I don't own the walking dead.
This is basically a late Christmas present for Richonne4life because her gif use is the reason behind most of every ten years richonne update.
Ps: I working on Judith grimes adventures. It is just massive. So until the fluffy Christmas suffer through Christmas and new year angst.
Please, review
Powder pink soul ( part I)
She had said "no," and she had insisted that she deserved better than a Versace dress.
Rick had almost begged that she reconsidered her position. By no means, he was in love with her. However, she charmed him. She scared the loneliness, and she breathed life in him.
Michonne had said "no", and she had waited for her washed-out pink bubblegum dress to dry.
What Rick had offered mattered little. Not even the sizable amount of money for a few nights convinced her. Michonne had laughed at how ludicrous everything was. She had smiled at Rick. She had pecked his cheek.
They had gone to the bank for cash, and Rick had withdrawn more money than necessary for a blowjob, a good night of sex, and endless hours of conversation. A scrupulous prostitute, he had laughed at Michonne when she had some up her services. She wanted nothing more from him than the money she earned.
"Add the rest toward the Chanel dress, and I deserve more than a Versace."
Michonne had insisted. A stockbroker with value for his words, he had not bought her a Chanel dress. Although, it was not a Versace.
"Thanks, pretty boy."
"You look like a whore, beloved," Sasha says after a glance at Andrea's attire.
Michonne sighs, and she grabs a baby wipe to clean the eyeliner, which gives her a sultry look.
"She is one, so are you, and so am I." Michonne counters Sasha's statement.
The arguments between her roommates are the source of her headaches. She cannot stand the pointless bickering, and she cannot afford a decent place on her own.
"I don't deny it, Mimi," Sasha says with a smile, which only announces a remark that borders on cruelty. "Yet, I have never looked like one. God forbid, I embarrassed myself as if I do run on the streets."
She punctuates her statement with a murderous glance at Andrea. Michonne sighs, and she packs her stuff.
"Stay mad," Andrea laughs, "I still pull the best clients."
"If you did, you wouldn't be after mine." Sasha retorts.
Michonne looks at both women, and she could care less about their conflicts. She loves both, but they are insufferable. It is a hundred times worst in the holiday season. For god sake, who turns the entire Christmas eve into an endless night of argument?
"I'm going to visit, Evelyn," Michonne says as she leaves behind her arguing friends.
….
….
….
Michonne hears the steps behind her, and she does not care much. She continues to head toward the elevator of the semi-unaffordable building where she manages to scrap money to live.
"Mimi,"
Sasha rushes out of the apartment to catch up with her. Michonne does not turn her head at the call. She purposely refuses to entertain the craziness of her everyday life when she can afford to do it.
"Fucking wait, Mimi," Sasha shouts.
Sasha's jog quickly turns into a sprint, and she manages to make it before the door of the elevator, which Michonne forcefully desire to close, shut down.
"Were you trying to keep me from talking to you?" Sasha asks with frustration.
Michonne rolls her eyes, and she presses on the lobby button. She pulls her beanie on her barely attached dreadlocks.
"As if I can do that when you don't require my consent to start saying anything, Sasha." Michonne sighs.
She leans against the elevator walls, and she feels drained. Michonne hates the holidays season. It is endless days of loneliness and misery. Not always her misery but the dark melancholy of those who pay for her company strangles her.
"You're being extra bitchy tonight." Sasha disregards Michonne statement.
"Evelyn," Michonne replies.
"I had figured out," Sasha replies with a smile, "I brought her something. Nothing too big because I had to help with Tyler kids and mama, but I hope she will like it."
She searches her pocket, and she brings the small jewellery box out. Michonne looks at it, and a small smile spreads across her lips.
"You spoil her too much, and then, she begins to ask me for a thing like a Hermes bag."
Michonne laughs, and she pockets the small Swarovski box. She looks at Sasha, and she can tell the conversation will take a heavy turn.
"I fucking need a cigarette before we reach there." She says as they leave the elevator.
"I'm going to freeze my ass out," Sasha sighs, but she follows Michonne out barely prepared for the cold out. "Fuck."
"Two things are never cold," Michonne laughs, and she passes the cigarette to Sasha.
"I'm a polar bear," Sasha jokes.
….
…
….
For a few minutes, only the cigarettes burn, and the smoke leaves their lips. They try to hide from the wind. Sasha does not like the silence, and Michonne prefers quietness.
"I got something for you too," Sasha says while she pulls a decent amount of money, which oddly equates little to Michonne.
"Keep it," she immediately replies, "Ty or aunty might need it more. Can't be easy since he hasn't been able to walk?"
Sasha insists, and she struggles to shove the ten thousand in Michonne's hand.
"Yeah, but I got it covered. This is for you because I saved it for you." She insists.
Michonne reluctantly takes it, and she hugs her friend.
"I will give it back," Michonne says.
"Then I will shove it up to your ass. " Sasha replies.
For a few minutes, the silence returns. They breathe through the cold that hurts the lungs. It is a quiet moment of peace. A small break before they dive into the crack of hell.
….
….
….
"How is she doing?" Sasha asks between blows of smokes.
Michonne stares at nothing. She leans closer to Sasha, and she thinks about what she has to say or believe.
"She is alive so far."
There is nothing more sincere to say. Michonne has to touch her pocket to feel as if the money inside will keep everything that way.
"Better than before," Sasha adds to comfort Michonne.
They both look at the street expanding. There is so much to say, and the words sound meaningless.
"I don't think I can keep it that way," Michonne admits, "He doesn't matter if I live on nothing and give everything toward her health. At least I can afford her to breathe."
Sasha hesitates, and she looks at Michonne. She knows not to brush the subject of him. Six months after, it does not feel as if it is an isolated event.
"I can talk to Shane, and he will tell him that you changed your mind. That is good quick money, and you kind of like him enough to have him in a sort of arrangement." Sasha offers.
Michonne immediately closes herself to the conversation. She smiles at Sasha, and she laughs at her friend naivety.
"I have enough trouble," She replies, "That's a deeply broken man. It's impossible not to want to heal him. Then there is the drug. The work, the addiction. He is a man of addiction. I can't afford to be his new one. I'm not in these for the long run. I'm already tired of the rich man seeing in me a commodity. I don't need the delusion, which he can offer." She says what she told herself the month-long when Rick has done his best to get to her.
Six months later, she is happy he gave up. Michonne looks at Sasha.
"I can't get into crazy shit," Michonne sighs, "life is not kind with me. Go up before you freeze, and I would go visit Evelyn."
Sasha hugs Michonne, and she reluctantly drops the subject.
"I have a Christmas party, and I can't take that whore with me," Sasha says as she begins to head toward their building.
Michonne laughs, and it always feels adequate to laugh.
"She didn't get Shane. You need to let it go." She replies to Sasha.
"She tried to stop my biggest bag. I can't even tolerate her after that. If we could afford the rent on our own, she would be out." Sasha argues.
"What time?" Michonne asks, "Who?"
"Around eleven pm, and Wall Street dudes and their wives," Sasha replies.
"No…"
"Fifty thousand for nothing and the rest fixed with whatever client you get," Sasha announces.
Michonne cannot afford to say no, and yet, she does not have the luxury to agree.
"No stockbroker." She forces herself to say.
"In case you change your mind, I will text you the address."
Michonne removes her beanie and she immediately rushes toward the cupboard to check for the bill. She looks around the freshly arranged home, and their old apartment resembles a hospital room. She smiles at the nurse, who is gracious enough to leave the room before Michonne asks.
"Are you going to stay all night?" The voice is barely audible above the monitors.
Michonne sinks in the sofa by the bed, and she uncomfortably looks at the medical material. She does not think she is going to get used to the blipping and other odd sounds.
"Where am I supposed to go on Christmas Eve, Evelyn?"
Michonne takes Evelyn hand, and it means immediate comfort. The anxiety can disappear for a few seconds. She no longer looks at the room nor cares for the surrounding noises.
"This child," Evelyn manages to convey feigned annoyance.
It always surprises Michonne how the emotion has not to die from her voice. Every bit of emotion oozes from the whispers crawling out of her constricting.
"Can you have some respect and stop calling your mama by her name?"
She attempts to laugh, but it is more of a coughing fit, which would have sent Michonne in panic months ago. Now, it means than her lungs can still be of some use.
"I will think about it," Michonne replies.
She begins to go through the different bills. After a few seconds, she lets the paper and the envelopes lie on her lap. Michonne draws a deep breath. She cannot allow herself to display any emotion. The bright grin hides the crumbling mask. The money never seems enough.
"Did you have dinner?" Evelyn asks, and she struggles to sit, "have you been doing those stupid diets again?"
Her eyes follow Michonne curves with serious interest. She immediately sighs as she has the impression that her daughter is thinner than she was a week ago.
"Mama, I look thicker than a bowl of oatmeal. What are you talking about now?" Michonne counters.
They share a laugh, which is, fortunately, a common occurrence between mother and daughter. They laugh at the face of everything.
"Is it that top lawyer firm works you too much?" She asks, "You should quit if it is not good enough and ruin your health."
Michonne did quit nine months ago. Her position in the law firm was the bottom of the pole, and it meant no money. It was a prestigious job on the paper, but she could hardly afford oxygen therapy for Evelyn. She left her job after Sasha convinced her to check to escort. However, she has not dared to tell her mother.
"The money is good," Michonne says as an excuse for her choice of career.
Her eyes slide on the bills. The money is good, and she does not have to wait extra-long.
"I don't like out it sounds." Evelyn points out.
She wants to say more, but she is aware Michonne does not care to hear it.
"Well, did you eat?"
Michonne strays from the difficult topic. She does not ever think that Evelyn and she would ever discuss the topic of escorts. She returns the bills in the envelope.
"Michonne?" Evelyn stubbornly attempts to remain on the topic of Michonne's work.
"Mama," Michonne pleads.
She closes her eyes to will the patience and serenity. Michonne drags her knee toward her chin. She looks like a vulnerable child. She feels like a fragile kid. However, she cannot allow herself a second of weakness.
"How do you feel?" Evelyn compromises.
"Hopeful," Michonne brightly smiles, "as you should feel," she adds after squeezing her mother's hand.
Michonne does not like the look, which she receives as an answer. It is soft and hard. It carries a sort of pity for her naivety.
"We need to have that talk," Evelyn announces.
"No, we don't."
Michonne walks away from the sofa, and she goes to look at the snow falling. Someone must clean the window. She pulls on her sweater, and she begins to do it with the sleeves of her shirt.
"Michonne?"
"Sasha sent a gift for you,"
Michonne abruptly stops to clean the window, and she pulls the jewellery box out of her pocket. She puts it on Evelyn bed, and she hopes it can distract her. Evelyn does not care much for the blue box.
"Michonne,"
She grabs Michonne's arm, and so her daughter does not dare to move. It is a quiet face-off between mother and daughter. Michonne sits.
"I have seen the bills," Evelyn says matter of fact. She should have never read those cursed bills, "How can you afford it all."
No answer can be satisfactory. Michonne cannot afford it. Sacrifices, she does one after another.
"I'm not even talking about the transplant. A whole new set of lungs." Evelyn sighs, "I looked into Switzerland."
I looked into Switzerland is a beautiful way to say euthanasia. Michonne wants to hear nothing of it. She cannot afford any of it, but she does not mind the hardship.
"Don't worry about the money, I'm working toward it." She replies with fear that Evelyn demands how.
"Michonne, in Switzerland…" Evelyn insists.
Michonne does not want to hear the cruellest of the explanation. She does not want Evelyn to say help me die before it ruins you.
"I'm working toward the money. Can you just stay alive until then? Can you do that, mama?" Michonne quietly demands.
"I have seen the bills, and…" She cups Michonne's face, and she looks into her daughter's eyes, "That law firm can't be paying you that much money."
"Well, they do." Michonne refuses the argument, and she quickly erects the wall.
"Michonne," Evelyn knows that she wants to stay the entire night, as they both want her to do.
She should not have to brush the subject. The bills should not have pulled up. Only the drugs cost a soul. The oxygen is worth more than the life still clinging at her weaken flesh. Evelyn wants her daughter to know some of that ugliness. There is no point in being naïve.
"I will handle the bills."
Rick makes the Xanax pill pass with his third tumbler of scotch. He has missed half of the joke on the table, and he does not know why some are laughing. She clings at his arm, and she wants to fit in that small group.
Perhaps, it is why he chose her. When it comes crashing, it will able to move on without a scar. He looks inside his pocket, and he pulls a cigarette out. There is not much left inside the box. He does not know why he clings on such a small token. Michonne's pink cigarettes, which he rarely smokes unless he is losing his mind, warm his tongue.
He must be losing what remains of his sanity. Between the endless hour of work, the alcohol, the drugs, and the holidays, Rick has many chances to hallucinate it. He looks at his watch, and it is eleven pm. The music around him is infernal. Aside from its name, the party has nothing to do with Christmas.
A mass of high people being obnoxious about the money they made in a year, he is a fish in the water. He blows the smoke, and he focuses on her. She moves around the dancefloor, and she squeezes between people. It is hard to miss her, and it is harder not to look at her. We are far from the pink bubble gum ensemble.
We are in a softer tone. She loves to be at countercurrent. She wants to look like an angel in a place where the devil has enough standard not to visit. In powder pink dress, she looks like a nymph of summer.
"Give me a minute," Rick says as he disappears in the crowd to follow Michonne.
Michonne's feet dangle from the balcony. She does not know how she can hide. She is here for the money, but the joviality vaguely echoes with her melancholy. She notices his legs reflected in the glass balustrade.
"Hello," Michonne says as Rick comes to stop by her.
She does not raise her head to look at him. He looms over her like a larger than life figure. It is threatening and comforting.
"I wasn't wrong,"
He stands by her, and he leans on the balustrade. Rick does not care that she does not look at him. It might be easier than if she acknowledges him.
Michonne stands, and she looks at Rick. His hair is slightly longer, and the curls are slowly becoming waves.
"Better than any Versace, pretty boy." She replies as she twirls for him to see how well fitted is the dress.
She has a proud smile when she faces him. Michonne's hands come to rest on the corset of the dress. The satin fabric is comforting. There is an odd quietness. They seem to remember the quiet hour, which they spent in the Marquesa shop.
The glee that Michonne felt as she finally found the perfect powder pink dress. It was fitting. Something joyful and lively like she had appeared to be. Now, the dress is an odd choice. Something too springs for a Christmas Eve lacking soul. Rick smiles.
"Maybe you were right," He agrees. "Do you have a cigarette?"
Michonne dips her hand in her purse, and she drags out the same pink cigarettes, which Rick now saves as a relic. She lights it on her lips, and she takes the first blow. Michonne sits, and Rick accepts the invitation. She rests her head on his shoulder, and she passes him the cigarette. Her lipstick has left a stain on the pink.
There is silence, and the cigarette travels from her hand to his lips. Often, it burns in one of their hands. He sighs, and she drains her champagne flute glass.
"Your booze was better," Michonne says as she carefully puts the glass on the floor, "could have drunk that scotch forever, pretty boy."
"Rick," He corrects.
It does not matter how much she makes it sound endearing. Rick is not naïve enough to believe that she has never called another client that way.
"I haven't forgotten, Rick" she laughs, "It isn't for lack of trying."
Michonne is quiet. He was not wrong. She is too honest, and it is frightening. However, he cannot stop looking at her unravel with a quiet regret. Perhaps, he did not pursue her long enough.
"Scotch over champagne. " Rick extends his tumbler toward Michonne.
"No, I do prefer champagne," she replies to his assumption, "but this particular one is burnt. They must have allowed it to freeze multiple time."
"Here," Rick insists that she takes his tumbler.
She takes a gulp and returns the tumbler to his hand.
"Nothing but scotch," She grins.
Her smile is something divine. It completely illuminates her visage when it is genuine. Rick looks at Michonne's eyes as they echo her smile. Brown borrowing into an unfiltered honey shade under the balcony light, he remembers them perfectly.
"I'm off work," He explains.
"Never stopped your colleagues before, and I just got offered a line of heroine by the balcony." She counters, and she takes his tumbler, "What are you on tonight?"
"Sobriety," Rick replies.
He is a good liar. She wants to believe him. Therefore, she allows it to be a harmless lie. Michonne squeezes Rick's arm. Her nose randomly pokes the collar of his shirt. He smells different from their first meeting. He wears a new perfume. The scent fits him more, and it is rustic.
"Why?" Michonne asks after a while.
It could be a question meaning anything. However, Rick understands that she wants to know why he is suddenly inclined to sobriety.
"A dumb thought," He smirks, and he pointedly looks at her.
You are an honest response. You, it is what he does not bring himself to think. The notion of them is a dumb thought. The delusion of a moment drove him to think that a little effort might change the outcome.
"It wasn't the drugs," Michonne clarifies, "Maybe a bit of it."
"Xanax," He tells her the truth. "Baby steps."
Rick amuses Michonne. It is something from within, and it is comforting. She has forgotten the tumbler on her lap.
"You could have allowed me to feel better about myself longer." She twists a loose curl around her finger, and she ultimately tucks it behind his ear, "Honesty is overrated."
"I will try to stay away from cocaine for your sake, but I hardly use it," Rick says.
In a sea of addictions, it is easy to give up those, which might come to exist.
"Glad, I'm the reason for great change." Michonne keeps the same joking spirit.
"A heartbreak too," Rick confesses.
She left him heartbroken beyond what it should have been. Michonne rolls her eyes. She laughs at how sincere Rick is. She mocks herself for understanding what he means. The hurt of regret and hopes of what could have been create the worst broken hearts.
"The blonde is pretty," Michonne, says when she has laughed until her lungs are empty of air, "very kid-friendly and white picket fence."
Michonne saw her at Rick's arm. She saw him as soon as she steps inside the venue. Rick stood out by how unable he is to mingle. He somehow fits in with all the other soulless creatures at the party, but he is unique. She saw him, and she wanted to hide from him. He found her.
"Who?" He genuinely asks because he has long forgotten what lies beyond the bubble of their moment.
"The one who must be looking for you right now," Michonne looks back at the party, "The same one who has not been in such a party before, but she wanted to fit in your word." She points out at the crowd, but they both see her, "The basic yet lovely blonde."
No one to write home about, but she somehow looked like the obvious choice. Michonne thinks of the blonde personality. Tofu, plain and turned into anything one wishes. She must as tasteless as tofu. It makes her also hard to stomach.
"My fiancé, Jessie," Rick replies with apathy.
"Jessica," Michonne thinks she looks like a Jessica, "a sweet name." She looks at Rick, "Jessica and Rick, it has a nice ring to it."
He laughs at her antics. His hand disappears in her locks. She had a nice up-do until he begins to lose his finger in her hair.
"Maybe?" He replies because it helps the conversation, "You could have said yes."
They both agree on the form. She should have taken the offer. They would not be on the balcony at a party, which they don't want to attend. The night could have been different. She wonders if he likes hot cocoa. He believes that a diamond necklace would have been a proper gift for a contracted mistress. They are naïve and yet have enough lucidity to know that it is a transaction of affection.
"There wouldn't be the basic yet lovely blonde. " Rick must voice it.
Michonne laughs and it is to deny what he says. She does not call him a liar, but she points out that he believes a lie.
"She would have come in the picture sooner or later," Michonne argues, "after I fixed everything going wrong with you. She would have jumped in to be the wife. You don't like an empty home." She does not blame him for loving company, which he does not need.
"What is it?" He disregards what Michonne says.
He does not call her pessimist, but he shows her that through the ripples of her laugh, her sadness echoes.
"I don't need a hero," Michonne sighs with exhaustion.
"I need to be one," Rick confesses.
"What is her story?" Michonne asks, and she knows that Jessica is the demoiselle in distress feeding his hero complex.
"You will need to ask her. Something tragic I think. I didn't care beyond playing the hero." Rick is blunt.
His words do not shock or terrify her. She draws the line of his jaws.
"An asshole," she stares a fact long-established, "Can't you allow me to believe that you're somehow a sweet man whose life likes to beat to the ground?"
"I can afford to be an asshole," He replies
"Why?" Rick asks again.
If it is not the drugs, and he always knew, it did not bother her beyond a health concern. Therefore, he needs to know why she did not take his offer.
"You," She replies, and it is her first lie of the night.
Michonne no longer smiles. He hears the crack in her rich laugh. There is no point in keeping see-through walls.
"Does not explain anything," He has no gallantry to pretend that she fooled him.
"The narcissism," She says.
If she could put the conviction into it, he would take it. Michonne does nothing but to sound like a poor liar.
"The confidence," Rick corrects Michonne, "It's an honest mistake,"
"God's gift to humanity, "She attempts sarcasm.
Has she forgotten how to proceed? He laughs because he has backed her against the wall.
"No," He calmly says, "heaven-sent for you," Rick adds
"She is pretty,"
Michonne looks at Rick. It is a quiet admission that he has won.
"I think it's the first criteria of a trophy wife." He picks the tumbler from her lap, and he drains it, "I don't think I love her, and I'm certain I hardly like her."
It comes as no surprise to Michonne. She does not think that it is a surprise for the blonde woman. Rick is painfully honest.
"Can't you be a sweet boy?" Michonne laments.
"Would that convince you to reconsider?"
He laughs, and as for each of her other reasons for refusing his offer, it matters little. Michonne shakes her head.
"I don't fancy sweet boys. They bore me to death. I love my man bruised by life, needing me in some manners, and yet asking little of me. "Michonne looks at Rick.
"Still I'm not enough." He finishes the statement for her.
"You're perfect."
He knows, and it matters little. Rick rests his cheek against the crown of her head. He needs a deep breath. He chooses silence for a minute. They look at the night view. It is lights everywhere. The music remains loud. The party is not slowing. He needs a breath.
"Why?"
"I have responsibilities," Michonne replies, and there is a fraction of the truth.
"Oddly for an escort, you're too honest," Rick says, and he wishes that she could be a good liar.
"Judgmental," she calls him.
"Blunt," He teaches her the difference.
"She must be looking for you in every corner,"
Michonne is not going to give him the right answer. She is not going to share with him. They remain stranger.
"Maybe," Rick does not care if Jessie never finds him, "It is next month."
"When did you get engaged?" Michonne asks because it is a safe topic.
"Three weeks ago," He believes.
"Was it romantic?" Michonne curiously asks in search of comfort.
It could have been a beautiful romance. They could have had it if it did not feel like a luxury, which she could not afford.
"Cliché." Rick is not willing to comfort her with a story where she can erase Jessie to self-insert, "You're right I don't like empty home. I need someone to wait for me even if I never come back."
"I can't wait for anyone," Michonne admits, and she stands to return to the party.
She wants to hide from Rick. She does not want to spend Christmas Eve indulging in fairy tale fantasy.
"I know," He replies, "wait," he holds her hand.
She waits.
"I don't bachelor party," Michonne replies.
She waits.
"Seven hundred by the hour for a talk," Rick intertwines their finger, "I will pay."
Michonne sits by Rick, and her head returns on the spot where his shirt is now wrinkled.
"You don't need a talk," Michonne points out, "You're doing fine, pretty boy."
She is not doing fine, and she needs a talk. He knows it, and she continues to pretend. He gives her a cushion from the fall from her pride.
"Fine enough to earn a trophy," Michonne insists.
"Got enough cash for the entire night,"
"I don't like holidays season," Michonne says when the silence becomes too heavy.
She needs to speak, and so she does it about a meaningless subject. Nothing packaged as something.
"Don't we all," Rick replies.
He lights a cigarette, which he does not want to share with Michonne. There is a need for boundaries. There is the obligation to understand that hoping for anything is pointless.
"I hate the thought process behind it," Michonne continues her rant, "from the lights to the people everything is a spectacle. I hate the lack of quietness. It is too much fanfare for little joy. I hate the holidays."
Rick looks at her, and his arm closes around her shoulders. He drags Michonne impossibly close to him.
" I lied," he says" the illusion of holidays," Rick looks at Michonne, and he hopes that she understands," The idea of family and friends attach to, it is comforting."
Michonne sighs and she half-hugs Rick. Her face has disappeared in his chest. She scraps her face over the smooth fabric of his shirt. They do not care how he will explain the stain to the blonde.
"I lied too," Michonne reluctantly admits.
"I know," He easily manages to catch the new dynamic.
"I didn't want to say no," The words are no longer meaningless, and Michonne's glass castle crumbles from a stone, which she cannot help but throw, "Who can say no to a consuming fantasy?"
"You did," He points out that she repeatedly did it
"I have to," Michonne confesses.
"You got a pimp," Rick asks.
"What did I say about cliché?" She says with a fondness.
Again, he amuses her with his saviour complex. He is hardly able to save himself. Rick is a mess, a beautiful, charming, fascinating mess. Michonne smiles, and her thumb caresses Rick's jawline.
"Talk to me, "Rick insists.
"I did," Michonne replies, and she stands to leave, "The rest is a whore's tragedy, and I don't sell misery and pity." She says as she attempts to create distance, "I sell lust and sex, and you're free to afford both."
Michonne begins to leave, and there is no hand to hold. It carries a finality to it. It feels like a farewell, and not anything, a twist of fate can change. Michonne walks away.
"Wait," it sounds like a plea.
"I don't know how to wait," she replies.
Rick is on his feet, and he catches her before she steps out of the balcony.
"Michonne,"
Rick closes too him than he can afford. There is a quiet thought that he can add anymore on his plate. He does not have the means to nourish the seed, which he wants to plant.
"She must be tired of looking," Michonne smiles as she extracts herself from his grip.
Rick stares at Michonne, and she is probably the most beautiful woman that he has ever seen
"Who?"
"Jessica,"
"I'm not good at pretending, he admits" "I can afford a divorce," he has thought of his future married life not too different of the previous one, "I can afford a lot of shit,"
When Rick attempts to connect and reaches more than Michonne decides to display, she snaps with violence. She needs to establish where they stand to him, but she also needs it more than Rick does.
"I have a price," she hurls at him, "I'm not willing to pay it alongside you." She shoves him as far as she can "I don't like heartaches. I have a flair for tragedy." She becomes oddly quiet, and those words must remain whispers. If she does not say them aloud, they are not true.
"You're a heartache waiting to happen." Her palm rubs his face when she almost wants to claw at it for having the audacity to be the work of the gods, "Your dumb first wife must be picking the broken pieces of her heart. The dumber soon-to-be second wife looks too frail to handle it when you step over her heart." She laughs bitterly, and her voice continues to fade.
Rick watches her. He stands the assault of her fury and sudden inability to offer her bubbly side.
"I know men like you, pretty boy." She sighs, and she feels exhausted, "I know a heartbreak coming my way, and I can't afford that." She looks at him as if she wants nothing else but to welcome that cruel fate, "I don't own it."
Her hand comes to rest on her chest. Her manicured forefinger dig into her breast until it cuts.
"This, I don't own it."
Michonne begins to return the loose dreadlocks in her up-do. She focuses on fixing her appearance as if she wants to rebuild her walls. Rick takes her trembling fingers, and she brings her hands to her side. He quietly returns every loose lock to its rightful position.
"Evelyn needs me to remain focused, and you're a cursed distraction." She admits
There is no freedom in the confession. It feels as if shackles have bound her to rick.
Michonne does not expect any form of comfort, and so she does not know how to react when Rick' drag her to him. She stays in that awkward hug.
"Don't you dare!"
She tightens the hug, and nothing happens to matter. The beat of his heart is solid and comforting.
"Five thousand dollars up front for good sex," He says because he wants to help her rebuilt those walls, which he understands Michonne needs.
"No," she whispers in his chest.
For a few minutes, they exist in a bubble. The rhythm of Rick' heartbeat almost lulls Michonne to sleep. She does not remember the last night of decent sleep. Her fingers creep between Rick' fingers, and it is gauchely intimate. Perhaps, it is too intimate.
"A thousand for a blowjob."
She listens to him to make the effort to fix it. The words do not matter because he wishes beyond what they mean.
"Don't be a child," she laughs.
Michonne is not willing to share himself with Rick. She does not have to luxury to do it.
"A thousand if I go down on you," Rick sighs, and he would have to let her live.
There are better ways to say wait. She would not listen to those or any plea. He wants her to stay, and she would not do it unless it proves a point.
"I want to fuck you."
"A celebratory present for my wedding day," Rick agrees on giving up Michonne.
He tilts Michonne's chin, and so she looks up to him. He stares into her eyes, and he knows what she wants.
"What do you need saving from tonight?" Michonne asks.
She waits.
"Loneliness," he replies.
He closes the distance between their lips. Soft, slow, and tender, Michonne does not expect his caress to be. It is proverbially too late to turn tails. How deep can she fall for him?
Immediately, it becomes a frenzy. They have not cared much for the crowd partying in the next room. He drags her to the ground in a spur of passion. Michonne ends on top of Rick.
He rolls on the side to change their position, and Michonne's back connects with the cold tiles. His weight on her is almost suffocating. In a minute, Rick is ready to take her on the balcony floor.
There is no kiss. There is no caress. He is semi-hard. It is violence and reaction. Michonne is exhausted from wanting him. He pulls on her pretty dress, and she claws at his shirt. Her body melts into his, and the fabric of his shirt scraps her skin. His teeth scrape her neck as if he needs a bruise to show his claim of her. She manages to remove his shirt with more grace than he did as he plucked her dress from her body.
Michonne eagerly touches Rick's skin, and she watches his reaction to her. The goosebumps under her fingertips. The red trail after the caresses of her nails. The tiles are no longer as cool and uncomfortable. His weight no longer suffocates her, and she welcomes it. She wants him to crush her. She has long embraced the chaos that Rick is. Michonne brushes away the loose strand blocking Rick' view.
He kisses her neck, and he draws a path on her burning skin. His tongue explores every inch of Michonne's abdomen. Her skin flows under his fingers. Rick moans drown out each of Michonne's thoughts.
His lips are on her mound. Her thighs bear the mark of his caress. His name falls from her tongue in a soft prayer as his tongue suck on her cunt. She threads her finger in his gorgeous curl. A few ministrations of his tongue leads to her fall from the edge of pleasure. Her taste coats his tongue, and she kisses it away.
His fingers cage her face, and Michonne has no choice but to look at her. Rick has consumed as much of her sanity as she could spare. She feels vulnerable.
"No," her eyes cling to his eyes, and it is a quiet challenge.
Rick' knuckles caress Michonne's visage and his thumb draws her lips. His name intermittently falls from her lips as he thrusts in her.
Michonne's lips brush Rick' ones. She steals her breath from his lungs, and he demands intimacy. She is exhausted, and she wants nothing more than to be his. However, he comes with a heart that she does not want to protect as she protects everything else.
Her hands caress his cheek, and soft smile only meant for him. In this moment when la petite mort claim Michonne, Rick has never made her more his. A whore's sin, Michonne has committed the most unforgivable one.
Suddenly, the fear to lose him becomes haunting. Rick drinks the moans from Michonne's lips. His hands frame her neck, and his mouth draws a pattern of kisses to the curvature of her neck. His orgasm follows her. They lie on the cold tile with burning flesh. There is a heavy silence. Michonne wants to leave.
Rick keeps her plastered to the balcony floor. He nuzzles his nose to the crook of her neck. She smells more like him than she does herself. Her sweet citrus scent underlines the galangal of his perfume. The cigarette scent clings to their skin.
"Elope with me…"