowing his head beneath the stream, inspecting every inch of skin he could see. He'd damn near died yesterday, but his body bore no trace of it. No bruises, no gashes, no pain, no sign at all that Merle had buried him beneath a pile of bricks in a graveyard. Even old scars and marks were gone, his skin smoother than it'd been in years. Rick ran his fingers over his chest, tracing the mended bone. There was no denying the truth of things anymore.
Magic was real.
As much as the logical part of him warred with this notion, evidence was evidence, and this was irrefutable. This revelation sparked what seemed like an infinite amount of other questions. Most pressing were the women he'd seen in the graveyard, the ones with faces so like Michonne. Perhaps he was losing his mind after all. With difficulty, Rick put the thoughts aside, moving to the matter at hand. If Merle was, as Michonne believed, playing patsy to a higher power, then they were in some serious trouble.
He sighed, rinsing the soap from his hair and beard, contemplating his next move. He ought to be focusing on the plan, but he needed to get a hold of himself first. Never before had he felt so distracted. He was out of his element, floundering in new territory, but it wasn't thoughts of magic or Merle that were filling his mind.
It was Michonne.
He'd woken up with her pressed to his side, her hand resting on his chest, just over his heart, as though she was shielding him. He'd contemplated getting up, moving away, back to his room. Her bed was warm, her presence comforting, and despite his misgivings, he'd remained. He was glad now, in the wake of her nightmare, that he'd been there to offer a modicum of help.
She'd whispered his name. He thought it was a trick of his sleep-addled mind at first, but then she'd repeated it. One single syllable, half-sighed in her sleep was consuming him.
"Get it together," Rick mumbled to himself, slamming the water off. He wasn't the type of man to get derailed by a pretty face, no matter the circumstances. Michonne deserved better than that besides. Whatever part he'd played in her dream, it clearly had taken a dark turn. She'd almost thrown him out of the bed with the force of her nightmare.
Rick toweled off, chastising himself until he got his thoughts back on track. He pulled on his clothing, marveling that his jacket was whole and intact once again. He just managed to get on his boots when his cell phone began to ring.
"Mashal Grimes," he greeted, heading for the door.
"Grimes," it was Sergeant Williams. She sounded tired. Understanding seized him at once.
"Where'd you find it?" he asked, cursing himself.
"Near the Quarter," she relayed, voice heavy. "Young girl and her boyfriend. Both in their 20s. Trying to identify them now."
"Text me the address," Rick sighed. "I'll be there."
-l-l-l-l-l-
Phillip smiled from his place on the balcony overlooking the scene, watching as police gathered below. It was still dark, the air frosted and cold. Few spared a look for the sleepy buildings around them, and fewer still could have even perceived the men standing there.
"Well, the night wasn't a total loss then," he glanced at Merle. "Good job."
Merle offered a crooked grin. "I can do better than that." His breath clouded in front of him, a stark contrast to the shade of a man beside him.
"Good," Phillip drummed his fingers on the iron railing. "You'll need to. We need as many as you can before Hallow's Eve." He calculated, looking up the road, in the direction of the Hotel Hawthorne.
Merle nodded. "Easy work," he said, looking as though he could hardly wait. He watched with predatory eyes as the city came alive around them, drawn by the sirens.
"Then I suggest you get to it," Phillip spared Merle a glance. "That Marshal of yours is alive and well. Miss Hawthorne made sure of that." His tone took on a sharp edge when he spoke Michonne's name. "You will need to stay a step ahead of them."
"I thought you said you'd handle them," Merle reminded him. "Why not take them last night when they was all cozied up?"
Something flashed in Phillip's eyes that sent Merle back a step, swallowing thickly. "We have discussed this," he ground out tersely. "Until you hold up your end of our agreement, I do not have the strength to penetrate her defenses."
"She's that powerful?" Merle asked, impressed despite himself.
"I should think you would have no questions about her power," Phillip scoffed. "Or have you so soon forgotten your defeat at the hands of a woman?"
"She caught me off guard," Merle countered. "I had that damned Marshal. I won't let it happen again."
"Good," Phillip nodded. "I've taken measures to ensure that they are not at their best today."
"Meaning what?" Merle asked, crossing his arms.
"Perhaps I cannot yet enter her hideout," the thought alone seemed to anger Phillip. "But I have other ways of lowering her defenses. I have them both where I need them to be."
"If you say so," Merle looked eager to depart. The cold was beginning to bother him, seeping in through his too-thin clothes. The whole world seemed colder in Phillip's presence. Ice was forming on the wrought iron railing, cracking the ebon paint. "He's going to be hard to get close to, with her guarding him."
"Leave that to me," Phillip dismissed Merle, waving a hand. "I took steps to ensure she wouldn't be a problem centuries before Michonne was even a thought. You hold up your end. I'll take care of mine."
Merle nodded, retreating into the warmth of the building. The bar was empty, save for a lone figure slumped in the corner. He almost felt bad for the security guard. He hadn't even seen him coming.
"And Dixon?" Phillip called to him.
"Yeah?" Merle paused in the doorway.
"Don't ever question my methods again," he warned, eyes flashing. In a blink, he was gone, leaving only empty space where he once stood. Merle glanced down onto the street, watching as Mashal Grimes ran up the sidewalk. The woman was with him, the same bitch who'd attacked him last night.
"Alright," Merle murmured to himself. "Let's see how you two like what I've got for you next."